all things must pass

Passover begins this weekend. You know when you watch Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments and you think it's somehow connected to Easter, because — after all — ABC shows it every year around Easter time? Well, it's actually about Passover.

Passover is a time for renewal, as in an "out with the old, in with the new" sort-of fashion. As the tradition goes, all of the food you currently have in your house has to be consumed or disposed of prior to the start of Passover. Then, new food that is certified as "Kosher for Passover" is purchased and eaten during the eight days of the holiday. (They tell me it lasts eight days, but I'm convinced it rages on longer than that.) On the night before Passover begins, families stage a ritual "search for chametz" in their homes. Chametz is any food that is not deemed Kosher for Passover. As part of the tradition, a small amounts of chametz are placed around various rooms in the home. Then, a "search" is conducted using a pre-assembled "chametz kit," which includes:

• a candle to light the way during the search (as it is performed with the lights out — oooh! spooky!)
• a feather to "sweep" the chametz once it is located
• a wooden spoon, which acts as a dustpan to catch the chametz once swept
• a paper bag, to contain the chametz... sort of like a primitive version of the trap from Ghostbusters.

Some sort of appropriate prayer is recited prior to the search and at the conclusion. The sealed bag of collected chametz is placed by the front door and, the next morning, is taken to some community location (a synagogue or such) for — get this — burning. Years ago, when our son was younger and when I was much, much more observant in my faith, we would actively and sincerely reenact this tradition every year. My son and I, with yarmulkes perched atop our heads, would methodically move from room to room in our house. As a representation of the chametz in our house, I would leave little piles of cereal or crackers strategically placed in the rooms where we most likely ate food over the course of the past year. I would lead the way, illuminating our path with the lit candle. My son would wield the spoon and feather, dutifully sweeping up each discovery of chametz and insuring that each morsel made it into the gaping mouth of the paper bag. When our search was completed, we would gather in the kitchen where Mrs. Pincus would intone the magical words of prayer as I wrapped a rubber band around the paper bag as a final secure seal.

The next morning, we'd head over to my in-law's house, where my father-in-law would set up "Chametz Central" and the final leg of the ritual would commence. He'd drag out an age worn metal garbage can lid — rusty and discolored from years of chametz burning. I'm fairly sure this was the actual vessel in which Moses and his family burned their chametz before they headed out through the desert with those hunks of unleavened bread. Each of our families' bags were deposited in the center of the inverted lid. My father-in-law would douse the bags with way too much lighter fluid and — like a seasoned arsonist — he'd casually flick a lit match into the dead center. Then he'd say some different magic words of prayer and we'd watch the flames grow and rise and die down. Then, we'd go to our respective jobs and schools.

Over the years, my interest in organized religion has waned considerably. I don't attend any type of religious services and I don't care to participate in anything remotely religion-related. With our son now living in his own house, I reluctantly, though obligingly, agree to searching for chametz (out of respect for Mrs. P). I quickly rush through the process, but I will not attend the burning portion at my in-law's house. However, this year, Mrs. Pincus — who has clearly been corrupted by nearly four decades of exposure to the subversive ways of Josh Pincus — suggested a different commodity be substituted for our usual chametz-representing Cheerios... you I know, to shake things up. She suggested unpopped popcorn kernels. I immediately lit up, envisioning the scenario that would occur the next morning when my unsuspecting father-in-law tossed that match onto the fuel-soaked bags and the fire got going. We actually giggled at the possibly of injecting a little noisy surprise into an otherwise solemn ritual — and maybe even briefly rattling my usually pious and traditional father-in-law.

So, we searched for unpopped popcorn kernels sprinkled throughout our house. My wife said her little prayers and I snickered as I wound a rubber band around the paper bag.

The next morning, we arrived for the final steps of the chametz-search. We dropped our bag alongside my father-in-law's bagged spoils from his search the evening before. He squeezed out a few drops of lighter fluid across the tops of the bags and, after some initial difficultly, ignited the bags on the fifth match-striking attempt. At this point, I would like to report that, after an eerie quiet, our bag erupted in a hail of violent, uncontrolled explosions — spewing popcorn shrapnel in all directions from the raging flames. I'd like to report that my poor startled father-in-law was immediately taken aback in horror and alarm, as my wife and I mischievously cackled in delight.

I'd like to say all that, but I can't.

The popcorn had been sitting in our kitchen cupboard for a few years. It had no doubt lost whatever it is that makes popcorn pop. So, as the flames grew and our anticipation grew more — a single kernel emitted a single, feeble, debilitated pop. Actually, it didn't even warrant the word "pop" as a valid description. My wife and I exchanged disappointed looks. By this time, my father-in-law had already lost interest.

Happy Passover everyone. Maybe next year.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't deny your inner child

I stumbled across The Dead Milkmen by accident... when I was young. 

I was a hopeful art student in 1982, on my way to my menial job of scooping ice cream in an effort to supplement the small student loan I had to contract in order to pay my tuition. Making my way to my job on Philadelphia's notorious South Street, I spotted a simple, single-color, hand-drawn flyer crookedly tacked to a wall near 6th and Lombard, adjacent to the entrance of Levis', the legendary purveyor of hot dogs since 1895. The black & white manifesto expounded on the so-called "serrated edge" philosophy that seemed to be the core of the Dead Milkmen's vision. The grinning cartoony cow — with equally-cartoony "X"s over its eyes — belied an underlying sarcastic tone to the whole thing. At the bottom of the flyer was revealed its true purpose. There was an address and an offer to send for a cassette tape of a collection of songs — recorded in a suburban barn by the Milkmen themselves. "Count me in!," I thought to myself, "These smartasses are my kind of smartasses!" I was a fan of the current trends in pop-punk music (or punk-pop music, depending on which sub-genre is most prevalent) and The Dead Milkmen instantly appealed to me. When I got home that night, I quickly dashed off a check (in the quaint pre-Venmo days) to the Dead Milkmen for my very own sampling of their music, sending it along with a lengthy note — hand-embellished with my own satirical artwork — questioning their philosophy, their outlook, their hopes and dreams and other topics of which I feigned interest. A week or so later, I received a copy — well-wrapped to prevent possible shipping damage — of Death Rides a Pale Cow. The cover photo — a many-times Xeroxed image of a cow — told me that this was to be a smarmy continuation of the humorously rambling dissertation contained on that flyer I saw on a South Philly wall. And, sure enough, The Dead Milkmen didn't disappoint. I played that cassette in my lesser-priced GE version of the Sony Walkman until the magnetically-coated, polyester tape stretched thin. I turned my musically ignorant friends on to the high-octane (and high camp) wonders of Labor Day and Beach Party Vietnam. In a concerted effort to lure them from the hypnotic repetitiveness of A Flock of Seagulls and the faux romanticism of Culture Club, I blasted Veterans of a Fucked Up World with only their enlightenment on my mind. I was young, snotty and angry... but I wasn't "The Adicts" angry. I was Dr. Demento angry.

The Dead Milkmen were the personification of my youth. Rough. Arrogant. Funny... even if they were the only ones who thought they were funny. Their songs were sarcastic little commentaries on things that society held dear. They sang about stuff I drew and I drew stuff they sang about. 

It's a funny thing, though. As much as I loved The Dead Milkmen — and I loved them! — I didn't get to see them perform live until 2014. That's right, 32 years after I first saw their silly flyer stuck to a brick wall with a bunch of other flyers. However, I made up for it, because I saw them perform in a cemetery. Just after that show, I began to follow and interact with the surviving members of the band on several social media platforms (Sadly, original bassist Dave Blood took his own life in 2004). Guess what? Things change when you grow old.

Guitarist and co-vocalist Joe Jack Talcum's presence on social media is pretty sporadic as compared to his bandmates. Joe mostly announces upcoming small gigs, displays his art and gets tagged in a slew of Facebook posts of videos that are decidedly uncharacteristic of a member of the Dead Milkmen.

Dean Clean, the drummer for the Dead Milkmen, posts a lot pictures of his musical equipment. Sure, most musicians like to show off their cool new toys. Evidentially, Dean owns a wide variety of gadgets and gizmos replete with dials and lights and knobs and jacks in to which other gizmos can be plugged. But, Dean also shares the beautiful results of his prowess behind the stove. Dean, as it turns out, is quite the food aficionado, capturing close-up shots of an inviting backyard grill or an artsy perspective of a perfectly arranged charcuterie board. During the summer of 2020, when everyone was huddled in their homes fearful of the looming coronavirus, Dean asked for fan's addresses via Instagram. Those who responded were treated to a limited edition, hand-drawn postcard from the same guy who kept the pounding backbeat on Life is Shit.

Most of my Dead Milkmen interaction is with Rodney Anonymous. Rodney often hosts live Instagram "reports," walking through his South Philadelphia neighborhood and divulging little known facts about locations regularly passed by and ignored by pedestrians. He also speaks out about issues that face folks of ... shall we say... a certain age. Rodney is also a fan of my television watching habits, as is evidenced by the "likes" he gives to my regular posts of "screen shots" from fifty year old sitcoms. Based on the reruns I watch and the approvals he gives, we lived parallel lives in front of the family "boob tube" in our formative years. On occasion, I will serve up a playful shot at Rodney about his punk rock salad days... and he accepts my good-natured jibes like a sport. He also likes when I post cat pictures.

Collectively, The Dead Milkmen host an online Q & A on YouTube, on which they talk about a wide range of subjects and answer burning questions from their now-senior fanbase. It is essentially four guys, approaching their twilight years, discussing things while they nurse a cup of coffee at the neighborhood diner... except they're on Zoom.

I have suddenly (and reluctantly) come to the realization that I am old, my contemporaries are old and my heroes are old. We all get old. And even if we try to avoid mirrors, there are mirrors all around us. I still fancy myself that rebellious kid with vinegar in his veins, ready to take on the big, bad oppressive world. But when I look in an actual mirror, I see a white haired man, very reminiscent of my father. It's okay, though, because there's an old expression — one I heard used by my parents and grandparents and other assorted old people: "You're as young as you feel." 

I finally understand exactly what that means.

Note: After I finished writing this, I saw Sting delivering clues on "Jeopardy!" Now I really know what that means.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the french inhaler

After being stuck in the house for a full year, I seem to write only about food or television. Well, to be honest, that is pretty much all that goes on around here. I eat food and watch television. So, until I leave the house, get used to it. It's gonna be one or the other.

By the way, this one is about food.

I remember going with my mother to a McDonald's near my house to pick up dinner. It was usually a summer night when my mom didn't feel like cooking. My father — a simple guy who turned his nose up at "fancy food" — was just as happy to have a Big Mac and fries for dinner... just as long as it wasn't every night. He expected my mom to cook on most nights. Getting food from McDonald's every once in a while was okay, as long as my mother didn't make it a habit. Not that my mother was in fear of my father. She wasn't. It's just that in those days of the late 60s to early 70s, husbands expected to find their wives "slaving over a hot stove" when they came home from work. Lucky for my father, my mom actually enjoyed cooking. And his imagined status a "King of the Castle" remained in tact. On the days my mom wasn't motivated to cook, my father yielded to McDonald's as a gesture of his benevolence. My mom picking it up was — in his mind — him still running things with an iron fist. In reality, my mom didn't mind going. And she liked to drive.

One of the best parts about going to McDonald's with my mom was the extra order of fries she would get for drive home. She'd order a Big Mac for my dad, one hamburger each for her, my brother and me, along with an order of French fries for each of us. Then, she'd tack on a fifth order of fries that we'd secretly share across the bench front seat of her big green Rambler. I'd steady the big bag of burgers and such on my lap and my mom would pull out a single order of fries and lay it on a paper napkin between us. We ate them all up by the time we pulled alongside the curb in front of our house. My dad and my brother were none the wiser that we had gotten a head start on dinner.

When Mrs. Pincus and I began dating, I was pleased to learn that I had found someone who shared my love of French fries. I worked at an ice cream parlor not too far from my future wife's apartment. On nights when I would work late (sometimes until one in the morning), I would stop at one of our favorite restaurants — Copa Banana on Philadelphia's storied South Street — and bring home a big order of their locally-famous Spanish fries for the two of us to share as a bedtime snack. (Sometimes, I'd even wake her up.) Copa's Spanish fries were standard thin-cut French fries smothered in grilled onions and jalapeño peppers... and boy! were they good! Since bringing home an order of Spanish fries became a regular practice, I started bring two orders because I was accused of (and rightly so) scarfing down more than my fair share of the fries from a single order. To this day, I still have a difficult understanding of the concept of "sharing."

In the last several years (before a worldwide pandemic brought the industry to a grinding halt), Mrs. P and I had taken a number of cruises. Along with the trivia games, the campy stage shows and the obligatory reggae cover bands, one of the things we really enjoyed about cruising was the obscene amounts of food that was available 24 hours per day. Throughout the day, ridiculous quantities of food were presented buffet-style and we took full advantage of it. I believe we started a tradition on our very first cruise of grabbing a soup bowl full of French fries before making our way to our next scheduled activity. The fries at the ship's buffet were nothing special — probably frozen, then dropped into a constantly-operating deep fryer as needed. But, they were our comfort food and they were included in the cost of the cruise. And as we all know, the goal of any patron of a buffet is to put that place out of business. Sure, it never happens, but we all give it our darndest effort. Plus, they sure were comforting.

On more recent cruises on the Carnival line, we were treated to TV celebrity chef Guy Fieri's take on French fries, as most Carnival ships are outfitted with a Guy's Burger Joint, adjacent to the top deck pool. While we did not partake of the hamburger offerings (to be honest, they are pretty disgusting-looking heaps of sizzling grease), the French fries were pretty good. They were the "skin-on" variety that may or may not be fresh-cut on board. There were massive sacks of potatoes surrounding the open-air counter-service eatery, but they might have just been for show. Nevertheless, a plateful of fries can be dressed to your liking at the nearby condiments bar, that offers grilled onions, mushrooms, peppers and a slew of squeeze-on sauces including Guy's patented "Donkey Sauce"... whatever the fuck that is. On many a cruise, I have assembled (and subsequently wolfed down) my own version of Copa's Spanish fries. Curiously, Mrs. P, who at one time fought me for an equal share of those Catalan spuds, opts for the regular fries from the buffet. I think she just doesn't like Guy Fieri. Can't say that I blame her.

Two years ago, Mrs. P and I decided to stop eating like ten-year-olds at a birthday party and start eating like thoughtful, responsible adults. We have each eaten a large salad topped with salmon and a baked potato as our dinners for going on two years now. We have supplemented our diet by walking daily. We have both lost weight and feel better as a result. But we have also cut a lot of our favorite foods out of our diet altogether — including our beloved French fries. But, a month or so ago, Mrs. Pincus purchased an air fryer. Immediately we began experimenting with different foods and temperature settings. First, Mrs. P made potato latkes (pancakes) and they were a drippy, runny mess (although they tasted good). After a little more trial-and-error, she made dried apples and bananas. She made "fried" eggplant and mushrooms and peppers.  But, just this week, our old friends French fries made a return appearance at the Pincus household. Our usual nightly baked potato was instead sliced into wedges, sprayed with a light coating of calorie-less olive oil and popped in the marvelous air fryer for twenty or so minutes. Out came a bounty of crispy, crunchy pieces that satisfied our long unfulfilled craving for French fries. Heck, we even had to buy a bottle of ketchup for the first time in two years. They were so good, we had them again the next night and the next as well. Last night, we put a couple of sweet potatoes through the same process. They were delicious, too.

Who would have imaged that the humble French fry would play such a unifying part in my life? Where would I be without them?

Okay... now on to television.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

forget you and forget her too

I have written about my wife's eBay business several times over the years. I am very careful to preface each post with the disclaimer — actually fact — that Mrs. Pincus will not sell your stuff on eBay. I never really elaborated on the reason behind that statement, just hoping that you (the reader and possibly any friend or relative) would just take it for face value and dispense with any further cajoling, convincing or downright begging.

Well, not that I owe anyone any sort of explanation.... here's the reason why Mrs. Pincus — in my opinion, the nicest person in the world — will not sell your stuff on eBay.

Mrs. Pincus sells a wide variety of merchandise in her eBay business. Over her years in the field of retail, she developed an uncanny sense for what will sell and she has managed to use that knack to her advantage for nearly 30 years. As buying trends change and "hot products" pop up, Mrs. P is front and center, cashing in quickly and getting out just as quickly before a fad turns sour. From Cabbage Patch Kids to Pogs to Beanie Babies, Mrs. P was there at the beginning — sneaking stealthily away before interests waned.

With a child well out of the "toy-buying" age, keeping abreast of the current trends in "flavor of the month" playthings is a little trickier. However, since it is in her best interest, Mrs. Pincus keeps a sharp eye on "what's hot" and "what's not" and what the parent of an eight-year old will buy at any price. Of course, toys aren't really limited to the wants of a child. There are plenty of adults who collect any number of toy varieties (Hell, we ourselves fell into that category for years, before we unloaded our vast Disney collection via the eBay route.) 

One of the more recent trends is something called "5 Surprise." 5 Surprise is a cute line of toys that, as far as I can tell, presents a dangerous choking hazard to any child engaged in its play. The 5 Surprise line of toys consists of miniature versions of characters that kids love, like unicorns and dinosaurs. They come packaged in a sealed spherical opaque container that is divided into five segments, each one containing a different character. The buyer can't see the selection before purchasing (in what is known as "blind packaging"), making the process of collecting more exciting... or frustrating, depending on how you look at it. In addition to kid-friendly characters, 5 Surprise also offers mini versions of popular grocery items in a line called "Mini Brands." The same premise of distribution is applied, but in this case, the spheres are filled with very detailed versions of Skippy peanut butter, Dum-Dum lollipops, Hostess cupcake boxes and a whole slew of tiny doppelgangers of your favorite products from supermarket shelves. In the assortment, there are also mini shopping baskets, shopping carts and even store shelving units on which to display your little collection. Evidentially, these little gems are pretty popular and Mrs. Pincus was able to acquire a quantity of individual pieces of 5 Surprise Mini Brands, out of their packaging. She listed them on eBay and they began selling immediately. This was good, as they are pretty simple to pack and ship. Most of them measure just a few inches in size and they certainly are not breakable. Every week, Mrs. P ships five or six of these little things along with the rest of her larger eBay item shipments.

A week or so ago, she sold a 5 Surprise mini replica of a jug of Kikkoman soy sauce. As per eBay procedure, the auction ended, the high bidder paid, included a nominal pre-determined shipping fee and Mrs. Pincus dutifully sent it off on its way. The end.... or so she thought. A short time after sending the mini Kikkoman jug to its new owner, Mrs. Pincus received an irate — borderline accusatory — email from the unhappy buyer. She stated that she was very disappointed that she had only received one item, when she was expecting five items, as the auction description stated. She was further disappointed in the size of the item. She expected it to measure three-quarters of an inch tall. Then, without waiting for Mrs. Pincus to explain or offer some compromising solution to this self-imposed dilemma, she proposed her own (somewhat threatening) arrangement. She instructed Mrs. Pincus to send the additional items — free of charge — and negative feed back would not be left for this transaction. Okay.... there is a lot going on here. First - let's take a look at the original listing for this particular item.

Let's begin with that fact that this item sold for $2.99. Obviously, we are not getting filthy rich selling these, but eBay is a volume-based business. In each one of the listings for 5 Surprise items, a line was consciously added to the description for the benefit of clarifying any questions a potential buyer would have about exactly how many items would be sent to the high bidder. The line, purposely put in bold red text, reads: "Manufacturer brand name is "5 Surprise", you will receive one item." This listing also clearly states the size of the items as two inches. Another disclaimer was added for the sake of those who, for whatever reason, would think they were buying a tiny jug of soy sauce. This line, in the same bold red text but in all capital letters, informs the buyer that this "DOES NOT CONTAIN ACTUAL PRODUCT, MINIATURE REPLICA FAKE FOOD" This, of course, is to discourage anyone from following their dream of opening an Asian-style restaurant that caters exclusively to mice.

All of our angered buyer's complaints are distinctly addressed in the original auction listing. The size, the quantity, everything. Plus, all of the correspondence was tracked and recorded through eBay's messaging system, so there is a record of the entire transaction and complaint. Oh, and eBay doesn't take too kindly to what they refer to as "feedback extortion." Feedback, for those unfamiliar, is an eBay rating system that rewards sellers who offer smooth, hassle-free transactions. Buyers have learned they can threaten to leave "negative" feedback until they get what they want. This will affect a seller's rating if enough "negatives" pile up. eBay warns about this practice and discourages it at several places on their website. Mrs. Pincus prides herself on her strong positive feedback rating and does not stand for idle threats ...especially over a $2.99 item and an unscrupulous buyer. She replied to the intimidation immediately, explaining how all details were plainly stated on the listing. She went on to make it perfectly clear that no additional items would be sent and that unjust negative feedback would be reported to eBay authorities. In a subsequent email, the buyer backed off with a far different tone than previous. She thanked my wife for the item and even offered a "God bless you" as a closing salutation.

This is just one example of an annoying transaction. They don't come up often, but when they do, they take a good chunk of time to resolve. Although most resolution is quick, some stretch out for weeks or even months. Most are not the fault of Mrs. Pincus, who is very careful about how she lists items for sale and how she packs those items for shipment (she does both single-handedly). A lot of the issues are postal-related, which, of course, Mrs. P has no control over. Even with United States Postal Service package tracking, buyers contact my wife first to find out why they haven't received their precious item in the blink of an eye. All they need to do is enter their tracking information on the USPS website and they will find out when to expect their M&Ms coloring book or their unopened pack of Dick Tracy movie trading cards. (Contrary to the behavior of panicked buyers, Mrs. Pincus does not sell life-giving elixirs nor does she operate a clearing house for transplant-ready internal organs.) Instead, hysterical high bidders frantically email my wife as their first line of defense... and when she replies to get details (because she is nice), she is invariably told: "Oh, I didn't check my mailbox today. I got it. Thanks."

Beetlejuice won't sell your stuff either. 

Mrs. Pincus sells thousands of items. That's right, thousands! When one of those items sells, she gets the entire amount of the sale — less fees from eBay. And there are a lot of fees from eBay. A lot. She does one hundred percent of the work. She is entitled to reap one hundred percent of the benefits. Now, if she were to sell an item for you, she would have to create the initial listing, take and upload several photos of the item and answer any questions that buyers may have about the item. What if it is something with which she is not familiar? She would have to contact you and you would have to answer the question immediately, because eBay buyers are not a patient bunch. They don't sleep and they sit by their computers 24 hours per day, waiting for answers to their inane questions. If your item sells, Mrs. P would have to pack it securely, take it to the post office and ship it. Then, she'd have to field any subsequent questions about delays in delivery or — eek! — complaints about the item itself once it is received by a remorseful buyer. All for a small percentage of the final selling price? How much? Ten percent? Twenty percent? If your item sells for ten bucks, then Mrs. P's indispensable efforts would net her — what? — two dollars? For doing all of the work while you sit on your butt and wait for the money to roll in? Would you do it? Yeah, I didn't think so.

So, while Mrs. Pincus is the nicest person in the world, a line has to be drawn somewhere. In this case, the line is drawn from eBay to you.

Any further questions?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you bug me baby

It's no secret that I watch a lot of television, with a certain affinity for TV shows from my youth. I love the sitcoms with preposterous premises that were the staples of my formative years. Watching them now, however, I find these shows quaint and endearing in their awfulness. 

Most sitcoms featured a cast of likeable characters — a sweet mom, a friendly dad, a helpful neighbor, a loyal coworker, a jovial hillbilly who suddenly comes into a large sum of money. You know, everyday folks to which the home viewer could relate. A lot of shows, however, featured an annoying character. Someone whose sole purpose was to be irritating. I'm not talking about a character like Barney Fife, the hapless deputy sheriff on The Andy Griffith Show. Sure, Barney had his annoying moments, but he meant well. He was sincerely trying to help. He was just a little overanxious, longing for some real police action among the day-to-day tedium of cats stuck up in a tree or making coffee to sober up Otis the drunk. Sheriff Andy knew that Barney was not malicious, just zealous and proud. Also, Don Knotts was awarded five Emmys for his performance and he was a favorite of the viewing audience. In 1999, TV Guide ranked him ninth on its "50 Greatest TV Characters of All Time" list — so someone liked him. Although I love The Andy Griffith Show, I find the character of Barney thoroughly annoying in the majority of episodes, but I am in the overwhelming minority. 

I'm also not talking about characters like Dennis Mitchell, the rascally main focus of Dennis the Menace. Sure, the point of the show is that he's annoying, but he does mean well and, at times he can be endearing. I also don't mean Mr. Mooney, Gale Gordon's character from The Lucy Show. First of all, anyone who has to put up with Lucille Ball gets an automatic pass, but Mr. Mooney is just doing his job and Lucy is the real cause of his ire. I'm not talking about mildly annoying characters, like Dwayne Schneider on One Day at a Time or Steve Urkel on Family Matters. Yeah, they were annoying, but they genuinely meant well and weren't necessarily toxic. The kind of characters I am singling out are annoying for the sake of being annoying. They have no endearing qualities. They are selfish and mean for no other reason than stroking their own ego. Their actions are not beneficial to anyone but themselves. There are three of these jerks that I wish to expose.

Jerk.

First, there's Larry Tate, the weaselly, wafflely president of the advertising firm of McMann and Tate on the sitcom Bewitched. Larry is a jerk, first and foremost. He appears to be a friend of  star employee Darrin Stephens and his wife Samantha, but, in reality, he is not. Usually accompanied by an important client, Larry barges unannounced into the Stephens' home. He contradicts and questions Darrin's pitches, belittling his midnight-oiled efforts, as he second and third guesses the client's reactions. When a particular ad campaign is inevitably rescued by Samantha's contribution of witchcraft, Larry jumps on the congratulatory bandwagon at the first glimmer of approval from his client. In the next breath, Larry threatens to fire Darrin if he pulls a stunt like this again. A stunt like what, you ungrateful asshole? Saving your non-creative butt? What sort of input did you have in the development this ad campaign when Darrin was toiling nights and weekends before there was such a thing as "working from home." Larry Tate is a dick and Darrin doesn't need his wishy-washy, non-committal, two-faced bullshit. Plus, when Larry is at their home — whether invited or just showing up — he drains their liquor cabinet. 

Jerk.

Then there's Dr. Alfred Bellows, the ever-suspicious and ridiculously nosey NASA psychiatrist on I Dream of Jeannie. Prior to discovering a mysterious bottle on a beach in the South Pacific, we can only assume that astronaut Tony Nelson was a normal guy. But after uncorking that bottle, Tony's life was changed considerably when he unleashed an ancient (and adorable) genie who promised to grant his every wish. Now, granted, we don't know what sort of guy Tony was before he found that bottle, but he was a good-looking 34 year-old bachelor astronaut in Cocoa Beach, Florida. I'm sure he was hitting the singles bars and hooking up on a regular basis. That behavior must have appeared "normal" to the base psychiatrist. Suddenly, he has a hot blond living in his house and Dr, Bellows doesn't like it one little bit. Why? Why does this bother him? Was he jealous? I suppose, although Mrs. Bellows was pretty attractive and way out of his league. Okay, so, Dr. Bellows thought he saw some unusual things in and around the Nelson house... while he was peering in the windows looking for something unusual. What kind of career sabotage was he planning? Why did he have it in for Major Tony Nelson? Tony seemed to be handling his assigned duties well. He didn't behave in a manner that was detrimental to any space exploration mission. He was still a capable astronaut. If anything, having Jeannie around made him a better astronaut. But Dr. Bellows was a self-serving, meddling jerk. He was bent on convincing everyone at NASA that there was something off about Tony Nelson. In reality, Dr. Bellows was the only one who witnessed strange goings-on. You would think that after failing to get any of the top brass to believe his accusations, he would have given up after the first couple of instances. But no! Dr. Bellows kept it up for five seasons! What was his problem? He appeared to be the crazy one! Why didn't NASA dismiss him for incompetence? Dr. Bellows didn't benefit anyone. Not the space program, his fellow officers, the medical profession... or genies. Just himself.

Jerk.

I have saved the best — or in this case — the worst for last. The single most annoying character — in my qualified, long-time television watching opinion — is Lew Marie, the overbearing father of budding actress Ann Marie on That Girl. Played to the most grating degree by actor Lew Parker, this character's main purpose is to antagonize everyone with whom he comes in contact. He has an instant dislike for Ann's affable boyfriend Donald Hollinger. He criticizes, berates and insults every move poor Donald makes. Donald loves Lew's daughter (Hey! Who wouldn't?!?) and he is unnecessarily cordial and often forgiving of his future father-in-law. But, still the cranky Lew is relentless, unjustly flinging put-downs at Donald at every opportunity, sometimes creating those opportunities. Ann is also the target of her father's irascible persona. Nearly every episode of That Girl includes a scene in which Lew Marie threatens to physically drag his daughter back to the safe cocoon of Brewster, New York where she can give up her ridiculous dream of becoming an actress and work in her father's restaurant. Cute-as-a-button actress Marlo Thomas was 28 when That Girl premiered in 1965. She was not a kid. As the series progressed, she took jobs as a fashion model, commercial pitch girl, Broadway and television actress and dancer. It's not like she was a helpless failure. She was a working actress, hustling auditions and landing good roles. She did not need "Daddy's help." Yet, Daddy felt perfectly at home meddling in Ann's life — often misconstruing situations and perceiving them as dangerous to his daughter. He continually misinterpreted phone messages. He would overhear a conversation from the next room — or through a wall with the aid of an amplifying water glass — and invariably jump to the wrong conclusion. Lew Marie served only to benefit himself. He didn't really care about the welfare of Ann. He knew she could take care of herself, She knew she could take care of herself. It is my understanding that the relationship between Ann Marie and her father was based on the real-life relationship between Marlo Thomas and her father, entertainer Danny Thomas. I never liked Danny Thomas. I didn't find him funny. I found him to be smug, condescending and overbearing. In his long-running series Make Room for Daddy, he, too, was a jerk for the sake of being a jerk. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery... or something like that.

I like to think that television writing and character development has improved over the decades since Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie and That Girl graced the airwaves. But it really hasn't.

Just ask Kimmy Gibbler or Ross Geller.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

misty watercolor memories

One of the first things I did when I finally broke down and joined the wonderful world of Facebook, was join some groups. I joined a few that appeared to show appreciation for several TV shows from my youth, specifically The Munsters and the original Batman series from 1966. The Batman group went south real fast, as it was hacked and overtaken by a fierce political faction that bombarded the defenseless group with vicious, unrelated-to-Batman posts. The Munsters group just got boring after I saw the fifth consecutive photo of Al Lewis sneering at the camera in full "Grandpa" makeup. I have since left both groups.

I also joined an "Adrienne Barbeau Appreciation" group, if only to post my tale of my meeting with the actress to see what sorts of feedback it elicited. The response was mostly positive, until it turned into a free-for-all with unwelcome, sexist comments that crossed the line of decorum several times. After repetitive doctored photos of  Ms. Barbeau were posted in this group, I left.

I also joined a group devoted to my elementary school. This one was initially joyful. I was reminded of incidents and people I hadn't thought about in decades. I saw class pictures that instantly brought back vivid memories — some good, some not so good. The more I read, the wider my smile grew. I saw references to long-forgotten teachers made by equally unrecalled classmates. The conversations were cheerful, misty-eyed chronicles of times gone by. It was very sweet and sentimental and — as much as you might not believe it — I can be a pretty sentimental guy. Yes, I can!

One particular comment thread that I followed exuded endless and unwavering praise for a particular sixth grade teacher named Mr. Waggoner. "He was my favorite!," was the general consensus, with others offering more personal details. 

"He was an inspiration!"

"He was so cool!"

"He taught me so much!"

...and on and on and on. Mr. Waggoner was a big, barrel-chested he-man with coiffed hair, thick sideburns and a flashy wardrobe right out of Hollywood. He sported huge-knotted neckties to complement his fashionable wide-lapeled sport jackets. His pearly-white smile melted the hearts of his female students and their moms alike. The boys appreciated (and were maybe a bit envious of) his rough-and-tumble persona and rugged appearance. Needless to say, the guy was well-loved and made quite a long-lasting impression.

I, however, did not have Mr. Waggoner for a teacher. My teacher, that year, was a first-year, unsure, awkward young lady who looked as though she had stepped off the set of To Sir with Love. But, I often saw Mr. Waggoner walking the halls, his chest puffed out and a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses perched on his head for easy accessibly in case his services were required for schoolyard duty in the bright sunshine.

As I read the comments and endless accolades for Mr. Waggoner, I scowled to myself. I had a different impression of the beloved teacher. My memory was formed years after I had left elementary school. My memory was just as vivid as those cherished by a bunch of nearly sixty year-olds, now frequenting Facebook for a chance to relive their youth.

I graduated from high school in 1979. During my high school years, I made friends with some people who attended my elementary school, but I did not know them then. Sure, I maintained relationships with those that I had known since first grade, but the more "open" atmosphere allowed for more outreaching friendships. My best friend in high school was Alan. Alan and I were nearly inseparable for four years. Alan was a student at my elementary school, but our friendship didn't meld until high school. 

The day after graduation, Alan and I thought it would be fun to visit our elementary school. Despite nursing mild hangovers, Alan and I gathered up our newly-acquired yearbooks and headed to a school whose hallways we had not darkened in years. We effortlessly entered the school, as it was 1979 — years before rampant school shootings and terrorist attacks required prison-like security measures. Nobody gave us a second look as we roamed the hallways — hallways that appeared much smaller and compact than they did in our collective memories. We looked through the narrow glass window of each classroom door until we spotted a teacher we recognized. Finally, at the end of a top-floor hallway, we saw Mr. Waggoner at the front of his classroom. We brazenly knocked on the door. He opened the door with a grin and invited us into his classroom. Mr. Waggoner looked nearly the same as we had remembered, except for a few gray hairs now mingling with the jet black ones at his temples. He was still wearing up-to-the-minute fashions and he still had a brilliant smile. Mr. Waggoner introduced us to his classroom as two former students, although neither Alan nor I had him for a teacher. I remember being taken aback by how little sixth-graders were. We thought we were "hot shit" in sixth grade and now we stood before a roomful of veritable babies!

Mr. Waggoner offered "congratulations" as he took a yearbook from one of us and began thumbing through the hefty volume. He was perusing the glossy pages when he suddenly stopped on a large, candid photograph of a particularly attractive female classmate. Mr. Waggoner pointed to her ample breasts and made an extremely — and I mean EXTREMELY — inappropriate remark in a low voice that only Alan and I could hear. Here he was, in front of a classroom filled with 11 year-olds, speaking to two 18 year-old former students and yet, still felt compelled to make a macho locker-room comment of an overtly sexual nature. 

This incident happened 41 years ago and I still think about it as though it happened yesterday. 

So, I as a new member of my elementary school's group, I related my story in direct contrast to popular opinion. Yeah, I knew it was probably a mistake as soon as I clicked the "post" button, but I never claimed to be a genius. Within a minute, I got a reply telling me that my post was inappropriate. I understand that the group was made up of an overwhelming majority of folks who have only the fondest memories of Mr. Waggoner and can't possibly face the fact that he is not the sainted figure they remember... that someone else may have a different opinion. Soon, the chastising replies directed at me came thick and fast. I deleted my original post and possibly learned my lesson. Although I still comment here and there in this group, I have not participated in any further conversation regarding Mr. Waggoner.

Just this week, a member of my elementary school's Facebook group announced that Mr. Waggoner had passed away at the age of 88. The outpouring of grief and love was astounding, with dozens of people offering memories of a beloved figure, so influential in their lives.

No. I did not comment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

promises something for everyone

Boy, do I miss going on a cruise. Actually, my wife really misses going on a cruise, but she begins her lamenting as soon as our current cruise pulls into home port. As much as I love cruising, I at least wait until there is a worldwide pandemic to begin thinking of how much I miss cruising.

I remember when Mrs. Pincus booked our first cruise way back in 2013. I was not really happy with the thought of spending a week floating in the middle of the ocean with a bunch of strangers — playing shuffleboard, participating in some sort of dance class by the pool and wearing a tuxedo to dine at the Captain's Table. You see, my only frame of reference for going on a cruise came from The Love Boat.

From 1977 until 1986, I relished in the exotic locales, cheesy plotlines and familiar crewmembers that flashed across my television screen on a weekly basis — sometimes taking twice its allotted hour-long time slot to tell a tale filled with more intrigue than normal. I knew the Pacific Princess inside and out — from the split-level dining room, to the Acapulco Lounge to the secluded Pirates Cove where one could find a sympathetic ear from Isaac, apparently the sole bartender aboard. The staterooms depicted on The Love Boat were spacious and luxurious, decked out with full curtain-and-valance ensembles, wall-sized paintings and king-size beds (or twins with two feet of maneuvering space between). There was a large dresser and a bureau (those are two separate pieces of furniture) and a full bathroom with a door that doesn't hit anything when opened. Guests would regularly invite other guests into their cabin for drinks, hors d'oeuvres, hanky-panky or climbing into a two-piece horse costume to fool a couple of kids. 

On my first cruise, I mistook the corridor to access our room for a "staff-only" passageway, due to its narrow span and the tiny doors that lined its walls. The actual room — once I wedged our suitcases through the door — was closet-like in size with just a few inches of buffer between the bed and the adjacent walls. The bathroom was bisected by a thin curtain that served (unsuccessfully, we would later discover) to contain the shower water from entering the rest of the room. The streamlined toilet jutted out awkwardly from a wall, its jet-engine flushing mechanism activated by a small button an inch above the unit, alongside an ominous sign warning that flushing should only be attempted with the lid closed. I am doing my best not to say the room was so small that you had to step into the hallway to change your mind... but I fear I'm going to fail.

The dining room on The Love Boat was huge and the showroom was tiny with a small stage jammed with musicians, barely leaving enough room for Charo to shake her cuchi-cuchis. There appeared to be just three bars on the ship — one at the pool, one in the Acapulco Lounge and the aforementioned Pirates Cove. The always jovial and accommodating Isaac Washington  seemed to man all three, even donning an eyepatch and striped tunic to match the buccaneer theming. I can tell you for a fact that if ships only had three bars, they would invariably tip over from the lopsided distribution of patron weight. The showrooms, on the other hand, are multi-deck affairs, some with stadium seating in the upper tiers and intimate booth and theater seating on the main floor. The stages are pretty elaborate, employing trap doors, hydraulic risers, props and lighting and more than enough room to contain a dozen Charos and all the cuchi-cuchi energy they could muster.

Which brings me to the other crew members. There was Burl "Gopher" Smith, the ship's yeoman purser — a position so vital that the chief purser was never seen, leaving Gopher to fumble through the cruise, chasing after Doc Bricker's cast-offs, hiding from the captain and tripping over his own feet. Doc Bricker was a baffling character. He greeted arriving passengers, assisting in checking them in and providing directions to their accommodations. He also surveyed the group for those who displayed symptoms of illness as well as those female passengers on whom he could perform a "skirt-ectomy" by the time they dock in Puerto Vallarta. I have been on eight cruises and I have never seen the ship's doctor.

Cruise director Julie McCoy — with her cockeyed smile and look of constant bewilderment — is the antithesis of every cruise director I have ever encountered. Most real-life cruise directors are pulsating balls of pure energy, injecting a feeling of fun and excitement where ever they go. They are on 24 hours a day! Some are more on than others, but all subscribe to the same basic philosophy: "The passengers must have a good time all the time!" Cruise directors are in show business and the entire ship is their stage. There is no time to have a quiet, candlelit dinner with Tony Roberts when you got a ship full drunk and uncoordinated Baby Boomers who came to dance and sing along to the best of Motown. I swear I've seen some cruise directors in two places at the same time — leading a lesson in dancing like Michael Jackson and, minutes later in another part of the ship, reading "Green Eggs and Ham" to a bunch of over-stimulated children. Besides, cruise staff are not permitted to, shall we say, "interact romantically" with the passengers. I'm pretty sure that, when you're asleep, they are below deck, fucking each other any way. The only thing that real cruise directors have in common with TV's Julie McCoy is the cocaine usage. How else can they keep up that energy?

Then there is the captain — stern but lovable Merrill Stubing. I have only seen the actual ship's captain of any ship we've sailed on when he showed up on "Pose with the Ship's Captain" picture night and during an informal question and answer session, finally debunking the theory that there are shirtless guys below deck shoveling coal into boilers like in Titanic. Otherwise, the captain is sequestered on the bridge, driving the goddamn ship! He isn't mingling with the passengers, showing them where Promenade 215 is or joking with his college professor who said he'd never amount to anything. His look-alike brother isn't boarding and he isn't laughing off "bald jokes" from his barely-competent crew. He's navigating storm-affected waters for the quickest possible route to get your pasty white ass on a beach by 10 AM tomorrow morning... of course, that's after you've downed a stack of fifteen pancakes and a couple of Sea Day Brunch Bloody Marys. See? No time to court Marion Ross or help his ship-bound daughter with her algebra homework.

According to The Love Boat, the entire ship is effortlessly managed by five crew members, a couple of whom don't really seem to do anything. Sure, Al Molinaro was an ill-tempered chef in one episode and Abe Vigoda was a beleaguered steward in another, but Isaac and Gopher seemed to be pulling double duty waiting tables. In reality, the buffet alone has hundreds of workers silently putting out more food for the perpetually-famished diners. Others are stealthily clearing tables and sweeping up the messes left by finicky and frustrated children. Still others are behind the scenes whipping up familiar and gourmet fare on a scale that rivals a summer camp, an army base or a federal prison. The formal dining rooms are run like clockwork and never have I witnessed a waiter lose his footing and slam a multilayer cake into the captain's lap — a mishap that occurs at least once an episode.

And never have I seen someone fall into the pool fully clothed.

I miss cruising. But at least I have Love Boat as an unrelatable distraction while I'm waiting to cruise again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com