beach baby

In 1963, producer Sam Arkoff created the "beach party" movie genre. With inspiration from the popular Gidget films and the obscure Love in a Goldfish Bowl, Arkoff signed teen idol Frankie Avalon and Disney dream girl Annette Funicello to appear in the imaginatively-named Beach Party, released by Arkoff's AIP studios in late summer 1963. With the pre-established formula of teens, bathing suits, music and a simple plot thrown in there somewhere, Beach Party was a surprise hit. It spawned eleven more films using the same premise, if not the same locale. The action in most took place on the beach, but some were set in a winter ski lodge and others on the blacktop of an auto race track. However, all were chock full of hunky boys on surfboards and cute girls in bikinis (except, of course, Annette, under strict orders from Walt Disney). They featured music from the top trendy bands of the day, including Dick Dale and the Del-Tones, "Little" Stevie Wonder, Bobby Fuller Four, The Hondells and a slew of one-hit wonders. There was also a roster of popular comedians and actors known for their work in the Golden Age of Hollywood. Buster Keaton, Don Rickles, Keenan Wynn and even Oscar winner Dorothy Malone had no problem lowering themselves to the sophomoric level of writing and humor of these films. They were, indeed, a hoot!

And, boy, do I love them!

Of course, because Hollywood has a nasty habit of rehashing popular ideas, Arkoff's beach series gave other studios the cue to make their own entries into the genre, hoping to cash in on AIP's success. Just recently, I watched United Artists' attempt at making a "beach movie." The film — entitled For Those Who Think Young — is a mess. Just a mess.

Released in July 1964, between AIP's Muscle Beach Party and Bikini Beach, For Those Who Think Young wasn't really well thought out. Sure, it checks all the right boxes (Boys, girls, beach, music, Paul Lynde), but it lacks the endearing quality of the AIP films. Say what you will about the Frankie/Annette movies. They may be silly. They may have sub-par acting, but they do have plots. Paper-thin, yes, but plots, just the same. And they stick with those plots until the story is resolved. For a 90 minute feature, there is about 20 minutes worth of plot, allowing plenty of room for dancing on the beach, comical mugging from Buster Keaton and Mickey Rooney and a song or two from the two lead actors. But everything is neatly and satisfyingly summed up by the film's conclusion. And there's even enough time for another song and waving "bye-bye" to the viewing audience.

For Those Who Think Young starts off with good intentions. Good-looking James Darren is chasing pretty Pamela Tiffin (obviously, Shelley Fabares wasn't available, so they got someone who looks like her), much to the dismay of her over-protective uncle. All that is laid out in the first five minutes. Then, somewhere along the way, the plot is abandoned. There is a disjointed subplot involving a romance between Bob Denver and Nancy Sinatra. Suddenly, a major shift is made that makes Tiffin's uncle, played by up-and-coming comedian Woody Woodbury, the lead character. James Darren and Pamela Tiffin disappear for long periods of time, taking their storyline with them. Meanwhile, Woodbury monopolizes the screen with a little help from Paul Lynde and a pre-Ginger Tina Louise as a stripper. As the film winds to a close, character actor Robert Middleton is revealed to be an underhanded villain of some sort. He is outed, disgraced and everybody sings... and drinks Pepsi. Yep, at the time, "For Those Who Think Young" was the current advertising slogan for the Number Two cola company. At times, the movie feels like an extended commercial for the soft drink, made apparent by the blatant product placement. See?.... a mess.

The actors are all fine. Bob Denver, just a few months prior to ingratiating himself as everyone's favorite hapless first mate, provides some comic moments as James Darren's valet. Nancy Sinatra, in a brunette wig, is a foil for Denver's antics, otherwise, she is essentially a prop. Claudia Martin (Dean's daughter) is included in the bevy of girls. I suppose when Dino heard that Ol' Blue Eyes' progeny was cast, well....you know. Paul Lynde is... well... Paul Lynde. He mugs for the camera, chews the scenery and delivers his dialogue like he's giving an audition for his role as Samantha Stephens' "Uncle Arthur." (Ironically, the AIP beach movies were predominantly directed by Bewitched showrunner William Asher.) Tina Louise acts as though she is giving a performance worthy of Academy Award consideration. Woody Woodbury, the true star of the movie, is a typical hack comedian. He made a handful of movies after FTWTY and, at 98 years old, still offers a stand-up act in a Florida comedy club.

I usually have a high tolerance for bad movies. I can sit through some real clunkers. Some of my favorites are some really bad movies that I can watch over and over again.

For Those Who Think Young will not be joining their ranks. I have already deleted it from my DVR queue.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

a matter of trust

If you are an avid and long-time reader of this blog (and why wouldn't you be?), you know that I am not particularly fond of the word "amazing." Well, to be more specific, the overuse of the word "amazing." It's a perfectly good word when used correctly, that is, to identify something that is truly — as the good folks at Merriam-Webster put it — "causing astonishment, great wonder, or surprise." In my opinion, that really applies to rare and impressive feats of science, like open heart surgery or building and later docking at the international Space Station. Unfortunately, the impact of describing something as "amazing" has been diluted once it had been attached to a really good plate of spaghetti or your kid bringing home an "A" on a book report.

Well, in the roster of "Things That Bug the Shit Out of Josh Pincus," please add the phrase "trust me." I hate — I mean positively hate — when I hear someone say "trust me."

Trust is a very strong, yet very fragile thing. It takes years to earn someone's trust. First, you have to get to know a person. Know their personality, their way of thinking, their beliefs, their morals, their behavior. You have to understand the way they handle certain situations and only then can you truly trust them. However, once that trust is broken, it will take a very, very long time to reinstate it — if it is able to be reinstated at all. If you trust someone and you catch them lying — even it is about something not remotely related to your trusting situation, their trust has gone right out the window. You think, "If they lied about this, then what else are they lying about...and can I ever trust them not to lie again?"

With that in mind, I cringe when I hear a perfect stranger or remote acquaintance say "trust me." Sometimes a little knowing wink is added to seal the asserted trust. Are you kidding me? Why on earth should I trust someone I just met, don't know and is trying to sell me something or influence my beliefs? "Trust me" implies some expertise - presented without any sort of qualification - on a particular topic or item. Some inside information that won't be shared. Just accept the "trust me" diclaimer as a guarantee that this researched knowledge exists. That will suffice. 

I see the phrase "trust me" appear a lot on many Facebook posts regarding movies, restaurants, vacation destinations or any number of things where an opinion is more suited that a statement of unwarranted trust. "We went to this restaurant and you do not want to get the pineapple upside-down cake — trust me!" Why? Why should I trust you, person on Facebook? Perhaps I would like the pineapple upside-down cake despite the fact that you didn't? Why should this be a trust issue? Am I not permitted to form my own opinion? Do you need to have everyone heed your pineapple upside-down cake decree?

When I was a teenager, I went to Walt Disney World with three of my friends. Actually, I went with two of my friends and a guy who was a friend-of-a-friend. It was the first visit to the famed theme park for everyone except the friend-of-a-friend. He had been before and fancied himself the expert. He took this opportunity to appoint himself "Official Tour Guide," pointing out things we should not miss and things we should skip. As we approached to queue line for the Enchanted Tiki Room, he waved his hand dismissively and loudly stated, "Oh, you don't want to go in there.... trust me." So, we trusted him and continued to walk past the entrance. A year later, we went to Disney World again, this time with a different fourth person. It took a year before we were able to experience the joyful attraction where "the birds sing words and the flowers croon" — thanks to someone I didn't really know telling me to "trust" them.

It is interesting to note that the people you should trust are the ones who don't tell you to trust them. They don't have to tell you to trust them. They don't have to tell you anything. Why should they? Trust is an unspoken bond between people. Once you are told by someone to "trust them," a question of their trust immediately registers. Why? Why are you reminding me to trust you? Is there an issue with your trustworthiness? 

Think about who tells you to trust them...

• Politicians - There's not a trustworthy one that ever lived.
• Salespeople (specifically those trying to sell you a car).
• A guy on TV telling you the kitchen appliance he's offering will replace every other appliance in your kitchen.
• Restaurant waitstaff - A confidentially-imparted note of trust on a particular menu item usually means the kitchen made to too much and the waitstaff were given instructions to push it on customers.
• Facebook "friends" you have never actually met.... and in some cases, Facebook friends you have actually met. In this instance, the tried and true process of gaining trust should be employed.

But... for goodness sakes.... don't take my word for it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i've been searching so long

Many, many years ago, when my son was little, he and I were in a nearby location of a local chain of home improvement and hardware stores. (When I say "many years ago," I am not exaggerating. My son is nearly 35 years old and the chain closed is last remaining store in 1999.) I rarely venture in to these types of stores, as I don't know the first thing about "home renovations" and "DIY" (aside from that song by Peter Gabriel). Anything more complicated than changing a light bulb will have me phoning someone who regularly straps on a toolbelt before leaving the house.

On this particular trip to the home improvement store, I was probably in search of lightbulbs. But, for some reason that I cannot remember, I was also looking for a simple wire fence that I could put around some flower beds in my yard. If I am not mistaken, Mrs. Pincus had seen them earlier in the week and described them in detail so I could find them in the store. The thing is, if they weren't front and center in a huge featured display in the front of the store, I was going to have a difficult time finding them. You see, I have a personal policy when it comes to shopping. I never — and I mean never, ever ever — ask any employee in any store where a particular item is located. My feeling is justified and I listed the following reasons when I imparted this code to my son.

1. Employees in stores have no idea where anything in their store is located.
2. Employees don't care where anything in their store is located.
3. Employees in stores are not interested in what you are looking for and they don't care if you ever find what you are looking for.

However, after not finding the garden fence in question prominently displayed as soon as I walked through the front entrance, I spotted a young man wearing a nametag and a royal blue apron identifying him as an employees of the store. Against my better judgement, I approached him and asked if he could tell me where the garden fence was stocked, particularly and I launched into a detailed description of the fence, separating my hands to approximate the length and width of each fence section and noting that each piece was embellished with small plastic flowers. The nametagged-and-aproned young man stared at me with a lifeless expression, as though my entire dissertation was delivered in a language other than his native tongue. When I finished speaking, I waited — hopefully — for a helpful, informative response. One that would point me in the direction of the store's vast garden fence department. Instead, his slackened jaw opened just wide enough to say: "Uh, we don't carry that."

I looked at him. I decided not to repeat what I had just asked with even more detail, perhaps some more description that he may have missed in my initial explanation. No. I just walked away. My son and I were going to find the garden fence on our own. We wandered towards the back of the store and located a giant directional sign pointing the way to an outdoor garden department. When the automatic doors parted, the first thing we saw — piled to the ceiling — was an enormous display of the garden fence fitting the description of what my wife explained to me... and what I had just explained to the young man with the nametag and apron. My son and I marveled at the display, shaking our heads as we gathered a dozen or so sections of fence. As we headed to the cash register area, we passed the young man with the nametag and apron. 

"Hey!," I said to him, "The fence is back in the garden department." He looked at me as though he had not seen and spoken with me less than five minutes earlier. After looking at me — silently — for as much time as he deemed necessary, he disappeared down an aisle, no doubt in an effort to avoid any more human contact, be it customer or supervisor.

Yesterday, over a quarter of a century later, my wife went to kill some time in Walmart while I got my haircut at a salon across the street. She made a small list of some things that she knew — for a fact — could be purchased at the mighty retail giant because she had purchased those items there before. There was one item on her list that she was not sure if Walmart carried. Wandering around the store, Mrs. P asked a young woman in an identifying Walmart vest if she could help. She asked the young employee if they carried "craft glue." The woman stared blankly at my wife. "I don't know what that is.," she confessed. Now there are items that, I'll admit, are curiously named. A Philips screwdriver for instance. Explaining this to someone who is not familiar with tools could prove difficult. There are some plumbing components that have misleading names like a "j-bend," "p-trap" or the mysteriously named "ballcock." But "craft glue" is fairly self-explanatory if you understand the meaning of those two words separately... like "chocolate milk." My wife asked a more general question. "Does the store have a craft department?" The question was met with a puzzled expression from the employee. "You know," my wife elaborated, "like glitter and sewing stuff?" The young employee perked up, as she knew the answer to this one. "Yes!," she said, "Yes we do!" 

Well if you know there is a craft department and you just heard the word "craft" in the name of the thing I am looking for... oh never mind.

Mrs. P found the craft glue on her own.

My policy stands firm.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

learned my lesson well

Well, now you got me started. After my "television" post a few weeks ago, I'm back on course to talk about my favorite household... appliance? ...accessory? ... accoutrement? How about "necessity!" That's right... television! The central part of any home. It's been your main source of information long before you had Alexa, a smartphone or even a computer. It's been an entertainer, a weather forecaster, a news stream... even a baby sitter. And it's been a teacher. You learned a lot from television. Things you know to be inarguable facts Things you would never question or debate or contradict. You learned them from television, so they must be true.

Before the generation that grew up on Sesame Street, we learned from other shows we saw on television. Like sitcoms. And Westerns. And cartoons. These sources were not only entertaining, but informative, offering timeless facts that could be used in everyday life and would form the foundations for a solid education of general knowledge.

For instance...

• Goats eat tin cans.
• You know your house is infested with mice when you find a small arch-shaped hole perfectly cut into your baseboard. Sometimes, there's even a hinged door in the hole.
• If you find yourself sinking in quicksand (and, honestly, who hasn't?), you know not to thrash around, because you will only sink faster.
• All bartenders in the Old West, served all drinks by sliding them down the bar.
• Also in the Old West, bad guys and drunks regularly fell or were tossed into horse troughs.
• The natural enemy of the roadrunner is the coyote
• Rabbits' favorite food is carrots
• Villains are easy to spot by their top hats and handlebar mustaches.
• Men openly tell their problems to bartenders... even ones they just met in a bar they've been in for the first time.
• If you are lost in the desert, you will see a giant pool of water surrounded by scantily-clad harem girls coolly waving feathers on long sticks. This will disappear in a few seconds... around the time you start drinking a handful of sand.
• When you are faced with a difficult decision, small versions of yourself — dressed like a devil and an angel — will appear on your shoulders to advise you.
• Cannibals cooked missionaries in a huge cast iron pot, while they were still alive and fully clothed. They also added sliced vegetables with very little resistance.
• The best remedy for a black eye is a steak. A large one. With a bone in it.
• A toothache is relieved by tying a white cloth around your entire head, securing it with a knot at the top.
• If the toothache persists, the offending tooth can be easily and safely removed by tying a string to it, tying the other end to a doorknob and, then, slamming the door shut.
• Amnesia is caused — and cured — by a blow to the head.
• When a woman faints, she is pregnant. Then she will soon require a steady diet of pickles and ice cream.
• Thinking about the past is always preceded by swirly vision. Thoughts about the past are in black & white.
• Listening through a glass placed against a wall instantly makes a conversation in the next room crystal clear.
• Sprinkling salt on a bird's tail renders it unable to fly.
• Bosses hire, fire and rehire employees on a daily — sometimes hourly — basis.
• Policemen have exaggerated Irish accents.
• If you dig a hole deep enough, you will strike oil. If you continue to dig, you will reach China.
• A far-fetched, implausible, outlandish story is much preferred to the truth.
• If you wear a thin mask with eye holes punched out, no one will recognize you.
• The smartest person who ever lived was Albert Einstein. The worst was Benedict Arnold.
• Mules are stubborn.
• Every house at the end of a block with a broken window and an overgrown lawn is haunted. A kid will invariably hit a baseball into it.
• In every wedding ceremony, the officiant must ask if anyone objects to the couple getting married and encourages them to speak now, as this will be their only opportunity ever. Someone will undoubtedly take them up on the offer.
• People who are drowning go under the water three times... and are kind enough to count each one off for you. If you do save someone from drowning, they can be easily revived by pumping the water out of them. This can be accomplished by pressing on their stomach. The water will spout from the victim's mouth like a fountain. If this doesn't work, the victim's arm can be used as a pump for the same purpose.
• Female teachers are either bitter and mean spinsters or alluring supermodels. There is no in-between.

I'm sure there are many, many more life lessons that came from television. If I've forgotten any, a refresher course is readily available in the form of reruns. I know I'll be watching. There's always room to expand your education.

clean up woman

I will be the first to admit that what you are about to read — if you do, indeed, stick around long enough to read it — smacks of what the internet has deemed a "first world problem." Wikipedia — the invaluable, if not totally reliable online resource — defines "first world problem" as: "a trivial annoyance experienced by people in relatively affluent or privileged circumstances especially as contrasted with problems of greater social significance facing people in poor and underdeveloped parts." Yep! That's what this particular blog post in going to be about. So, sit back in your upholstered imported leather recliner, grab a nine-dollar cup of Starbucks coffee, have Alexa turn down the volume on your 65" flat-screen TV and commiserate with me as I voice my dismay over securing someone to clean my house.

Mrs. Pincus and I moved into our suburban Philadelphia home on Labor Day weekend in 1986. Our house is a three-story twin with — technically — six bedrooms, although only three of those rooms (one an always-at-the-ready guest room) are actually used as bedrooms. But there are six of 'em, just the same. The first floor boasts a large living room that leads into a large dining room and of course, a kitchen. After ten or so years, we hired a contractor to turn our dark dirt-wall basement into another, usable room. Taking way too long on the task, we now had another room, as well as another bathroom to add to the two we already had.

Even if you know nothing about home construction or architecture, you probably figured that every room in our house has walls and floors — much like your own house. And if you are any kind of civilized human being, you know that these surfaces need to be cleaned on some sort of regular basis. (Except, of course, if you are my brother-in-law, to whom the word "clean" has about as much meaning as the word "potrzebie.")

When we first moved into our house, my wife and I took care of the cleaning process ourselves. Once a week (approximately), I would run a vacuum cleaner over everything in our house that would be considered a floor. My wife would dust and wipe and straighten and practice other cleaning actions that, to be honest, were well out of my realm. My mom wasn't the best housekeeper that ever lived, so I learned from what I saw. My wife, thankfully, schooled me on how to clean properly and I tried to live up to her expectations....but, I was never a good student, so I just did my best. Sometimes, I would catch Mrs. P re-cleaning something that I thought I had completed to satisfaction. I wasn't insulted. I understood that my standards weren't the actual Pincus household standards.

When I got better jobs and the Pincus income increased, Mrs. P decided it was time to pay someone to clean our house. I was only too happy to agree. While my wife is a decidedly better and more thorough cleaner that I am, she actually dislikes the activity more than I do. So, she set out to hire someone to clean, sending out "feelers" among friends, neighbors and relatives who have had experience. Perhaps, she could even get someone who worked for a friend or neighbor, thus vouching for their reliability and trustworthiness, as well as their cleaning ability. This really had very little to do with me — except I was all for anything that would end my weekend vacuuming duties.

I would assume that if you decide to go into the housecleaning business, you would have no problem cleaning houses. After all, "house" and "cleaning" are right in the name. Perhaps I am being too presumptuous, but what do I know. Well. over the 30+ years we have lived here, we have had many, many folks who we paid to clean our house. A lot of them left after one or two visits. I'm not sure of the reasons, though. It wasn't as though Mrs. P is demanding. No! As a matter of fact, she rarely, if ever, criticized or pointed out shortcomings in the finished product. She would wait until the cleaner was paid and had left before tackling key areas that she felt could have been cleaned better. When the cleaner would return, she would politely point out areas of our home that needed closer attention... then she'd still pay them whether or not they did a satisfactory job.

There were a number of people who cleaned our house that I never even met, as the activity occurred while I was at work. Every once in a while, they would come on one of my rare, weekday days off. I'd say "hello" and then leave the house, going anywhere, just so I didn't have to be home. 

One of the longest-tenured cleaners we had was a young woman and her parents. This family were natives of Poland and mom and dad did not speak a word of English. The daughter would have to speak as an interpreter both ways — translating for my wife and then relaying messages from her parents. I met this crew a few times, as they worked for us for several years... until May 2020. That's when I lost my job due to the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic. One of the first casualties of our loss of income and "tightening our belts," was the elimination of paid housecleaners. My wife broke the unfortunate news to the daughter via a phone call, delivering it thorough heartfelt sobs. She promised to call and "rehire" as soon as we were back on our financial feet, but, with such dark, unknown days ahead, there was no way to know when that would be.

It was a year. A full year.

During that time, I once again, found myself cleaning the floors of my house on a regular schedule — something I had not done since I was 25 years old. Somewhere along the line, nearly all of the carpeting in our house had been taken up, revealing beautiful, original hardwood floors. So, the task of making the floors clean required different equipment form the last time I did this — over three decades earlier. Because of the pandemic's uncertainty,  I was not leaving the house. Mrs. P bravely placed herself in harm's way, take over shopping duties for us, as well as her elderly parents. On one of her shopping trips, I requested a complete Swiffer cleaning system, including a telescoping handle and both wet and dry disposable cleaning pads and a Swiffer duster with a box of single-use disposable pads. Once a week in my sequestered state, I would turn off the TV, crank up the radio and "swiff" every walkable surface in my house. I had no problem doing this. I hoped I was making myself useful, as well as keeping my mind off my miserable employment situation. I was also helping Mrs. P as best I could. However, I would much rather have a job in my chosen profession and relinquish my floor cleaning assignment to someone more qualified.

In May 2021, with my unemployment insurance having run its course, I re-entered the working world when a nearby commercial printing company took a chance on a 60 year-old graphic designer. With regular paychecks once again coming in, it was time to get back to the good old days of someone besides a Pincus cleaning the Pincus house. True to her word, Mrs. P called our most recent housecleaners — the daughter-parents team. The coldness in the daughter's tone was palpable. She questioned the notion that nobody was cleaning our home for over a year. My wife explained that we were without substantial income. The daughter sounded very skeptical, telling that her other customers continued to pay her, despite not having the crew come and clean. Mrs. P said that we were in no position to do that, but were now ready to welcome them back... providing that she and her parents were fully (or at least partially) vaccinated for COVID-19. The daughter laughed. Audibly laughed! "No!," she proudly announced, "We are not vaccinated." It was as though she was asked if she had grown a tail.

Well, here we were in a position in which we had not been in a quite some time. Mrs. P asked around and, after some time, arranged for a woman to come and offer an estimate on cleaning our house. Simple enough, right? Well, on the morning of the appointed, she called to make it a different day, citing some person issue. The morning of the alternate appointment, she called to make it a different day, blaming a different personal issue. This went on for several reschedulings until on the sixth attempt, she actually showed up. When a price was agreed upon, getting her to come and actually do the cleaning part was similar to getting her to come over in the first place. First, she was sick. Then she was still sick. Then her mother was sick. Then, there were transportation issues. She was beginning to sound like Epstein from Welcome Back, Kotter, offering excuses for his absences signed by "Epstein's mother." She finally came. She did an adequate job. Not stellar. Not great. Adequate. But, as long as Mrs. P and I were relieved of house cleaning obligations, everything was good. However, every subsequent appointment was pre-empted by a run of "I can't be there today" messages on the morning of. All totaled, she came to our house three times. Mrs. P even purchased a specific style of mop and bucket at this woman's request. But, Mrs. P had had enough. We needed someone else.

On a friend's recommendation, we contracted a cleaning service. A real, live professional cleaning service with written contracts and post-cleaning walk-throughs — you know, like a real business. The woman with the excuses was told that her services were no longer required Finally! Our housecleaning worries were over. The new service was reliable, efficient, most of all, they did a good job.

Until, we got a call.

As of this week, the service was switching to commercial properties only. No more residential customers. They came for one more visit, cleaned... and that was it. Back to "Square One." Out of nowhere, like beacon from house cleaning heaven, my wife's cousin came through with her cleaner — a responsible, reliable woman who was only too happy to take on new business. With mop in hand, she is coming next week.

I'll let you know if it results in another blog post.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

season of the witch

It has been nearly six months since I did a blog post about television. Considering my daily participation in the activity of watching television holds such an important place in my life, let's remedy the situation right here and right now.

One of my favorite TV comedies was Bewitched. I remember watching and loving this show in its initial network run and still enjoying it in countless reruns throughout my teen years and later... right up to today. The show was conceived by screenwriter Sol Saks, lifting inspiration from the films I Married a Witch and Bell, Book and Candle. Saks had little to do with the series once production began. Those duties were shifted around a bit before chief director William Asher took over creative control for the show's eight seasons. Unable to settle on a deal with actress Tammy Grimes, Asher cast his wife Elizabeth Montgomery in the lead role as a real-life witch trying to live a life as a typical suburban housewife. Premiering in the Fall of 1964, Bewitched focused more on allegorical plotlines, substituting witchcraft for the tribulations of a mixed marriage. The "magic" actually took a back seat to standard "husband and wife" problems. The show was ABC's highest rated series and the second highest rated show across all three major networks, only bested by NBC's mighty Bonanza. By Season Three, head writer Danny Arnold and producer William Froug had left the production. William Asher became the default showrunner and took the comedy into a much more broad and slapstick direction, harkening back to what he learned as a sometimes director on I Love Lucy. 

Season Three opened with the switch to episodes filmed in color. For a long time, only these episodes where broadcast in syndication. It was believed that audiences wouldn't watch reruns in black & white (despite the perennial popularity of The Dick Van Dyke Show, The Andy Griffith Show and even I Love Lucy). Nevertheless, Bewitched was as popular a show in reruns and it was in the beginning of its first run.

Aside from its compelling and adorable star, the show was known for its mid-season replacement of co-star Dick York, who played the irascible "Darrin Stephens," beleaguered but loving husband to Montgomery's "Samantha." York had been injured on a 1959 movie set and was in constant pain for the rest of his life. After collapsing on-set in 1969, York was replaced midway through Season Six by actor Dick Sargent, coincidentally the original choice for the role at the show's conception. The show is much maligned for the switch and the decision is often cited as the downfall of the show. But that was not the only casting change on the series. There were many. The series featured two "Gladys Kravitz"s, two "Frank Stephens" (Darrin's father) and two "Louise Tate"s (Darrin's asshole boss Larry's wife). Many actors played multiple roles over the years, including Paul Lynde. Lynde was best remembered as Samantha's mischievous "Uncle Arthur." But the comedian appeared in an early episode as a driving instructor. Bernard Fox, who had a recurring role as the eccentric "Dr. Bombay," played a witch-hunting anthropologist in the second season. Veteran character actors Herb Voland, Edward Andrews, Larry D. Mann and Charles Lane appeared as various different prospective clients of McMann & Tate, Darrin's employer. And, of course, Elizabeth Montgomery took a shot herself, donning a brunette wig and flirty attitude as Samantha's sultry cousin "Serena" (credited playfully as "Pandora Spocks"). I have to admit, my little crush on Elizabeth Montgomery heightened when she played Serena. I think everyone's did.

In recent viewings of my beloved Bewitched, I noticed something that eluded me as a child, adolescent and even as a young (unaware) adult. Bewitched exhibited a pretty shitty view of women and marriage. There is an overall attitude of mistrust between husband and wife. Every female client of Darrin's makes some sort of overt sexual advancement on him, despite his protests of being happily married. Male clients brought home (on an unusually regular basis) for dinner, often make unwanted moves on Samantha once Darrin has exited the room to make drinks. Even her firm pleas of "NO!" are met with chuckles and even more grabby attempts to violate Samantha's personal space. Endora, Samantha's overbearing mother, is constantly filling her daughter's mind with notions of an unfaithful Darrin (or "Derwood" as she often calls him). Larry Tate leers at female clients and secretaries and every other woman who shows up, while Serena makes suggestive small talk with Larry right in front of his wife (whether it be Irene Vernon or Kasey Rogers). Nobody trusts anyone. Everyone lies to cover up a misunderstanding that could otherwise be easily explained in a loving trusting relationship. I suppose in the 60s and 70s, infidelity and adultery was good fodder for sitcoms. The home audience seemed to respond favorably, as Bewitched ranked among the top shows on television for most of its entire run.

Ironically, Bewitched's demise was met at the hands of another TV comedy, one that addressed real-life problems like bigotry, racism and even sexuality. Once Bewitched was broadcast opposite the up-and-coming All in the Family, its fate was sealed. Bewitched was canceled at the end of its eighth season. (In reality, Elizabeth Montgomery wanted out after five seasons, hoping to ignite a film career based on her popularity. Instead, ABC threw a ton of money and other financial incentives her way in a proverbial "offer she couldn't refuse.")

In the wake of the #MeToo movement and women's rights in general, I find Bewitched difficult to watch now. The fashions and dialog notwithstanding, the show is dated. Very, very dated. Sure there are other shows that are just as dated, like Leave It to Beaver. But that show depicts a time of old fashioned family values, the benefits of a loyal friendship and morality. Bewitched evokes a time that we should really be embarrassed by — and I don't mean because of the wide neckties and overuse of the word "groovy."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

bread and circus

Let me warn you. This story has no real resolution... except if you count a thorough — and well deserved — spanking from my mother.

When I was a kid, my family — as well as the majority of the families in my Northeast Philadelphia neighborhood — had many household staples and services delivered right to our house. On an almost daily basis, long before I awakened for the day, the little metal box that rested just outside our kitchen door, was filled with glass bottles of milk by a mostly unseen (at least by me) milkman. Sometimes, the milk was accompanied by butter and perhaps a dozen eggs. In summer, my mom would order lemonade or fruit punch and they would arrive along with the milk, in the same type of glass bottles. Every so often, on a weekend morning, I would actually get to see the milkman when he would come to our house to collect payment for his deliveries. He looked just like the guys I saw on TV shows and commercials. He wore all white with a black bow tie and shiny-brimmed cap. He'd park his truck at the foot of our driveway, bound up to our house and gently rap on our kitchen door. My mom would let him in and, depending on the amount of the bill, she'd pay in cash, extracting a few dollar bills and coins from her purse. If the Pincus family tab had gone unpaid for a few weeks (which was normal for my family, in keeping with my father's notorious mishandling of funds), my mom would pull her checkout from her purse and dash off a voucher for the outstanding dairy balance.

In addition to milk and dairy products, we'd get potato chips, pretzels and other assorted snacks from the Charles Chips driver. Once a month or so, that familiar truck would pull up and the driver would carry two big metal tins up to our house. The light-tan colored one was filled with crispy potato chips and the dark one was filled with pretzels. My brother would practically wrestle the pretzel tin out of the driver's hands. My brother laid unspoken claim to any pretzels that entered our house, almost demanding permission if a small sample of his private stock was to be had by anyone who wasn't him. Charles Chips offered cookies once in a while. I liked those. I liked them so much, my mom would often hide them somewhere in the kitchen so I didn't consume them all as soon as the package was opened. She knew what little Josh was capable of.

When I went to the supermarket with my mom, I marveled at the fact they sold items that we got delivered right to our house. Who was buying these items here?, I would think. Doesn't everyone get these things delivered? 

Along with milk and snacks — and even dry cleaning — the Pincuses had home delivery of bread. Following approximately the same schedule employed by the milkman, the bread man would supply us with loaves of bread, as well as hot dog and hamburger rolls. In direct competition with Charles Chips, Freihofer's Bakery (from whom we got our delivery) would offer cookies. Their marketing strategy was different, however. The driver — a genial, avuncular gentleman that the kids in the neighborhood called "Uncle Ben" — would tear open a package of cookies and hand them out to the kids, in hopes they would beg their moms to purchase additional boxes. Of course, it worked... at least in my house it did. Uncle Ben would wave to the kids as he drove his open-door delivery truck through the streets of my neighborhood. He'd politely tip his hat to the kids as he visited their homes, toting loaves of bread that would soon be used for school lunches and weekend breakfasts.

Before I was aware of an unprovoked pall of anti-Semitism befalling my neighborhood, I was friendly with several kids on my block. Prior to bigoted parents filling their children's impressionable minds with ideas that my family and I were responsible for killing the savior they worshiped on infrequent Sunday visits to church, we were all content to play tag and dodgeball and kick-the-can together, regardless of our religious beliefs. One of my closest friends was Lou, who lived across the street from me. Lou was a year or two older than I. However he, nor any of his siblings, ever attended the same schools the rest of the kids in the neighborhood attended. They all went to what was referred to in the 60s and early 70s as "special school." This, of course, was a euphemism for a facility for either delinquents, incorrigible troublemakers or learning disabled students. Lou and all of the children in his family fell into some or all those categories. Lou's father reminded me of the title character of a popular newspaper comic strip called "Moose Miller." Moose was a slovenly, scheming, unkept, ne'er-do-well who spent most of the daily three panels and Sunday eight panels reclining on a threadbare and patchwork sofa surrounded by stray animals, beer cans and trash. That was Lou's house. It was dark and dank and it smelled of burnt food, pet waste and sweat. No one was quite sure what Lou's father did for a living, as he was always home when other dads were off at work. Lou's mom was equally as disheveled. She would sometimes join a little sidewalk klatch of neighborhood moms to discuss household matters and maybe even a little gossip. Lou's mom would casually reveal some sort of unusual quirk that she obviously thought was the norm. Her views on personal grooming and child care were always points of astonishment among her peers. Once, she told my mom that she and Lou's father were never "officially" married — which was positively shocking in the pseudo-suburban world of the late 1960s. Lou had two unseemly older sisters who were both — as I recall — slutty and scummy. He had an athletic older brother who was friendly with my athletic older brother. Lou's younger brother was creepy in a "Damien" from The Omen sort of way. He often yammered on nonsensically and I don't remember understanding too much of what he had to say.

One summer afternoon, Lou and I were cavorting on our front lawns, as kids on summer vacation were prone to do. Our playtime was interrupted when our pal good old Uncle Ben pulled up in front of my house in his Freihofer's Bakery truck. "Hiya, fellahs!" he said, as he bounded out of his truck carrying two loaves of bread and his ledger book. He was obviously going in my house to collect on the outstanding balance owed by the Pincuses. Would my mom be able to satisfy our debt with the few bucks she had stashed in her purse... or would she have to dip into the available funds in the checking account?

This is where memories get a bit fuzzy. To this day, I am still not sure how, why or by whom the idea was hatched... but hatched it was. Lou and I stopped our playing and approached the rear of the parked Freihofer's Bakery truck. With Uncle Ben otherwise occupied in my house, one of us opened the back door and together we entered the truck. Inside, the back portion of the vehicle was lined with aluminum wire shelving, fully stocked with dozens and dozens of packaged loaves of bread, assorted rolls, cookies and a smattering of other baked goods that the Pincus family never requested. As though possessed by a controlling but unseen force, Lou and I began tossing loaves of bread out the open back doors and into the street. Acting like we were a crucial link in a makeshift "bucket brigade" that ended with us, we seemed to be determined to empty that truck of every last example of bakery product we could grab. Again, after 50-some years, I seemed to have blocked out the motivation behind our actions. We were just two dumb kids throwing bread out of a truck for no good reason.

As Lou and I were engaging in our decidedly illicit behavior, my brother and Lou's brother were sitting across the street on Lou's front porch. Their discussion was abruptly cut short when, in his peripheral vision, my brother caught a glimpse of several oven-fresh projectiles being launched out the back doors of the nearby Freihofer's truck.

"Hey!," my brother exclaimed, "There's bread coming out of that truck!" He directed Lou's brother's attention to the scene. Just then, Uncle Ben, having finished his financial dealings with my mom, was greeted by the same scenario as he ambled down my driveway. He quickened his step and advanced towards the posterior of his truck. He stood, dumbfounded and speechless, at the open doors, finally mustering up the strength to say "Hey!" Almost instantaneously, he was joined at the back door by my mom... and she was none too happy. She shrieked! She didn't say any actual words, she just shrieked. She took a small step into the truck, grabbed my forearm and yanked me out. My mom dragged my up the driveway — still shrieking — and threw me into the house. A few seconds later, Lou's mom appeared and led Lou to his house in a similar fashion, although she clamped two vise-like fingers onto his earlobe instead of his forearm... but the sentiment was the same.

I honestly don't remember too much of the aftermath. No doubt, I received a severe spanking from my mother who was tasked with keeping order in the Pincus household and was a much more feared disciplinarian than my ineffectual father. I'm not sure if home deliveries from the fine folks at Friehofer's Bakery continued. I do remember eventually purchasing bread from the supermarket, so perhaps my mother severed all ties with Uncle Ben's employer out of sheer humiliation. However, this story received many a retelling over the years. First in high school and continuing on in my life. When he became old enough to understand what his father did was dead wrong, I related the "bread truck incident" (as it had come to be known) to my son — who delighted in its stupidity and reveled in my childhood shortcomings. At recent gatherings in our home, I have even caught my son beginning the story to an eager group of listeners and inserting himself as the main protagonist. "That didn't happen to you!," I'd say, "That's my story!" 

Somehow, that made the story funnier.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com