I hate everything about you

Spoiler Alert: Reality shows aren't real. They are scripted. The "real, average people" that appear in these shows are coached on how to behave. They are instructed on how to deliver their lines. The scenarios are set up. Sorry to be the one to break it to you.

On the bright side, the folk that appear on these shows are real people, not actors. It's only after a while they become "celebrities" because, as Andy Warhol once observed, "everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." For some of these shows that have run for multiple seasons, that fifteen minutes has really lasted waaaay more than fifteen minutes.

I used to watch a show on The History Channel called Pawn Stars. The show, which began in 2009, presented the day-to-day activity in a 24-hour pawn shop just off the Las Vegas strip. All sorts of interesting characters would bring in all sorts of interesting items for the examination and possible sale to the three generations of the Harrison family who operated the store. Folks would present vintage items, stuff they pulled out of grandma's attic, things they've had lying around their home for years, in hopes of  cashing it in for some quick cash. The Harrisons — patriarch Richard, his son Rick and Rick's son Corey — would give a little history of each item then, if they were interested, make an offer to the owner. And that was it. That was the whole premise of the show. As long-time collectors of "things," my wife and I loved to watch and see the items that were brought in for inspection and potential payoff. For many years, Mrs. P ran her family's business in a local farmers market. As the years went on, the business morphed into a destination for collectors of the unusual. Mrs. P hunted and scoured the area (and beyond) to find items on which she could turn a quick profit.. As time went on, her ability to pick out such items became sharp and uncanny. As we watched episodes of Pawn Stars, we would often see items that Mrs. P — at one time or another — had sold herself.

When Pawn Stars' popularity grew, the tone of the show changed. The items for sale were no longer the focus. The show turned into a sitcom about the Harrison family, along with goofy employee Chumlee in the role of the "nosy neighbor." Episodes followed a conflict among the four principle "characters," with only one or two items presented for perusal. The Harrisons became celebrities and suddenly Pawn Stars was a different show. One day, Mrs. P received an email from a television production company inquiring about an item she had listed among her eBay auctions. The item in question was a child's rocking horse painted to look like "Pokey the Pony" from the 60s claymation series Gumby. This item was used as a display piece in a store called Heaven that featured pop culture items. When the store went bankrupt, Mrs. P acquired the Pokey rocking horse in a chainwide liquidation sale. The email explained that agents check all sorts of sources for interesting items to feature on Pawn Stars, as well as its new series American Pickers. This particular agent offered to fly Mrs. P and the Pokey rocking horse to Las Vegas for a possible appearance on Pawn Stars. There was no guarantee it would appear on the show, but a segment would be filmed and scripted and, if it made the final cut, well....great! While it was an interesting proposal, it was logistically prohibitive. Reluctantly, Mrs. P turned the offer down, although she was very flattered. From that point forward, we realized that Pawn Stars was not what it appeared to be. We also tapered off our viewing of the show, until we completely stopped.

Recently, Mrs. Pincus has been watching a show called Storage Wars. The premise is pretty simple. People rent storage lockers and stuff them with all sorts of things. Then, they default on rental payments until, eventually, the delinquent lockers are turned over to an auctioneer to sell off the contents. A group of regulars assemble and the locker goes to the highest bidder. We, as viewers, watch as the high bidder rifles through the purchased locker to reveal hidden treasures.

But then that premise changed.

After a time, the show (that we now know is preconceived and scripted, as well as having outside items planted in lockers) became a showcase for the regular bidders. Characters were created by way of creative editing and prewritten lines given to these folks to recite in the most amateurish of acting. The auction attendees are the proprietors of local businesses that hope to turn a quick profit, much in the style of Mrs. P in her family's business. However, the group of bidders presented in each episode are some of the dumbest, inarticulate, arrogant, scheming, scummy folks I've ever seen. Most of them have no head for business, although they perceive themselves as savvy, worldly entrepreneurs and experts on everything.  With few exceptions, they are not knowledgeable about.... well.... anything... let alone collectibles or objects of potential value. They cannot identify specific jewelry or furniture or if something is actually gold or silver. They think everything is going to net them a fortune. If they cannot identify a particularly obscure item, they consult an expert... then interrupt while the expert is offering the explanation they came for. On top of all that, they insult their fellow bidders and purposely drive up bids on things they themselves have no interest in.... just to be spiteful.

Scripting and editing of Storage Wars has created villains and buffoons and conspirators within the bidding regulars. The auctioneer and his wife have even become characters in this thoroughly annoying venture.

I have watched episodes of Storage Wars — now in its 16th season — because Mrs. P has it on. I try to pay attention when an interesting item is uncovered under a pile of blankets or misshapen cardboard boxes. But, unlike Pawn Stars, where the Harrison family was often good for a laugh or a little bit of relevant information, the crew on Storage Wars are an unlikeable, irritating bunch — and they're idiots. 

Every one of them.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sit down, get up, get out

This year — 2025 — marks fifty years that Josh Pincus has been going to concerts. In those fifty years, I have seen a lot of bands. An awful lot of bands. More bands than I can remember. I have seen bands you heard of. I have seen bands you never heard of. I have seen bands I never heard of. I have seen performers from all sorts of varied genres in all sorts of venues. I've seen swing bands and punk bands and classic rock bands — both on their way up and on their way down. I've seen old time crooners and experimental performers. I once saw actress Grey DeLisle (the voice of "Daphne" on Scooby Doo) sing a solo version of "Bohemian Rhapsody" while accompanying herself on the autoharp. Yep, I've seen it all.

Well, almost all.

There's a place in the world
for the angry young man

I am actually surprised by the number of really big names I have never seen. There are bands of which I numbered myself as a fan, that I just plain never saw in concert. Billy Joel, for instance. Growing up in the era of what is now respectfully (or dismissively) called "classic rock," it's strange that I never saw Billy Joel. He played in Philadelphia countless times when I was of prime "concert going" age. But, for whatever reason, I just never saw him. Same goes for Pink Floyd, although missing the Animals tour in 1977, due to a "misunderstanding" with my brother, is still a sticking point. On a smaller scale, I never got to see Shonen Knife, a trio of Japanese guitar-driven punk ladies that give The Ramones a run for their money. Although they have graced many small stages in my hometown over the years, I just was never able to coordinate a time to get to see them. When Billy Joel resumed touring after a brief hiatus from the stage and a permanent end to his recording career, I was encouraged to see him by a few friends. I declined, saying that I want to see cool 1977 Billy Joel, not old Billy Joel in the 21st century.

Old man, take a look at my life

Almost thirty years ago, a concert was announced in nearby Camden, New Jersey at the current Freedom Mortgage Pavilion, the shittiest venue on the East coast. Freedom Mortgage Pavilion has gone through a long list of monikers since its opening as the awkwardly-named "Blockbuster-Sony Music Entertainment Centre" in 1995. The headliner for this show was Neil Young. His supporting act was up-and-comers Ben Folds Five. I was never ever a fan of Neil Young, Crazy Horse, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Buffalo Springfield or any other band that featured the globally-revered Canadian singer-songwriter. I was, however, a huge fan of Ben Folds Five and their self-titled debut album. I joked, at the time, that Mrs. P and I could buy one ticket for that show. I'd go in to see Ben Folds and company perform their brand of infectious piano-driven rock and roll. When their set was finished, I'd come out and pass my ticket to my wife, where she could enjoy the six-string guitar stylings and high-pitched whine of Mr. Young. (I know. I know. Cheap shot.)

Last night, I checked two performers off of my "never saw live" list. I don't really have a list. I hate making lists. That's just for dramatic effect. I like "dramatic effect" more that I like making lists.

The Dream Police - da da da da da da da

Earlier this year, classic rock icon Rod Stewart — Rod the Mod, if you will — announced the end of the large-scale touring portion of his career with an eighteen-city tour called "One Last Time." Rod clarifies that, at 80 years old, he has no plans to retire. He states he loves singing, he has a full head of hair (famously cut in his trademark choppy shag) and is still physically fit. He will still continue his residency at Caesar's in Las Vegas in the fall when this tour concludes. Mrs. Pincus, besides being a long-time, devoted Dead Head, has been a fan of Rod Stewart for about as long as she has followed Jerry Garcia and his trippy pals. But, as a veteran of numerous concerts, has never seen the soccer-loving singer perform live. Without going into detail, we were gifted two tickets to the Philadelphia stop on Rod's final tour. I was not then, nor have I ever been, a fan of Rod Stewart, but I was happy to attend with Mrs. Pincus... plus Midwest rockers Cheap Trick were opening each date as Rod's special guest. I always liked Cheap Trick. I owned copies of Heaven Tonight, Live at Budokon and Dream Police when I was in high school, yet Cheap Trick was one of those bands I never got to see live.

The night of the show finally rolled around and my wife and I found ourselves in the midst of a sea of old people. We parked and trudged up to the front gates of the venue along with hundreds and hundreds of bent-over folks wielding canes to assist their balance and their walking ability. I marveled at the crowd that was drawn to a Rod Stewart concert in 2025. I scanned the faces of the attendees — shuffling along with their heads down and bumping into other shufflers, lining up to purchase 26 dollar plastic cups of wine and 10 dollar slices of pizza, stopping to look around (right in the middle of moving foot traffic) as though they had forgotten where they were. (According to my wife of 41 years, I obviously haven't looked in a mirror lately.) We found our seats with the help of two unhelpful ushers and one very helpful one. Having arrived particularly early, we occupied our time by playing Wordle on our cellphones, something I don't recall doing in the the minutes leading up to Fleetwood Mac taking the stage at the Spectrum in 1977. The venue seats filled in with people dressed as though they were attending a pitch to purchase a time share, all sporting either sour scowls or slack-jawed stares. Much to my dismay, these people are officially my peers... whether I like it or not.

We're all all right! We're all all right! 

The lights dimmed at 7:30 on the dot. None of this "we'll start when we feel like it" bullshit for the older crowd. We have self-imposed curfews, you insolent whippersnappers! The PA blared "Ladies and gentlemen, the best fucking rock and roll band - Cheap Trick!" and the four members of the band sauntered out to the stage. (Side note: I have a long-time gripe with bands comprised of one [or none!] original members under the guise of the band you know and love. Cheap Trick currently includes three of the four founders, although bassist Tom Petersson left for seven years in the 80s, but returned. Enigmatic drummer Bun E. Carlos retired in 2010 and was replaced by guitarist Rick Nielsen's son Daxx. Daxx has been keeping the rhythm for fifteen years. In my convoluted rules, they are still Cheap Trick, despite a small adjustment in personnel. Queen....? That's another story.) The volume shot up and Cheap Trick ripped into their raucous cover of The Move's "California Man," a song which they have made their own. This was followed by hit after hit after hit. Rick Nielsen switched guitars about thirty times, each one more elaborately decorated than the previous, and frequently doused the first few rows with handfuls of guitar picks. Lead singer Robin Zander — at 72 — still shows off his pin-up boy good looks and his virtuoso vocals still sound as good as they did in the 70s. Cheap Trick still has regular album releases (A new one is coming in October! Brace yourselves, kiddies!) and tours constantly. As evidenced by certain members of the audience, Cheap Trick is still someone's favorite band. Their set most definitely woke up the Rod Stewart crowd who were counting on a brief nap before the headliner began.

Young hearts be free tonight

When Cheap Trick took their final farewell bows, I noted that signing Cheap Trick as the support band on this — or any — tour was a gutsy move on the part of the tour promoters. They are a tough act to follow. The fact that the overwhelming majority of the audience was there to see Rod Stewart could only be the show's saving grace. Dozens of crew members quickly and efficiently cleared out any remnants of a Cheap Trick performance as they readied things for the elaborate production that would be Rod Stewart's final large scale hurrah. Admittedly, I was never a Rod Stewart fan. I didn't dislike Rod Stewart in the way of a ....say... Dave Matthews. I just never purchased a Rod Stewart album, but I didn't switch the station if I heard a Rod Stewart song on the radio. Rod and his band — a guitarist, a bassist, a drummer, a stand-out saxophonist and a group of six young ladies - fresh from a Robert Palmer video - would provide some lively and complementary backing vocals, as well as a plethora of assorted instruments — kicked things off with a high-energy rendition of Rod's creepy 1984 hit "Infatuation." From then, it was a showcase of Rod Stewart's greatest hits, including highlights from his time as lead singer of Faces and his celebrated solo career. "Ooh La La," "Tonight's The Night," "Maggie May," "Young Turks" — they were all there and punctuated by some very compelling and high-tech staging and imagery. Rod even covered "It's a Heartache," the 1977 Bonnie Tyler hit. This probably furthered the confusion of those who assumed that Rod and his signature raspy vocals was behind the song originally. All in all, Rod Stewart is a true showman. With the exception of the few instances he disappeared for a costume change, at no time was he not the focus of the various antics taking place on the stage. The band, with the six ladies at the forefront, was given a place in the spotlight while Rod retreated backstage for a brief respite and wardrobe refresh. But when he returned, it was all Rod, all the time. Rod Stewart is 80 — 80! — and he's got better moves than performers a quarter of his age. Rod barreled though a comprehensive overview of his seven decade career. He wiggled and shimmied and shook and kicked. At one point, the one-time hopeful professional soccer player, butted soccer balls off of his blond-tressed head into the frenzied audience. (Um... he's 80!) He even plucked a bewildered toddler from the audience — sporting an "I ♥ ROD" t-shirt — and deposited her on the stage  to the delight of her parents and the crowd. The night drew to a close with a heartfelt take on "Some Guys Have All The Luck." A very fitting sentiment.

While this show didn't make me a fan, it was a pretty entertaining night. The company was great. The tickets were free and I got to enter two "checks" on my list.

There is no list.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sleeping with the television on

Ever since I was a little kid, I have had a wonderful relationship with television. I guess that's why I write about it so much. I love television. I love watching television. I love talking about television. I love reading about television. My parents weren't the type of parents who referred to television as "the boob tube." They never accused television of poisoning my young and impressionable mind. They never restricted my television watching. Hell, they watched nearly as much television as I did. 

I had some friends growing up whose parents insisted that a certain amount of educational programming be watched to counteract the mindless crap that dementated the children's viewing choice. I remember skipping right over the public television affiliate on my way to the channels that showed cartoons or game shows or silly sitcom. In junior high, I discovered Monty Python's Flying Circus which was the only time my family's television ever stopped on PBS for more that just a few seconds. Yes sir, my television watching consisted of some of the dumbest, lamest, mindless selections ever to delight a child's short attention span.

I was lucky enough to marry someone who shares my love of television. We both watched a lot of the same shows when we were younger. Of course, there were shows that she watched and shows that I watched. Mrs. Pincus watched Here Come The Brides featuring dreamy Bobby Sherman and Emergency! featuring dreamy Randolph Mantooth. I watched Lancelot Link: Secret Chimp on Saturday mornings, a spy spoof with an all-monkey cast. Ten-year old Mrs. P would never — never! — waste her precious time watching even a minute of monkeys in trench coats. Nevertheless, we both loved shows like The Brady Bunch, Room 222 and That Girl. Years of watching The Love Boat gave us a skewed view of what taking a cruise would be like, something we wouldn't experience until years later. Mrs. P gained a vast knowledge of medical lingo from watching Medical Center and Marcus Welby (and of course, Chad Everett's and James Brolin's good looks didn't hurt). I, on the other hand, acquired no viable life skills from Yogi Bear. Well, maybe stealing pic-a-nic baskets.

I vaguely recall some of the shows my parents watched. My dad loved the gritty, street-smart adventures of  Kojak. My mom leaned towards the more sophisticated tales presented on Columbo. Both of my parents — my liberal, free-thinking mom and my narrow-minded bigoted dad — watched and enjoyed All in the Family. My mom got the joke and my dad thought he was watching a documentary.

I'm not sure when exactly it started, but, I will walk into a room in my house and  — if there's a television in it — I turn the television on before I turn a light on. As a matter of fact, I cannot go to sleep unless the television is on. That's right. When Mrs. P and I decide to call it a night (which, by the way, gets earlier and earlier as the years go on), we fluff up the pillows, pull up the blankets and turn on the television. Not necessarily in that order. Actually, the television goes on first. Then the pillow and blanket prep. Then, the light goes out and our bedroom is bathed in the warm, comforting glow of my old pal television. I slowly (or quickly) slip into dreamland, lulled there by the calming tones of James Arness wielding his frontier justice on a 60-year old episode of Gunsmoke followed by Dale Robertson keeping things on the up-and-up on an even older installment of Tales of Wells Fargo (later knows as Tales of Xfinity Mobile ....that's a joke that only Philadelphians will get). While I am approaching the REM portion of my nighttime slumber, light-sleeper Mrs. Pincus switches channels to Storage Wars or something more recent, before switching back to an old Western. She just likes to know her options. Changing channels doesn't bother me. The TV going off — that's a problem!

Even though I am asleep, I know when the television goes off. Although my eyes are closed and I am deep into the third or fourth stage of shut-eye, I can sense when the room is immersed in total blackness... and that awakens me immediately. I don't know why. I don't know how. It just does.

The good folks at Xfinity, our cable provider (where — apparently — the WIFI is booming), regularly — and remotely — resets our cable box. Two or three times a week, at around two or three o'clock in the morning, Xfinity flashes a warning on our television screen informing my sound-asleep wife and me that our cable box needs a little routine maintenance. Then... BOOM... the TV goes off for a good long time. I don't know how long, but it's long. Long enough to wake me up. Through my thin eyelids, I suddenly realize that the TV is off. I shoot up in bed and fumble for my glasses so I can get a clear view of  this my TV screen...

It stays there for a while. Mocking me, keeping me awake, Withholding my nighttime viewing (or listening) schedule and holding me hostage. Those three little dots flicker. And flicker. And flicker. Well, now I'm really awake. I check my phone lying by my bedside for the time. I check it again. I try to go back to sleep. I close my eyes, but I know that the room is still dark. I know that glow is just the screen with the flickering dots. I open my eyes and turn my head only to see those dots. My frustration increases.

Then, suddenly, my TV screen is ablaze with horses and cowboys and a black & white episode of Laramie. 

Finally, I can get some sleep.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i'm just ken

I watch Jeopardy! every night. Sometimes I watch it live. Sometimes I watch it as a DVR recording, as I have it set to record Jeopardy! every night. I enjoy Jeopardy! At one time — many years ago — was able to come up with a lot of the answers to the questions posed on the show. More recently, not so much. It seems that the contestants are younger and the subject matter is skewed more towards the knowledge of a twenty-something year-old than that of a sixty-something year-old. The television-related categories feature questions about shows I never seen, sometimes about shows I've never heard of. The same applies to music categories. Every so often, a question about a movie from the 1930s (that isn't The Wizard of Oz) receives blank stares from the youthful contestants and the air is unspoiled by the sound of a buzzer. Music questions about the "classic rock" era or even "disco" are given the same dumbfounded look of confusion as though the question was posed in a foreign language. But, I still enjoy watching Jeopardy! to expand my trivia prowess and to learn something new without consulting Google.

I don't care for the contestant interviews. I'm not interested in what research scientist Caitlyn from Lincoln, Nebraska did on her senior class trip or the funny story of how Jared, a software consultant from Sante Fe, New Mexico, met his wife. I watch Jeopardy! for the questions and answers. I don't care for the quirky little tics and foibles of contestants. I dislike when contestants inject a little "clever patter" or offer commentary about a previous question. I don't mind multi-day champions or tight rivalries between contestants, as long as they keep it under control and not attempt to make it "their show." 

Back is the 1960s, when Jeopardy! first premiered, Art Fleming, a typically-pleasant game-show host, served as the Master of Ceremonies. Fleming hosted every incarnation of the show until 1979 when the revived All New Jeopardy! ended its run. Fleming rarely, if ever, commented on the questions. When a particular question baffled all three constantans, Fleming never gave the correct answer in anything other than an even-keel tone of voice. He was never sarcastic or condescending. He read the questions, said "correct" or "incorrect," and reported on the final scores.

In 1984, Jeopardy! returned to the airwaves with a syndicated version hosted by veteran game show host Alex Trebek. Trebek, in an interview once the show grew in popularity, made it clear that he wished to be introduced as "the host of Jeopardy!," not "the star of Jeopardy!." He wanted to it be made clear that the show was the star, not him. Trebek hosted Jeopardy! for 37 seasons, until his death in 2020 at the age of 80. While Trebek kept his promise of just being "the host" in check for most of his tenure, he did get increasingly smarmy and condescending in later seasons. A palpable scoff could be detected in his voice when he finally revealed an answer that stumped all three contestants. He'd muster the tone of a disappointed middle school teacher when a contestant gave an incorrect answer to a question. By his final season, Trebek was making commentary about questions and injecting personal anecdotes after answers were given. If a category included words or phrases referencing a foreign country, Trebek would read it in his best pronunciation, often coming off as mocking the particular accent. During the contestant interviews, he would often counter a contestant's little story with one of his own in a subtle game of "one-upmanship." But, I still watched Jeopardy!.

In June 2004, contestant Ken Jennings kicked of a run of 74 consecutive wins on Jeopardy!, thus cementing his place in pop-culture and game-show history. Little did we know back then that his brief time in the spotlight would lead to a bigger role the realm of Jeopardy!. After Alex Trebek's passing, Ken Jennings was the first in a series of on-air auditions to find a new host for the game. Former show producer Mike Richards (not the guy from Seinfeld) was announced as the new host, only to relinquish the role after some unsavory office behavior came to light. Ken Jennings was named as new show host, along with actress Mayim Bialik. The two would share hosting duties until Bialik (not a fan favorite) was relieved of her duties after siding with writers in a labor dispute. (She is a union member and she was supporting her fellow union members.) Non-actor Jennings assumed sole hosting duties from that point forward. Jennings proved to be a serviceable host. He smiled. He read the questions. He listened quietly as contestants revealed their favorite foods or told of a childhood pet or gushed about meeting an ex-vice president. 

Until he didn't.

Ken Jennings was named the sole host of Jeopardy! starting with the show's 40th season. As his time went on, he began to become very comfortable in his role. He also began to slip into areas that he previously avoided. After ruling on wrong answers, he started to announce the correct answers with a noticeable tone of superiority in his voice. He would sometimes offer a cocked smile and an accompanying shake of the head as he corrected a wrong answer. He began to quickly cut off a contestant when ruling a response as "incorrect." When a question would stump all contestants, he would give the right answer like your mom would, expressing impatience while going over your "eight times tables" for the twelfth time. At times, he has adopted Alex Trebek's penchant for reading clues with an over-pronounced, over-dramatic accent when applicable. While I once thought Jennings had promise, I now find that he grows more and more insufferable with each new game.

I still like Jeopardy! I will continue to record and watch Jeopardy! I will not let the host or quirky (read: weird) contestants distract me from answering questions from my sofa and learning something new while I eat dinner.

It's about the game. The questions. The answers. It's a half-hour of diversion. I just don't need those other diversions.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hooray for hollywood

I love movies and stories from the Golden Age of Hollywood. I love the glamor and glitz. I love the bigger-than-life personas. I love the behind-the-scenes dirt and gossip. There is just something so, appealing, so compelling and so reviling about the stars, the movies and the lore of the movie business from the 1930s until roughly the early 1960s.

I especially love the dark, seedy underside of Hollywood. That's where the real fun is. Scandals in Hollywood are nothing new. Lurid tales of double-crossing, abuse of power and false promises go back to the first time a strip of film passed though a flickering light and was projected on a screen. One of the best accounts of true Hollywood lore — in my worthless opinion — is Nathanael West's 1939 novel The Day of the Locust. A flop in its initial release, The Day of the Locust gained universal praise a decade after its first publication. Since the 1950s, the novel has appeared on numerous "required reading" lists and "best novels of the 20th century" compilations. Sadly, Nathanael West was killed in a car wreck just eighteen months after its publication.

The Day of the Locust is a dirty story of dirty people in a dirty industry. Thirty-six years after publication of the novel, Academy Award-winning director John Schlesinger brought the story to the big screen.

Although I loved the book so much, I never saw the movie until yesterday.... and what a movie it was.

The film version of The Day of the Locust stars young and versatile William Atherton in just his second starring role. He plays the main protagonist, aspiring art director Tod Hackett. His role is ably supported by a cast familiar to avid viewers of 70s movies and television. The characters from the book were thoughtfully cast, not just plopping the "flavor of the week" into a role, as is so often done in today's film offerings. The criminally underrated Karen Black plays wanna-be starlet Faye Greener. Her father, washed-up third-rate vaudeville clown Harry Greener is chillingly portrayed by Burgess Meredith. And, then there's the always capable Donald Sutherland as bashful, naïve Homer Simpson (no reference to the cartoon character — just pure coincidence), who gets top billing, despite not appearing until nearly forty minutes into the film. Also along for the ride are Jackie Earle Haley as an obnoxious child star, Gloria LeRoy as his overbearing mother, Bo Hopkins as a scummy Western star, Billy Barty, as Abe Kusich, Tod's cantankerous neighbor (and one of the film's most unsettling performances), John Hillerman and Richard Dysart as shifty movie studio executives, Paul Jabara as a nightclub drag queen and a surprising Natalie Schafer as (of all things) a whorehouse madam. I also spotted Nita Talbot, Robert Pine, Dennis Dugan and Jerry Fogel in small roles. The whole ensemble plays each individual part to its harrowing and pitiful hilt. The sets are vintage and the scenes are slightly tinted in a sepia hue, giving an air of authenticity of the era.

But, be warned. This is no love letter to Hollywood. On the contrary, glamor and glory takes a back seat. This is a sick, sleazy, sordid tale of lowlifes, broken dreams, lofty delusions, shallow personalities, sexual escapades, entitlement, disregard for humankind, arrogance and contempt... and a little bloody cock fighting thrown in for good measure. The final scene — which seems to go on and on long enough to make sure every gut is properly wrenched — will haunt you for days. It is visually unforgettable and perfectly illustrates the climactic nightmarish scenario as described in the book. It is brutal, disturbing and, at the same time, poignant and tragic. Film reviewer Lee Gambin called The Day of the Locust a "non-horror film that is secretly a horror film."

I met William Atherton at a horror-themed celebrity autograph show several years ago. Known mostly for his later career roles in Ghostbusters, Die Hard and countless other movies and television shows, I caught William off-guard when I asked if he had any stills from The Day of the Locust. He laughed and leaned in close to me so as not to let the other attendees — some dressed as Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees — hear what he was about to say. He whispered, "Nobody here has seen The Day of the Locust." as he gestured toward the costumed occupants of the room. Then he reached under his table to retrieve a briefcase from which he produced a single promo shot of him dancing with a blond-wigged Karen Black. He graciously inscribed the photo and even posed for a picture with me. I shook his hand and thanked him. He smiled and said, "That was a great movie and a great experience filming it."

It was a great experience watching it, too. Take that as a warning.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't know nothing

See this graphic? I don't know what it means. I don't know what it's trying to illustrate. I don't know what sort of idea it is attempting to explain in simple, easy-to-understand pictures. I just Googled "marketing" and this came up. And that, my friend, pretty much sums up "marketing."

When I'm not drawing pictures of dead people or visiting cemeteries or watching fifty-year-old TV shows or shitting all over Ringo on the internet, I go to an actual job. I work for a large commercial printer that produces thousands upon thousands of circulars for supermarkets and other customer-friendly retail businesses up and down the east coast. I work in a small office with a dozen other graphic designers who, on a daily basis, toil over the whims and nonsensical ideas of any number of individual store owners or "marketing experts" with "a vison." That "vison" translates to every single circular looking exactly the same week after week after week. Despite this, every so often, a completely composed circular is disrupted just hours before it gets sent to press by some yutz with a "brand new idea." Understand that these stores are selling canned vegetables and paper towels and frozen chickens. The same products are included week after week. But, still, they want things to STAND OUT and GET NOTICED. They use phrases like BIG PUSH and BLOWOUT SALE and other meaningless jargon. A circular that should take a few hours to compose, ends up being stretched over several days because someone binge-watched Mad Men this weekend and fancies themselves the Don Draper of the grocery world.

I've been doing this, in one capacity or another, for over forty years. I've seen it all... and most of it has been bullshit. Sure, I have met and worked with genuine "marketing" professionals. These are people with legitimately clever and innovative ideas that have the potential to motivate and inspire customers. But, for the most part, true "marketers" are harder to find than a kosher ham sandwich or an honest politician. Instead the World of Marketing (sounds like a theme park) is filled with spineless, wishy-washy dishrags with no real ideas. I can't figure out how these people (and I have met dozens of them) are able to advance themselves to positions of authority. They get to a corporate level where final decisions are placed in their hands, yet they never want to commit, fearing a wrong decision will result in a dressing down from their boss. Instead, they shoot out monosyllabic emails that read: "Thoughts?," then sit back and wait for their underlings to come up with something. If submitted ideas are good, they will take the credit under the guise of "team leader." If a bad idea is chosen, they are the first ones to point their finger at the source. I saw this practice for the dozen years I worked in the marketing department of a large law firm. I never saw so many useless, lazy people with no original ideas. They just spewed buzz words and asked for "infographics" or some other new trend they just read about in a marketing publication. 

Once I traded in my "business casual" for the "down-and-dirty" world of pre-press (a big room of artists churning out quickly-composed ads for huge print runs. Google it, if you really care), I thought I'd never have to deal with that corporate mumbo-jumbo again.

I was wrong.

One of the companies I create circulars for on a weekly basis is a chain of supermarkets based in New York. They are a family-owned business, with ten stores located in affluent areas of Long Island. I deal with a young lady who is experiencing her first job right out of college. Here, she is able to apply her useless marketing degree for the sole purpose of selling an extra pound of strawberries – just by adding a big red "burst" that says "SWEET!" on top of the picture. My entire interaction with her (and everyone at this company) is via the internet through a collaboration website called Ziflow. All communication is through messaging on this website. Considering that I get the bulk of my instructions from her, she is an inarticulate communicator. She has a very difficult time explaining exactly what it is that she wants. Plus, her spelling is atrocious. Sometimes I have to stare at and reread messages several times before I can understand what I am supposed to do. She has no concept of proportion and sizing, however she uses terms like "lower the opacity" regularly. Oh, when she says "lower the opacity," she really means increase the opacity. But, after three years of doing these circulars, I have come to understand and interpret what is required.

Just this week, while working on this week's circular for this particular supermarket, I started getting messages from someone named "Norman" – a name I had not seen before. Norman instructed me to add a burst here that says "Great For Your Family!" Another message changed a headline that read "CATERING" to "Check Out Our Catering!" The next message asked for my thoughts on – and I quote – "reconfiguring the front page into a graphicly-pleasing hierarchy"... or some such third-year marketing bullshit. I merely replied that my job is to follow the layout with which I am provided. Surprisingly, he didn't press the issue.

I make no design suggestions. Zero. Zilch. Although I have been a graphic designer for over four decades, my role in my current job is not that of a designer. I am a layout artist – pure and simple. I do what I am told by the customer. I do not embellish, nor do I make any suggestions. I was told by my boss on Day One that we, essentially, produce trash. The circulars that we create have a shelf life of one week and are never ever looked at again. In that one week, they are just glanced at by the consumer. The target audience is someone looking for a good price on a box of Cap'n Crunch or a family pack of pork chops. We are not producing great works of art. We produce easy to understand presentations of everyday grocery items. If the consumer wants to see the Mona Lisa, they can go to the fucking Louvre. They are never gonna find it in a supermarket circular.... no matter what a store owner wants.

I Googled "Norman" and discovered that he has recently been hired by this chain of supermarkets with the title of "Merchandising Director" or something corporate-sounding like that. His job description is a run-on sentence of some of the thickest bullshit I have ever laid eyes upon. Immediately, I had flashbacks to my time stuck in marketing meetings at the law firm and watching a bunch of idiots with marketing degrees pat each other on the back while bandying about phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical juxtaposition" and "let's table that offline, but not until this afternoon, because I'll be out of pocket until 1 o'clock"... whatever that means. Norman, I quickly surmised, was a corporate asshole. And he proved me right after instructing me to add a big red burst to a picture of cherries that screamed "More Fruit, Less Pit!" His next decision was to make sure the words "Veggie Mac Salad" appear on one line, even though those words appeared on two lines in a featured block of various deli salads for over a year. Once I adjusted the size of the text to get "veggie" to drop down to the next line, Norman went home to tell his family that he made a crucial corporate decision at work today that will net the company untold profits. Later the same day, he indicated several places where he wanted the word "WOW!" to appear in a big red burst.

When Monday rolls around, I will be treated to another barrage of Norman's genius. Noman will pose passive-aggressive scenarios regarding whether a headline should say "Meat Sale" or "Sale on Meat." Norman will wait until an hour before press deadline to rearrange the placement of wedges of cheese or to question the height of a dollar sign.

To borrow a line from Ursula, the Sea Witch: "It's what I live for."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

strangers stopping strangers, just to shake their hand

I am very disappointed. Not surprised, but disappointed.

June has been designated as Pride Month — unofficially — since 1970, when four US cities held pride marches to commemorate the one-year anniversary of the riots (and subsequent victory for gay rights by the gay community) at the Stonewall Inn in New York City. In 1999 — more than a quarter of a century ago — President Bill Clinton issued a proclamation naming June "Gay and Lesbian Pride Month." In 2011, President Obama expanded the recognition to include the entire LGBTQ+ community. Since then, Pride Month has been recognized and celebrated by individuals — both gay and straight. Corporate America jumped on the potentially lucrative bandwagon, incorporating the ubiquitous rainbow flag into their logos and product labels, in hopes it would A. display their support for the gay community and B. put them in line for a quick boom in business. Whatever ulterior motives big companies had, their hearts (if corporations have hearts?) seemed to be in the right place.

Lately, there seems to be a wave of unprovoked and unfounded hate washing over our country. I'm not saying that hate disappeared and then suddenly reappeared. The hate has always been there. It just appears that people have become more brazen, more vocal and more venomous in the age of the internet and social media. Behind the anonymity of a Facebook account or an X handle, folks spew the most vile, narrow-minded, fear-induced rhetoric without concern for possible repercussions. I've seen social media posts (and comments on posts) that reveal the most backward-thinking, prejudiced sentiment that I mistakenly thought was on its way out as my parents' generation dies off. I am really shocked (and disappointed) that people of my age — or younger — still maintain the bigoted ideals of a shameful time in our country's history. I really hoped we were headed in a better direction.

There was one group I thought was exempt from this parochial mindset. Deadheads. Turns out.... I was wrong.

The Grateful Dead has not existed for thirty years. (Don't count The Other Ones, Dead & Company, Furthur, the Rhythm Devils, Phil Lesh and Friends, RatDog, Billy & the Kids or any other offshoot assembly of former and fringe members of the original band.) The fans of the Grateful Dead — Deadheads — have always presented themselves as free-spirits. They promoted love, kindness, peace, cosmic consciousness and all that other hippie philosophy — long after the first generation of hippies started wearing suits and ties and working in the corporate world. Hoards of fans — too young to have experienced the psychedelic "love-in" vibes of the band first hand — have proliferated the message of brotherhood (and sisterhood) for decades after the demise of Jerry Garcia and his colleagues, through bands like Phish, Umphrey's McGee and other "Grateful Dead"-ish bands. Still, thirty years later, they sport joyful tie-dye clothing and flash the peace signs in photos splashed across Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, Snapchat (is that still a thing?) and other internet platforms with which I'm unfamiliar.

And just like Pride Month, several companies have jumped on the Grateful Dead's monetary bandwagon to capitalize on the band's popularity, legacy and image. Grateful Dead merchandise is still a hot commodity. Whoever controls the band's interest has licensed the familiar iconography for inclusion on t-shirts, stickers and hundreds of other items. (As KISS's Gene Simmons once said "Anything that can have KISS on it, should have KISS on it." Obviously, the marketing department of Grateful Dead Enterprises have sat up and taken notice.) I'm not knocking this practice. Oh no! Anywhere there's a buck to be made — have at it, I say. I'm just stating a fact.

One of the many licensees of Grateful Dead merchandise is a small company called Grateful Fred. Grateful Fred started in 2020 as a way for its founder to display his love of the Grateful Dead on his electric car. Soon, his company was producing well-crafted metal badges in a variety of Grateful Dead symbols that could be permanently adhered to your vehicle just above the manufacturer's factory-applied badge, where it would seamlessly and subtly integrate.

Like this....

Pretty clever, huh?

In its short existence, Grateful Fred has extended their line to include stickers, barware, badges for water bottles and cellphone cases and keyrings. They have evidently garnered a pretty large customer base, likely comprised of holdover Deadheads now in possession of expendable income, thanks to pensions as they reach the age of retirement and their dependents have moved out on their own. The badges are not cheap — running between ten and thirty dollars apiece. Just this year — this month, as a matter of fact — Grateful Fred introduced ten products in their "Pride Collection," including the iconic "Steal Your Face" logo with a bold rainbow background. Measuring almost two-and-a-half inches in diameter at a cost of thirty bucks, this little metal badge can easily be mounted on your Volkswagen microbus to let the world know you are a proud dual member of the Grateful Dead and LGBTQ+ communities — or an ally thereof. Pretty sweet, if I say so myself. And something that would surely be welcomed among the loving, inclusive Grateful Dead fold.

You would think

The post announcing the Pride Collection on Grateful Fred's Facebook presence was flooded — flooded! — with a plethora of comments expressing anger, disdain, and — most surprisingly — homophobia. Comment after comment showed unabashed hatred for Pride Month, gays and, now, Grateful Fred. Many declared they would never purchase another item from the company. Others dismissed the LGBTQ+ community as "bullshit," "sad," "mentally ill," and a variety of equally misguided, uninformed and repugnant labels. A few said "Go woke and go broke!" as they, once again, totally miss the point of what "woke" actually means. Others wondered when "Straight White Male Month" will be celebrated, turning a blind eye to the fact that straight, white males are celebrated everyfuckingwhere you look! Still others questioned why someone's sexuality should be celebrated, as they continually post photos of themselves hugging their wives and kissing their girlfriends. What are straight people so afraid of? They've been in charge for like.... ever!

I have seen similar posts on other company websites and Facebook pages regarding their support for Pride Month or the gay community in general. But.... from Deadheads? Really? A group that allegedly prides (no pun intended) itself on love and loving and spreading love. I suppose hate is just everywhere and nothing is immune from its infestation.

I am disappointed. Not surprised, just disappointed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com