here we are now, entertain us

I like to watch movies. I like to watch movies with my wife and I like to watch movies alone. Sometimes, I have to do both of those because I don't always share the same tastes in movies with my wife. Recently, I have watched a few recent releases that — in a million years — Mrs. Pincus would not have sat through. One was a fairly graphic horror movie. I know from past experience that Mrs. P has little tolerance for horror movies. I still remember her watching Creepshow through fingers protectively threaded across her eyes and asking how much longer will this go on. The recent movie I watched would have had her exiting the room after the opening scene. I watched another recent release that would not have held her interest at all. It was a very slow build-up until the story started to come together. So, I have — more or less — become the official movie screener for the Pincus household. I will chose a movie for the two of us to watch, based on whether or not Mrs. P will like it. I will happily admit that I'm not always right.

Recently, I suggested a made-for-television movie called A Carol for Another Christmas. It was originally broadcast in 1964 on ABC. It was only shown once until it resurfaced a few years ago on the  Turner Classic Movies network. I thought it was a good choice for us to watch. It was written by Rod Serling and Mrs. P is a long time fan of Twilight Zone. It featured well-known actors like Sterling Hayden, Ben Gazzara, Eve Marie Saint, Peter Sellers, Robert Shaw and Pat Hingle. So, we settled in to watch. It turned out to be a long-winded, smack-you-over-the-head, message-filled piece of anti-nuclear propaganda that was produced, in part, by the United Nations. It was a tedious, repetitive, preachy, self-righteous 84-minutes that seemed twice as long. As we watched, I could sense that Mrs. P was getting "antsy." Fifteen minutes in, her full attention was given to her cellphone. That evening's entertainment choice was a bust on my part. I vowed to be more discerning in future suggestions.

Last night, we interrupted our usual evening's viewing of cartoons (our cable provider recently began carrying MeTV Toons, a 24-hour network devoted to the cartoons of our youth) to watch a movie. I selected a movie that I remember watching years ago. I asked my wife if she had ever seen it. She was unsure. So, we watched.

The movie in question was a 1968 theatrical release called The Night They Raided Minsky's. It was an early production from the pre-All in the Family partnership of Norman Lear and Bud Yorkin. The film had a very interesting and chaotic journey to the big screen, even before a film frame of celluloid was shot. It was based on a 1960 novel about the bygone days of burlesque in New York City. Tony Curtis was originally cast in the lead, but friction over the script caused him to walk. A young Alan Alda was considered as a replacement, but he was locked into a role on Broadway. Jason Robards was tagged just a few weeks before shooting was to begin. Mickey Rooney, then Joel Grey, were pursued for the second lead, but other bookings prevented them from taking the role. British comedian Norman Wisdom was cast despite being relatively unknown to American audiences. Joey Faye, Eddie Lawrence, Dexter Maitland and Bert Lahr — all former burlesque performers — rounded out the cast. Lahr, however, was practically on his deathbed, have been diagnosed with terminal cancer just prior to production. The cast was supplemented by solid performances from Denholm Elliot, Joseph Wiseman, Harry Andrews, Forrest Tucker and Elliot Gould in his motion picture debut. At the forefront was the adorably waif-like Britt Ekland as the object of everyone's affection. William Friedkin, fresh off his directorial debut at the helm of Sonny & Cher's 1967 hippie indulgence Good Times (and several years away from The French Connection and The Exorcist) was tapped to direct. Friedkin, who shot forty hours of footage for the project, had a vision for the final product that differed from Lear's, Yorkin's and the "powers that be" at United Artists. After working — unsuccessfully — with respected film editor Ralph Rosenblum, Friedkin moved on to another project. He called The Night They Raided Minsky's "the biggest piece of crap he was ever involved with." Rosenblum took a full year to recut and reimagine the movie with no input from the director. He introduced period stock footage. He reshot some scenes with a body double substituting for Bert Lahr, who had died during production. Rosenblum's version — which Friedkin had nothing to do with — was released to surprisingly positive reviews. It boasted the biggest budget for a film shot in New York City at the time. Its paper-thin plot, continuity errors and seedy look are all forgivable, as The Night They Raided Minsky's offered a frozen snapshot of a bygone and nearly forgotten period of entertainment history. The film — a complete work of fiction — was a love letter to the bawdy side of vaudeville and — according to the opening narration — the origin of the strip tease.

Mrs. P and I watched The Night They Raided Minsky's. It was uneven. It was creepy. It was funny. It was enjoyable. The cast was stellar, if somewhat slightly above the sitcom-level script. The full-length classic burlesque skits that were showcased was like watching a documentary, sometimes overshadowing the main plot of the movie... whatever it was. There was a love triangle of sorts. There was a shifty plot to humiliate a staunch moral advocate. There was an overbearing gangster. There was an angry Amish patriarch searching for his wayward daughter. There was a lot going on and sometimes the story was interrupted for the sake of a barrage of risque jokes. Despite the spot-on performances from Norman Wisdom, Joseph Wiseman, Jason Robards and Britt Ekland, the true stars of The Night They Raided Minsky's were the ladies who formed the disinterested, going-through-the-motions chorus of the burlesque stage. Everything came to a head in a very raucous climax and a very sit-com-y ending. 

Ninety-eight minutes later, Mrs. P and I were entertained. And I don't think she looked at the clock once.

Well, maybe once.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I met Britt Elkand in 2016. She was very sweet.

five years

This story is five years in the making. Five years! FIVE, as in "one two three four FIVE!" and YEARS, as in "three hundred — HUNDRED — and sixty-five days!" But first, a little background.

Sometime in early 2020, I lost my job when the place I was working shut down as a victim of the COVID-19 pandemic. Locked in my house while I searched for my next employment, I found I had a lot of time on my hands. I drew pictures. I watched television. I spent way too much time on the internet, specifically Facebook. I joined — and quickly resigned from — a number of Facebook groups that I thought would interest me. I briefly followed a group devoted to The Munsters TV show. When it devolved into a heated debate over which "Marilyn" was the hottest, I couldn't hit the "Resign from Group" button fast enough. I next joined a group dedicated to the Dr. Demento radio show. After a few days, six people created posts asking if anyone had ever heard a song called "They're Coming to Take Me Away." I had had enough.

As many of you probably know, I enjoy visiting cemeteries and I am very interested the stories from the "golden age" of Hollywood. Combining those two interests, I joined a Facebook group called "Death Hags." This group seemed to be right up my alley. It was started by one Scott Michaels, the self-proclaimed "Original Celebrity Death Guy," and boasts thousands of members. I quietly observed the goings-on in this group before I contributed anything myself. There were discussions about notorious Hollywood scandals, like the infamous Fatty Arbuckle incident. There were grainy graphic photos of Elizabeth Smart, the ill-fated "Black Dahlia," accompanying conjecture and speculation of her gruesome murder. There were photos from other taphophiles depicting a subject splayed out on a celebrity grave, smiling and  flashing a peace sign. So, after a week or so, I thought that this group was ready to be introduced to the world of Josh Pincus. I scanned my illustration website and began reposting entries from my "Dead Celebrity Spotlight" collection. I did this on a daily basis, posting a drawing on the anniversary of the subject's passing. I got a lot of "likes" and a slew of comments offering praise and congratulations... as well as a fair share of criticism, because — after all — it is the internet. This was going along swimmingly... until one day. June 21, 2021, to be specific.

I navigated to the Death Hags group on that particular Monday, only to find that it was gone. A little research revealed that it was not gone, but that I was gone. A few of my personal Facebook connections began sending me private messages asking where my posts were. I replied (via private message) that I no longer had access to the group. It quickly became apparent that I had been unceremoniously booted from the group with no warning, no explanation, no nothing! Through some sources, I learned that Scott Michaels allegedly tried to contact me, but was unsuccessful. That, dear reader, is what you call "bullshit." Many years ago, that could have been a valid excuse. You could have called someone on the telephone and let it ring and ring and ring. That is "trying to contact" someone. In the age of instant messenger and email and Facebook, you can no longer "try" to make contact. You either do or you don't and then lie. Emails are received. Undeliverable emails are flagged and the sender is notified that it did not go through. Facebook and other social media platforms, ring and ding and alert you in any number of ways. So, "attempts" at contact just don't exist. But, allegedly unable to get in touch, Scott just flat out banned me from his group. 

After further investigation (through sources that shall remain nameless), I discovered that Scott felt threatened by the attention that my posts were attracting. Scott, it seems, fancies himself a "celebrity" and becomes jealous if he is not the focus of attention, especially in his own Facebook group. Me? I'm just a stupid artist who was biding my time while I looked for a job. Scott also was trying to push a "celebrity death" app and he felt that my posts were a distraction from his marketing efforts. So, he did the internet equivalent of blindfolding me, zip-tying my wrists and kicking me out of a moving car into a ravine. 

In the wake of my dismissal, I was invited to join another death-related group called Death & Discussion Uncensored. The admin of this group welcomed my daily death anniversary posts and illustrations. I announced, on my own Facebook page, that I would be posting in this new group and was immediately inundated with friend requests from fellow "death heads" who liked my work in the Death Hags group and wished to continue to follow my antics. I also learned that posts in the Death Hags inquiring about my whereabouts were immediately deleted. (Every awards season, I post about those celebrities that were not included in the "In Memoriam" segment of the broadcast. Someone had copied my post about the Oscars broadcast and reposted it in the Death Hags group... where it was quickly deleted by the admin.)

After I got over my initial... I don't want to say "anger" because I really wasn't angry. Instead, I'll say irritation. Eventually, I found the whole episode funny. It was childish and petty. You know... everything that Facebook stands for. Nevertheless, I still make daily posts in the Death & Discussion Uncensored group and I go about my life.

This week — five years after I was evicted from the Death Hags group — I received an email. This email, as a matter of fact...

It read:

Josh, I was a dick. 

I gave you no explanation for removing you from the group. I blanked you. People were disappointed with my actions and I am sorry. 

I was being neurotic. I felt threatened by the attention you were getting as I was trying to push my app. I thought of your work as a threat. 

This was a long time ago but I do still think about how shitty I was. 

I don't expect you to respond, I don't expect you to accept my apology. I wouldn't blame you if you did respond with an fu. I would deserve it. 

I regret what I did. I am sorry. 

Scott

I will admit, when I got kicked out of the group, I wanted to blog about it right there and then. But I didn't. I waited. Or I just forgot. Now, I'm glad I waited, because — now — this story comes to a funnier end. Kicking me out must have really upset Scott when he thought about what he did after his initial knee-jerk, tough-guy action. It must have been eating away at his conscience (if he has a conscience). Actually, from the phrasing of his email, he sounds like he's going through a twelve-step program and he has reached Step Nine — seeking forgiveness. I never expected to ever hear from the Great Scott Michaels, let alone receive a heartfelt, sorrowful, on his knees, hat-in-hand apology.

But, I'm still Josh Pincus, this little corner of the internet's mischievous redheaded stepchild. I will say this much, Scott is right. He should not expect me to respond... because I will not. Everything in his email after "I was a dick" was redundant. I hope he waits for a response that will never arrive. I hope this continues to gnaw at him for a good long time. It has been for five years already. Let's go for a full decade. I hope members continue to ask "Whatever happened to Josh Pincus's posts?" in the Death Hags group. (I'll never know, however, because, although Scott apologized to me, he did not reinstate me into the group.)

I'll continue to draw my little pictures and post my little celebrity death announcements and visit my little cemeteries. I hope Scott Michaels is still losing sleep.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's all coming back to me now

In the early summer of 2024, retro nostalgia network MeTV launched an offshoot channel called MeTV Toons. After featuring The Flintstones and The Jetsons in its regular evening line-up of shows from over sixty years ago, as well as an early morning block of familiar animated shorts from the vast Warner Brothers catalogue , the cable network decided to offer a separate channel that ran cartoons 24 hours a day. When MeTV Toons debuted, no cable system offered the channel. It was only available as an HD channel, requiring a special antenna. Or, you could see it via an internet-connected TV.

I am a frequent viewer of MeTV. One Saturday afternoon this past December, I was watching Greg and Marcia Brady argue over who was the better driver when the debate was interrupted by a glorious announcement. MeTV Toons was now available through Xfinity, my cable provider. I couldn't have grabbed the remote control any faster! I immediately punched in the channel and — ta daaah! — there it was! MeTV Toons! Right there on my television! I am both proud and somewhat embarrassed to say that I haven't changed the channel in almost two months. In addition to the Bugs Bunny cartoons I had seen on MeTV's Saturday morning schedule, I was now afforded the likes of Underdog, Mighty Mouse, Speed Racer, Mr Magoo and a slew of others that I haven't seen since the days of riding a yellow school bus and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with my classmates at a long table in the basement of Watson T. Comly Elementary School. 

When I was a kid, my favorite cartoons were Yogi Bear, Huckleberry Hound and the rest of the characters from the Hanna-Barbera Studios. Unlike Warner Brothers and MGM, the Hanna-Barbera Studios cartoon were not originally shown in movie theaters.. Following the success of Ruff and Reddy, a cat and dog team widely acknowledged as the very first Saturday morning cartoon show produced specifically for television, Hanna-Barbera's Huckleberry Hound Show premiered in 1958, featuring the easy-going blue hound dog and supplemental adventures starring Pixie & Dixie, Hokey Wolf and Yogi Bear. Yogi would prove so popular, he warranted his own show in 1961. I loved all of the Hanna-Barbera characters, but now, seeing them for the first time as an adult, I have noticed some strange and disturbing things within their seven-or-so minute run times.

First of all, all of these cartoons feature an awful lot of guns, dynamite and cigars. Yogi, Huck, Hokey Wolf, Quick Draw McGraw, a bunch of black-masked crooks, a variety of big-game hunters and gangs of mean and unshaven western outlaws all regularly get shot by a pistol or a rifle, only to suffer a gray face, wiry hair or the occasional holes in their torso that miraculously heal in the very next scene.

Where does this endless supply of wooden-crated dynamite come from? What reputable demolition company is happily doing business with talking animals and have no questions when delivering an order to a semi-circular hole cut into the baseboard of a house? And what would a bear, a dog, or a couple of mice need with such enormous quantities of dangerous explosives?

And smoking? Jeez! Cigars are rampant throughout the Hanna-Barbera universe. From shifty looking gangsters (you can tell they are gangsters because they all have five o'clock shadows, dress in double-breasted suits and smoke cigars), to celebrating expectant fathers, to even Wally Gator all take pride in their tobacco habits. Ranger Smith often relaxes with a fat stogie after finally breaking Yogi Bear of that nasty penchant for stealing picnic baskets. Lippy the Lion has had more that one "loaded" cigar blow up in his face. What sort of example was this setting for impressionable youngsters in the early 1960s? Yeah, my father smoked four packs of tar-laden Viceroys a day, but he wasn't a funny cartoon character. Well, he wasn't funny, anyway.

Oh, I have other questions, too. A lot of 'em. Huckleberry Hound regularly wears a bow tie, sometimes a straw hat, and nothing else. Yet, in one episode in which he was doing some barbecuing in the back yard (whose house it was... that's another question), he was wearing an apron. Why? So as not to splash steak juices all over his... bow tie? And — yes! — who does own the house where Huckleberry Hound lives? Yogi Bear lives in a cave in Jellystone Park. Snagglepuss also lives in a cave (oh, I'll get to Snagglepuss in a minute), but Huckleberry Hound apparently lives in a house. I suppose he can afford rent or a mortgage because he has held so many different jobs across his many cartoon adventures. He's been a police officer, a cab driver, a circus performer, even an astronaut. Obviously, Huck is pulling down a pretty good salary, despite the fact that he cannot hold a steady job.  But, I digress....

Speaking of houses, who owns the house where Pixie, Dixie and Mr. Jinks live? In the old Tom & Jerry cartoons (an early endeavor by Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera), there was always a human in the house to berate poor Tom and turn a blind eye to that rotten little instigator Jerry. But in Pixie & Dixie cartoons, it looks as though Mr. Jinks has full run of the house. There is never a human present, unless, of course, we are only seeing the antics that go on while the homeowners are at work. I guess we are not privy to the clean-up and putting the home furnishings back in order before the owners of the house get home. That's a pretty daunting task for a cat with a bow tie and little-to-no motivation beyond "hating meeces to peeces!"

Even though I watched both cartoons back in their first run, Mrs. P (who joins me daily in watching cartoons) pointed out that Snagglepuss and Fred Flintstone have similar looking mailboxes and entrances to their homes. Which begs the question who is sending letters to a pink mountain lion (in a tie and cuffs) and a caveman? Are they getting utility bills? Advertising circulars? Unsolicited offers from realtors to buy their homes for top dollar? Can humans and large felines really survive in the same type of accommodations? For goodness sakes, Mr. Jinks owns a house — like a brick and mortar house!

On a totally different note, what happened to Yogi Bear between Season 1 and Season 2? His face changed. It's like a different character design. Early Yogi Bear had a mostly yellow face, while later versions show the "smarter than the average bear with the yellow solely coloring his snout. Even his tie was rumpled in earlier episodes. It straightened out as time progressed. Y'know, I'm not even going to address the fact that Ranger Smith held intelligent conversations with a talking bear, yet got angry when a misunderstanding led to that same bear following the beleaguered ranger to a hotel in Miami on his vacation. The talking bear wearing a tie and a hat was perfectly normal to a US National Park Ranger, but picnic basket stealing.... that pissed him off.

And one last thing... can gruff dogs really have a friendship with baby ducks?

Oh, I will continue to watch MeTV Toons. There are plenty of things that I like. Things that greatly outweigh these petty inconsistencies I have just mentioned. Pixie & Dixie and Yakky Doodle both have pretty catchy theme songs that I find myself humming absentmindedly throughout the day. 

I didn't even bring up the puzzling fact that Quick Draw McGraw has a pet dog, but his best friend is a donkey.

"Pixie Dixie diddly-dum....." (There I go again!)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time

This post is purely self-indulgent. It is 100 percent for my enjoyment. You may like it. You may not, but I'm telling you right now. It's just for me. So, if you want to skip this week's entry on It's Been A Slice, that's okay. Next week, I'll write about some old television show or a movie or some bit of day-to-day tedium that pissed me off. But this week, it's just a little "me" time.

One evening in the late fall of 1974, thirteen year-old Josh Pincus was up in his bedroom in his home in northeast Philadelphia. I had my radio tuned to WFIL, the radio station in Philadelphia for all the top pop hits of the day. Everyone listened to the "boss jocks" on WFIL and I was no different. I was probably avoiding getting my homework done when I heard a very very unusual sound coming from the radio. Among the glut of Olivia Newton-John and Mac Davis and America and Tony Orlando and Dawn, the song I was hearing sounded like aliens. I was stunned. I was motionless. I was mesmerized for a full three minutes. When it was over, the DJ announced to me and the entire Delaware Valley that we had just heard a new song called "Killer Queen" by a British band called Queen. I was an instant fan.

The following year, I became a concert goer. Going to concerts at 14 years-old was no easy task. I wasn't old enough to drive and I wasn't familiar enough with the intricate and often unreliable public transportation system in Philadelphia. Fearing that the wrong bus or subway train would deposit me in a different country where I'd never see my family again, I was not above securing (read: begging) my mother to provide door-to-door car service to one of the two (maybe three) major concert venues in the city. My mom was only too happy to drive my friends and I. My father... well, I never asked my father. If we weren't going to see Al Jolson, my father was not driving. Besides, he had to get up early the next morning for work... even if it was his day off.

In the winter of 1977, Queen released A Day at the Races, the follow-up to their international hit album A Night at the Opera. Somehow, some way, I had missed Queen when they brought their A Night at the Opera tour to the Tower Theater for three nights in 1976. But I was not going to let that happen again. Queen had become my favorite band and I was determined to see them live. Based on their new-found popularity, the natural venue, after playing the 3000-seat Tower Theater, was the self-proclaimed "America's Showplace" — The Spectrum. The Spectrum, an 18,000-seat multi-purpose facility, was the home to the Philadelphia 76ers and Flyers. It also hosted a wide variety of musical acts — all presented with the worst acoustics one would expect from a place more suited for hockey games. But — no! — Queen was relegated to the Philadelphia Civic Center, another multi-use venue. (The Beatles played there in 1964.) Alas, The Spectrum was hosting Electric Light Orchestra on February 11, 1977, so Queen drew the short straw. Nevertheless, I purchased a ticket for $7.50.

The night of the show, my mom graciously drove a friend and me to West Philadelphia. We made firm arrangements where to meet my mom at the show's conclusion. My friend and I nervously maneuvered our way through the general admission crowd. We decided that a viewing point on the second level would be optimum. I really didn't want to fight the crowds stage side. So we spotted and laid claim to two empty seats in the balcony and waited for the lights to dim.

Irish rockers Thin Lizzy kicked things off. They buzzed through a quick thirty minute set highlighted by "The Boys are Back in Town," their current big radio hit. After a brief intermission, Queen burst on to the stage to the shrieking guitar strains of "Tie Your Mother Down," the lead track on their A Day at the Races album. From there, they tore through 22 more songs, each one more exciting than the last. Their four-song encore included "Hey Big Spender" from the Broadway musical Sweet Charity and a "queen-sized" take on Elvis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock." Freddie Mercury stalked and swirled and pirouetted his way right into my teenage heart. I thought my head was going to explode... and that would have left my friend without a ride home. 

Despite touring in support of A Day at the Races well into the summer of 1977, Queen released News of the World, their sixth studio album in October of the same year. Where did they find the time? The album boasted a rare double-A sided single in "We Will Rock You/We Are The Champions" which was already charting ahead of the album's official release. Two Queen shows were announced at the Spectrum for late November 1977. I bought tickets to the first night. At the time, it was unheard of in my social circles to go see a band on more than one night of a multi-night stop in your city. Except if you were a Deadhead... and I surmised that Deadheads only went to more than one show in a tour because they were so stoned that they had forgotten where they were the previous night. Besides, the night of Queen's second show was Thanksgiving, and there was no way my mom would have allowed me to go to a concert instead of spending the evening wrestling a turkey drumstick away from my Aunt Claire. 

I got a ride to the concert with my brother, who also had tickets. His seats were in the front row to the right of the stage, but the view was obstructed by a giant speaker. My seats were in the fourth row but dead center. Queen hit the stage with a fast, hard version of "We Will Rock You" and immediately segued into the epic "Brighton Rock" from Sheer Heart Attack. They packed a whopping 31 songs into their evening's set. The night ended when Freddie Mercury disappeared backstage and reemerged with an armful of  pink carnations. One by one, he nonchalantly tossed them out to the crowd... and I caught one. (I took it home and - almost fifty years later - I still have it.) My brother watched a speaker and the top of Brian May's head.

Almost a year to the day, Queen returned to the Philadelphia Spectrum in support of their album Jazz. This release, again, was supplemented by another double-A sided single "Bicycle Race/Fat Bottomed Girls." I honestly remember very little about this show. I was sitting seventeen rows from the stage, which, in the scheme of the Spectrum, might as well have been in the parking lot. In between the time I bought my ticket and the day of the show, I contracted a bad case of pneumonia. It was bad enough to keep me out of school for a few days... but not nearly bad enough to stop me from seeing Freddie and company live in concert. At one point during the show, I thought it would be a good idea to stand up on my chair like everyone else in my section. It turned out not to be a wise decision at all. As soon as I stood up, I lost my balance and fell backwards. Luckily, my friend who I was attending the concert with, grabbed me and kept me from hitting the floor. I suppose the show was really good. I read about it in the newspaper the next day.

After a two-year hiatus, Queen returned to Philadelphia for The Game tour. For some reason, I don't remember who I went to this concert with. I don't remember how I got there. By 1980, I had a driver's license. I may have borrowed my mom's car. I really don't remember. I have seen a set list and read about the show. I remember seeing Freddie Mercury come out on stage perched upon the shoulders of Darth Vader. I remember him referring to my beloved city as "Filthydelphia." I even remember being confused by their choice of opening song - "Jailhouse Rock." I remember being surprised by the inclusion of an opening act, something they had dispensed with for the previous two tours. I just don't remember being there. 

In 1982, I met the future Mrs. Pincus. She walked into the restaurant where I worked. After a few dates and "getting to know you" conversation, I revealed myself as a Queen fan. She was a Deadhead. She didn't have to tell me. It was apparent by the stickers on her car and the music in her apartment. In April of 1982, against my better judgement and despite my long history of concert-going, I was taken to my first (of many) Grateful Dead shows. Let's just say... I love my wife a whole lot more than I love the Grateful Dead. I only thought it would be fair to take my soon-to-be wife to a Queen concert. (Turnabout is fair play.... isn't that how the saying goes?) So I did. Queen was coming back to Philadelphia in the summer of 1982. I bought three tickets — one for me, one for the future Mrs. P and one for the original Mrs. P... my mom. My mom had developed into quite the avid Queen fan. She bought Queen albums before I did. She turned up the volume when she heard Queen songs on the radio. (Oh, she recognized Queen songs on the radio, unlike my dad who... well, my dad didn't.) So, that summer I took the two Mrs. Ps to their very first Queen concert. One was ecstatic. The other, not so much. 

The show — in my very biased opinion — was great. My mom cried the moment Queen took the stage. (She loudly voiced her dismay with opening act Billy Squier, commenting: "Well, he sucked!") My mom was just beside herself — dancing and singing along and squealing like a teenager. Mrs. P-in-waiting, however, was unimpressed by Freddie Mercury's descent to the stage on a flower-covered swing, citing that Jerry Garcia never did such a thing. My future spouse questioned the band's numerous costume changes, asking if that was a ploy to cover for their lack of talent. I noted that Jerry Garcia had been wearing the same black t-shirt since 1968. We remained quiet for the rest of the show.

While Queen mounted several more tours before Freddie Mercury's death, they never returned to the United States after 1982. 

I got to see Queen five times. This week was the forty-ninth anniversary of that very first show. Time sure does fly when you get old you're self-indulgent.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

comfort and joy

There were a series television commercials when I was a kid that fascinated me. They were commercials for Cream of Wheat, the hot breakfast cereal, perennially overshadowed by its more celebrated oaten comrade. The commercials all depicted approximately the same premise and message. A boy or a girl — or, sometimes a boy and a girl — are seated at a typical family breakfast table, spooning heaping servings of Cream of Wheat into their hungry maws while an authoritative voice expounds on the nutritional value of the less-popular, bastard cousin of breakfast stalwart oatmeal. Then came the most exciting part of the commercial. After slurping down the last vitamin-filled glob of Cream of Wheat, the child would tie on a scarf, zip up a jacket and head out for a day filled with running and jumping and other stuff kids were expected to do in the early 70s before their eyes were glued to a video game or a smartphone screen. But — and here's the part I loved — before they left the house, a ghostly bowl of steaming Cream of Wheat would rise off the table and float eerily about the child's head. When the child left the house, there was that bowl of Cream of Wheat, animated tendrils of warmth swirling above its cartoon rim, hovering protectively just inches from the child's head. The announcer reassured us that the vitamins and energy packed into each delicious bowl of Cream of Wheat followed your child and stayed with them throughout the day.

Well, I was sold. I begged — begged! — my mother to buy Cream of Wheat. And, she did... along with a big cardboard canister of Quaker Oatmeal for my father, because my father.... well, my father wanted what he wanted...and that was oatmeal.... and not that "creamy wheat" shit.... oh, and cigarettes. On weekends in the winter, and sometimes if I got up early enough before school, my mom would make Cream of Wheat for me. There was no instant Cream of Wheat when I was a kid. No instant boiling water and certainly no microwaves. My mom would actually cook the Cream of Wheat in a pot on the stove, closely following the detailed directions printed on the side of the box. She'd carefully measure each precise quantity of water and dry grainy Cream of Wheat in a large glass measuring cup. She'd bust out her jailer's ring of aluminum measuring spoons to dole out the exact amount of salt the recipe called for. I'd wait impatiently, watching my mom stir and stir and stir the contents of that little pot until the allotted time had passed (again, according to the recommendation from the good folks in the trusted test kitchens of Nabisco's Cream of Wheat Central). My mom would grab a bowl from our kitchen cabinet. Setting it down on our kitchen table, she'd tip the pot slightly, allowing the golden gloppy mixture to lazily flow into the bowl. Then, she'd add a pat of butter, a few generous teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk, again, adhering to the "serving suggestions" from the hot cereal authorities at Nabisco.

I ate that Cream of Wheat and I really liked it. I liked the creaminess (hence the name!). I liked the sweetness, not realizing that it was due to the ridiculous amount of sugar my mom added. I liked the smooth texture (what they call "mouth feel" now, thanks to a slew of pretentious Food Network programs) and I liked the warmth it provided as it made its way to my stomach. I was, however, very disappointed that I didn't have a ghostly bowl follow me for the rest of  the day, like in the commercial. Oh, believe me... I looked. I looked a lot. I tried to spot it in my peripheral vision. I tried to spy it lurking above my head or ducking behind a tree as I walked to the school bus stop. After a while, I resigned myself to the fact that the floating bowl only followed those kids on television. But, I still ate Cream of Wheat.

Now, I am almost 65 years old. I hate winter. I hate the cold. I hate snow. I hate shoveling snow. I hate driving in the snow. I hate worrying about other people driving in the snow. I hate going to work in the dark and coming home in the dark. The only thing about winter that I do like is Cream of Wheat. When the temperatures start to drop and Canadian winds blow cold air down to our area, that's when I buy a box of instant Cream of Wheat to supplement my regular breakfast of cold cereal. Unlike the days of my youth, when my mom would avail herself of the elaborate ritual of Cream of Wheat preparation, I can just empty a premeasured envelope of dry Cream of Wheat into a bowl, add two-thirds of a cup of water and pop it into the microwave. One minute and thirty seconds later, I have a hot bowl of Cream of Wheat, all ready to receive a small scoop of non-dairy margarine (instead of butter) and two packets of Splenda substituting for the sugar my mom insisted on adding. That first spoonful brings me right back to my childhood kitchen table. When they talk about macaroni and cheese and real mashed potatoes being "comfort foods," I always think of Cream of Wheat as my "comfort food." I am still comforted by Cream of Wheat. Remember that climactic scene in Ratatouille when surly food critic Anton Ego is mentally transported back to his childhood by a single taste of a dish from his distant past? That's me and Cream of Wheat! It reminds me of a time when my biggest concern was which cartoon to watch on Saturday morning. It takes me back to a time when I didn't have to hear some asshole supermarket owner tell me to make the price of blueberries in his store's ad three times its current size and to move that can of soup just a skosh* to the left. It's simple. It's calming. It's comforting. 

Yes sir... Cream of Wheat sure is good.

And I'm still looking for that bowl floating behind my head.

* Yeah, that's how it's spelled. I looked it up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

this is a photograph

I have a box of photographs in my basement. It's been there for over thirty years. It took up residence on a little shelf in a closet in my basement in 1993, just after my father died and we cleaned out his house to make it ready to sell. It was filled very quickly at my father's house (the house in which I grew up). Drawers and closets were opened and the contents were quickly assessed. After the separation of stuff deemed "trash" and stuff which Mrs. Pincus saw as "saleable," photographs — all photographs — were tossed into a cardboard box and brought to my house. You can't throw photographs away!, we thought. They're photographs, for goodness sake!

And there they sat. In a box. In my basement... where no one looked at them. No one organized them. No one cared about them.

My mom was the unofficial historian for the family. She knew who was married to who, whose children belonged with which cousin or aunt or whoever. Her knowledge of the family went back to generations that were around before she was born. She knew about family members that never made the trek to the United States. When she married my father, she even was able to decipher relationships in the mysterious Pincus branch of the family. Unfortunately, my mother died in 1991 and she took the family history with her. There was no longer anyone to ask about the ins-and-outs of uncles and grandparents and "how is he related to us.... again?"

In the early days of the COVID-19 insolation, I found myself wandering around my house, looking for something to occupy the time. I came across the box of photos in my basement. I had just joined a private Facebook group that was set up by a second or third cousin with whom I had lost touch. The group was devoted to my mother's side of the family. I started to rifle through the box of photos and select those which featured people I could Identify. Most of these showed my mother in her teens and early 20s. That was a time when she was — to put it into today's terms — a party girl. My mom was gregarious fun-loving girl, always looking for a good time and a hunky guy to latch on to. It didn't hurt that she bore a passing resemblance to actress Barbara Stanwyck. I uncovered dozens and dozens of snapshots of my mom. In most, she was mugging for the camera, striking poses that rivaled 1980s Madonna. In some of the pictures, her arm was laced through that of a shirtless guy with a swimming pool in the background. In others, she was all smiles as she was embraced by a guy in a snappy military uniform. None of these men, I should mention, were my father. 

I found other pictures, too. I found shots of my brother, me and the rare example of the two of us together in the same picture. Most of these pictures were taken by my father, whose inimitable style was apparent by the amount of space above our heads and the fact that we were not always the main focus of the composition. In other photos, I recognized the faces of cousins who are now in their late 60s and 70s. I found pictures of long deceased uncles and aunts seated on sofas I remembered from my childhood living room. However, there were dozens and dozens of pictures that showed people I did not recognize. Smiling women and stern-faced men peered in the direction of the camera. Laughing girls and awkwardly posed young boys sporting thick-framed glasses stared at me from those warped and faded squares of celluloid. And then I'd pick up a picture of my mom in a fur coat on the Atlantic City boardwalk, letting me know that these pictures all belonged to the same family. It's just I was not able to identify everyone.

Mrs. Pincus and I took a lot of pictures. We have pictures from Walt Disney World, Niagara Falls and Hershey Park. We have pictures from ball games and pictures of our cats rolling around on our kitchen floor. We have loads of pictures of our son, from his first day of school and seeing him off to summer camp to high school graduation and countless New Years Eve celebrations. Some of  those pictures have been neatly arranged in multipage albums, but most are still in their developing service envelopes and stashed in the drawers of a dresser in our guest bedroom. (If you want to stay overnight at the Pincus house, you're keeping your clothes in your suitcase.)

I started thinking....

My wife and I are in our 60s. What on earth will become of our photographs when our time among the living comes to an end? And what will be the fate of that box of photographs in our basement? 

My son (who is in his middle 30s) has a house of his own. I can assure you that he does not want to clutter said house with a bunch of photographs from his parents' house, let alone a box of pictures of people that I can't even identify. I'm pretty sure that all of the pictures in our house will meet the same fate that all that unopened mail in my father's house experienced. That would be "Dumpster City."

There have been a lot of great inventions over the years. The electric light bulb. The printing press. Television.  I think the greatest invention is digital photography. If only digital photography was around in my parents' youth. I wouldn't have a mystery box of pictures in my house. I wouldn't have drawers and drawers of pictures that my son will probably toss sometime after my funeral. 

Yes sir. Digital photography is a true innovation. No boxes of pictures. No waiting for developing. And that all-powerful, all-important "delete" function.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i can tell that we are gonna be friends

Please. Can someone please explain to me why it is so important to some people that I like what they like? Can't I have my own opinions on things? I don't mind if you like something different than what I like. It doesn't bother me in the least. We can still talk. We can still be friends.

Why do some people do their very best to try to convince me to like what they like? Why is it so important? Is everything a contest? Is everything a debate? 

Years ago, my brother-in-law (who, by the way is the king of "you must like what I like") made some sort of stew with ingredients selected specifically to impress everyone who would ask: "Hey, what's in this?" After a long session of cajoling that was borderline intimidation, I sampled a small spoonful of his concoction. First of all, it had an aroma that was very unappetizing to me. Despite that immediate turn-off, I tasted it anyway... just to be polite. I didn't like it. I told him I didn't like it. He got furious. I mean raving, seething, face-turning-beet-red furious! He threw the spoon down and began berating and insulting me — waving his hands and cursing like a longshoreman. (Side note: I never have to worry about this scenario ever repeating because I no longer speak to my brother-in-law.)

I like music. My musical tastes lean towards the eclectic. But, boy oh boy! do people get downright defensive about the music they like. Some people are very quick to declare that  a certain band sucks if you express the slightest affinity towards something that they don't like. Conversely, those same people will label you as an idiot if you do not like their favorite band. I have started to say "I don't care for that" if I am asked my opinion on a song or band I do not care for. I have come to the conclusion that there is no bad music. Every band is someone's favorite band. It's just some bands appeal to me more than others... and those bands may be different from the ones you like.

I was reading the reviews for different movies on the invaluable Internet Movie Database (IMBD). On one particular movie, someone had posted a very thoughtful — although decidedly negative — review, complete with in-depth commentary, analysis, and comparisons to similar films within the same genre. The first comment on this amateur reviewer's post read: "If you didn't like this movie, your mother sucks, asshole!" 

I watch a lot of movies and I happily admit that I have specific likes and dislikes. I don't like superhero movies. I don't like science fiction movies. I like horror movies, but I don't like the current trend of so-called "body horror," which I feel is more of an endurance test than entertainment. I prefer comedy to drama, but I do like a well-written, well-acted story. That said, I have gotten recommendations from friends, acquaintances and others with whom I come into contact. Mostly, these suggestions are "You'll love this because I loved it!" Honestly, that means nothing and it's hardly a valid reason to get me to watch a movie. I have been told — told! — to watch superhero movies, despite the reminder that I do not care for that genre. "No! No!," the referrer insists, "You'll like this one!" Others have told me to watch a particular Jim Carrey movie, even after expressing my dislike like for the Jim Carrey films I have seen. "No! No!," come the protests, "This one is different! He's different in this one." Of course, he's not.

I just watched a recent movie, one that shall go nameless but recently broke the record for the most Oscar nominations is history. I watched this particular film. In my opinion, it was okay. I thought it was beautifully shot. The cast was great. The acting was top-notch. The story was very, very compelling... until it wasn't. In my opinion (and I keep stressing that), it fell apart at its climax. Author Jason Pargin (John Dies At the End and former editor of Cracked.com) offered a very good assessment of the movie in question. He said that the first half was a great story, with stellar character development and an intriguing set-up. The first part of the movie was so well done that there was a feeling of disappointment when  — SPOILER ALERT!!! — the monsters show up. It was as though the monsters interrupted a story that I wanted to follow and see to a conclusion. I felt cheated. That is exactly how I felt... and I expressed my opinion briefly on social media, grabbing my phone as the credits of the movie were rolling. Almost immediately, I was chastised, rebuked and castigated by a contingency of folk to whom I am connected. I was berated for not getting the "true meaning" of the movie. Oh... I got the "true meaning." I fully understand symbolism. I have been watching symbolism in books and movies for years. I know that George Orwell's Animal Farm is not really about talking pigs. I understood the symbolism in A Face in The Crowd and Get Out. It's just this particular movie didn't do it for me. I don't need a refresher course in Film Making 101. I don't wish to be schooled. I watched the movie for entertainment... to take my mind off of bills I have to pay and assholes I have to deal with at work. As a distraction from bad drivers and unexpected car repairs. The movie was just okay. In my opinion (and I can't stress those three words enough), it was another case of great acting of a run-of-the-mill script. I see a lot of that. There are movies I like and movies I don't like. Just like you.

If you liked that movie... if you thought it was a meaningful, groundbreaking, important tour-de-force — well, good for you. I'm happy that you enjoyed it. Why is it so important that I feel the same about it?  And why do I need to be convinced that I cannot dislike a particular movie?

You have your opinion. I have mine. Let's still be friends.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com