sure know something

In early 1975, I purchased Dressed to Kill by KISS on 8-track. I had a portable Panasonic 8-track player called a Dynamite 8, so named for its cool resemblance to the explosive detonators used by villains in countless Westerns, as well as the perennially-exasperated Wile E. Coyote in his quest for the Road Runner. I played that 8-track over and over and over again. Due to the sequencing constraints of the 8-track format, the songs "Rock Bottom" and "She" were each split across two tracks, meaning the song stopped and a loud, audible "click" was heard to announce the second part of the song. For some time, I didn't realize that the dreamy introduction to "Rock Bottom" and the heavy drum-driven lyrical part were actually the same song. Nevertheless, I listened to Dressed to Kill relentlessly, until I purchased KISS Alive, the double disc live album, released just a mere six months later. This allegedly live set was a chronicle of the KISS concert experience, complete with Paul Stanley awkwardly addressing the crowd in his nasally Brooklyn accent and said crowd expressing their wild approval. (Of course, it was later revealed that the majority of this "live album" was heavily enhanced in the studio with recorded crowd noise added to create the illusion of a live recording.) Regardless, I listened to KISS Alive three times as much as I listened to Dressed to Kill... until I didn't.

Actually, I stopped listening to KISS altogether.

A few weeks ago, I obtained the fiftieth anniversary box set of Dressed to Kill. This sprawling, bombastic, overblown set expands the original 10-track collection to a whopping 107 tracks, including studio outtakes, remixes, unreleased takes, demos and two — count 'em — two full concerts. The original album clocked in at just a few seconds over the thirty minute mark. In commemoration of its half-century anniversary, no less that five discs are required for the full experience.

I listened to the first disc, which is a remastered version of the original album. It was the first time I listened to this album since I gave up on KISS when I was 14. I was surprised by how many of the songs I remembered. I was surprised by how many of the songs I didn't remember. But, I was most surprised by how terrible it was. I instantly figured out why I loved KISS when I was a teenager. They were loud. They were obnoxious. They sang about girls and partying and girls. But, the song lyrics were juvenile. The rhymes were amateurish "June-moon" stuff. The music was repetitive and unimaginative. It was just dumb. Yep. Dumb. That's the best way I can explain it. Dumb. There was no way I was gonna make it through four more discs of this.

I started to listen to the second disc and soon found myself skipping track after track. Jeez! How many times can you listen to the exact same intro of "Rock and Roll All Nite" and hear Paul warble out the un-"studio"-ized lyrics until he stumbles mid-take and is interrupted by a studio technician.. It was tedious. And, again, it was terrible. The two concerts (recorded on the same tour just a few months apart) included a number of the same songs and were just as bad. I stopped listening and listened to something else.

Earlier this week, I was listening to the radio. Philadelphia public broadcaster WXPN features a nightly show called "Highs in the 70s." This show is an hour-long showcase of music exclusively from "music's wildest decade," as promised by host Dan Reed. On this particular night, Dan was playing KISS's album Destroyer in its entirety to commemorate its release fifty years ago to the day. From the opening strains of "Detroit Rock City" through the faux menace of "God of Thunder" to the goofy repetitious party anthem "Shout It Out Loud" to the voice cracking sentimentality of power ballad "Beth," Destroyer was awful. Just plain awful. I briefly stopped helping Mrs. P prepare dinner and stared incredulously at the radio. I could not believe how extraordinarily bad this album was. Had I just forgotten? Did I just remember it differently? Had my musical tastes improved and matured over the past fifty years? I suppose it was a combination of the three.

KISS is music specifically for angst-ridden teenage boys, looking for a party, sneaking a fifth from dad's liquor cabinet and trying to get into some cheerleader's pants. It's dim-witted, insipid and sophomoric. KISS isn't a band. KISS is four accountants in clown make-up. They are a brand on the same shelf as Monster energy drink, Jack Links and Trojans. They should check IDs at KISS concerts or if you'd like to purchase a KISS album. If you are over 14, move along.

But, as bad as it is... it sure made those four guys a shitload of money.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i have been chosen

There's an old joke that goes: "You better be honest, because you wouldn't want your fate to be put in the hands of someone too dumb to get out of jury duty."

I have been called to report for jury duty three times. The first was about twenty years ago. I woke up that morning not feeling well, but I went to the Montgomery County Court House anyway. I sat in the jury marshaling room in a veritable daze. I was called to a courtroom with a group of fellow prospective jurors, but I was not selected for the jury. I returned to the jury marshaling room and was soon dismissed for the day. I drove home, feeling like crap. Later that day, I was admitted to the hospital with cellulitis.

My second time being called for jury duty was a doozy! I was selected as an alternate on a federal grand jury. I was told that, with a pool of 22 jurors, it was very rare that the alternates were ever called. Two weeks later, I was called to federal grand jury duty. I served every Thursday for two years. It was an experience that I would not wish on anyone. (If you are so inclined, you can read about my time as a member of a federal grand jury HERE.)

The third time I was called for jury duty was this morning. I woke up at the usual time, but instead of driving to work, I drove to the Montgomery County Court House, a trip I hadn't taken in over twenty years. I parked and followed several other folks who had parked in the designated garage at the same time I did. Obviously, we were all there to fulfill our civic duty. Me and my small group trudged around sidewalk construction as we silently made our way up the steep incline of Swede Street. We crossed the street and followed the large directional signs, most of which were no more details than a bold black arrow and the word "JURORS" in equally as bold capital letters. We all filed in through the heavy wooden doors, where we were immediately ordered to empty our pockets of any metal object and then pass through a metal detector. Surprisingly, no one set the mechanism off. I collected my belongings from the small plastic tray. The "officer" heading up the metal detection operation wasn't giving up my insulated water bottle too quickly. He shook it and squinted at it and shook it some more. Satisfied that I was not transporting anything that posed a threat to the building and its occupants, He handed the bottle over to me without explanation.

I found a seat in the so-called "Juror's Lounge." Despite it's name there was no jazz combo, no cocktail waitresses and no bowls of mixed nuts. Instead, the room featured several small round tables usually found in a shopping mall food court, each surrounded by some very uncomfortable-looking chairs. I sat at a table in silence. As a matter of fact, everyone sat in silence. Soon, a woman announced that we would be assembling in the jury marshaling room. Everyone was required to present their jury summons and a photo ID. One by one, we were ushered into the room, where another woman seated behind a plexiglas shield scanned a barcode on the jury summons. By the time everyone had passed through the doors and selected a seat, the room was about half full. At fifteen minutes past 8 o'clock (the required time to report), a few stragglers wandered in.

The first woman made some brief introductory announcements and told us that a judge would be stopping by to thank us for coming in and serving (as though there was a choice). As promised, said judge arrived and addressed the jury pool as though he was a comedian entertaining a club full of patrons with a "tight 5." He sprinkled his spiel with a few corny jokes as he explained the importance of juries and the importance of serving on a jury and the importance of democracy and the importance of a few more things I don't recall.

The first woman reported that there was one trial on the schedule and a decision for jury requirements would be made shortly. In the meantime, we were given a "break." She turned on two large televisions and we were forced to watch a couple renovating a home on HGTV. A few people in the room worked silently on laptops. Others, who came prepared, opened dog-eared paperback books and read silently. One woman, seated two rows in front of me, pulled a large hardback book from a tote bag resting on the floor by her feet. It was a cookbook. From my vantage point, I could see the glossy photos of prepared meals on beautifully appointed tables as she turned the pages. I thought it was an odd choice of reading material to pass the time while waiting to see if jury service was in one's future... but who am I to judge? I did not read or watch the home renovations. I dozed.

Over two hours later, the woman announced that another judge would be down to talk to us. A collective grimace waved through the room. Within a few minutes, a second judge introduced himself to the room and expounded on the first judge's sentiment. This judge, however, dispelled some myths about jury service and the whole judicial process. He noted that all of the "surefire" ways of getting out of jury duty that you heard on social media are baloney. Changing subjects, he explained that the case on the schedule today was set to be a jury trial... until it was settled before jury selection began. The overall sense of relief in the room was palpable. "Hmm...," the judge questioned rhetorically, "maybe I should have led with that." Then he added, "I didn't because I didn't want to get trampled by the rush to the door." That said, we were dismissed.

Everyone, traced the same path back to the parking garage via the steep hill and the sidewalk construction. I located my car and joined the line of cars inching towards the exit. An attendant took my parking ticket and the county-issued "free parking" voucher. As the gate rose, allowing access to freedom, the parking lot attendant smiled and informed me that the strip clubs in town open at noon, so I still had plenty of time.

Yes sir. That's what he said, because some people have to always say something.

I wished him "a good day" and made a right turn on to Ridge Pike towards home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I don't belong in this club

Remember why you hated to go into Radio Shack? You went in because you happened to walk past the store while you were at the mall and you remembered that you needed a special, obscure battery that you couldn't find in the rack in the supermarket. Or a particular light bulb that fit in that weird lamp you got when you cleaned out grandma's attic when she died. So, for a quick purchase — with no intention of ever setting foot in a Radio Shack again — the cashier pressed you for your name, address, phone number, yearly income, your previous address, the name of your employer, your pet's names, your dead pet's names... an entire profile of your current living situation. He typed all of your responses into the Central Customer Radio Shack database and you were officially indoctrinated into the cult of Radio Shack. No wonder Radio Shack went out of business. Who needed that shit?

There are several types of stores I try to avoid. Home improvement stores, paint stores and auto parts stores. I am not a "do-it-yourself" guy. I don't want to "do-it-myself." I want someone to do it for me. I don't want to put an addition on my house. I don't want to paint a room in my house. I don't want to do anything to my car except put in gas and scrape off snow (when necessary). Anything more involved than those simple activities, I want them done by someone who is not me. AND... when they are completed, I do not want a run-down on how those tasks where done. I don't care. If I cared, I would have taken the time to have learned how to do them myself. But, I did not do that, so....

I worked for Pep Boys Auto Parts for three years. I worked in their advertising department, where I placed pictures of various auto parts into ads alongside a giant red price. I could not identify any of the auto parts in the ads. I placed them by item number. I didn't know (nor care) what any of the parts did. My job was to make the ads look "pretty" and "appealing." I think I accomplished that. During my time with Pep Boys, I set foot into a Pep Boys store a grand total of one time... and that was to purchase a set of Pep Boys bobbleheads. Any "car-related" issue I had was taken care of by my trusted mechanic.

Home improvement stores, paint stores and auto parts stores all have one thing in common. They have customers that fall into two very distinct categories — do-it-yourselfers who make these types of stores a frequent destination and those who rarely venture into one of these stores and try to avoid them as best they can. I fall into the latter group. I hate these types of stores. The employees, it seems, do not posses the skills to differentiate between die-hard roll-up-your-sleeves doers and those of us who are not sure which is the "business end" of a hammer. Maybe that's just the kind of people who are hired to work in these places. Maybe they don't have the thinking capacity to "read the room" because that have just about grasped the concept of "measure twice, cut once" and that can be very taxing on a limited-thinking brain.  So, they just treat everyone as though they are Bob Vila. On the off chance that they can tell the difference, they seem to go out of their way to make non-DIYers feel inferior. They use specialized lingo that only someone who completed years of authorized MOPAR training would understand. They expound on the foot-per-pound ratio of a particular line of torque wrench as though it was common knowledge. They explain primer coverage and semi-gloss opacity as though they were discussing the weather. And they talk about the comparative ins-and-outs of windshield wipers as though anybody really gives a shit. 

Which brings me to this...

We experienced a rather brutal winter this year. We had several days of heavy snowfall, coupled with ice storms and weeks of below-freezing temperatures. The weather, and its lingering after-effects, really did a number on the windshield wipers on my car. During a recent rainstorm, I noticed a long strip of rubber bouncing wildly across my windshield, noticeably out-of-step with the rhythmic uniformity of the wiper arms. It looked like a single strand of black spaghetti wildly whipping around the rigid wiper blades who were otherwise maintaining their glass-cleaning duty. This errant string of rubber was causing an occluding streak of water right in my line of vision. I craned my neck to see around it, but it was a futile effort. It was obvious I needed to replace the wiper blades. Or, more accurately, I need to have someone replace the wiper blades for me. 

My car is due for inspection in May, and since it will probably rain a few more times before May arrives, I need new wiper blades immediately. I weighed my options. There's a quick oil change place a few blocks from my house. A quick Google search revealed that they sell and install wiper blades. However, my experience with those types of places is they love to upsell. I didn't need an oil change or fluid check or whatever else they offer. I didn't feel like being subjected to their company-sanctioned "you know you could also use a (fill in the blank) while you're here!" My second option was to visit the Advance Auto Parts that's just a short drive from my house. I have noticed a sign in their window that proudly announced that they install windshield wiper blades for free. I decided — with much trepidation and anxiety associated with going into an auto parts store — to go with Advance.

While trying to skirt a four-day-late St. Patrick's Day parade, I maneuvered my car on an alternate route to Advance Auto Parts. I parked my car and, with my stomach already in my throat, I entered the store. A fellow greeted me and asked if he could help. I told him I needed wiper blades for my car. Our exchange went like this:

Josh Pincus: It's a 2024 Subaru Crosstrek.

Auto Parts Guy: 2004?

JP: No, 2024.

APG: Oh! That makes a big difference. In 2017, a lot of car manufacturers like Subaru, Mazda, Volkswagen and some others changed the kind of wiper blades they use to the new, single push button type that are the slim design cfkjngpofr[  klkspokqf sps alctkwd gjhspsn dbdfojdp

Oh my God, I thought I had a fucking stroke. Suddenly, this guy launched into Marisa Tomei's climactic "Chevy Bel Air" speech from My Cousin Vinny. I tuned his words out and said nothing. He continued, however, going on and on and on about clip housings and old designs and about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuban Libres.

He turned his attention to a computer screen after typing in some information.

APG: I'll bet you — without even looking — that it's part number A327875-AE.

He said this to me, I suppose, but I think he said it more to impress himself with his vast knowledge of random auto part numbers. 

APG: Let's see.....

Suddenly, he turned to another employee seated waaay down at the other end of the counter. He, too, was working with a customer.

APG: Hey, AJ! Hear this song? (He pointed up in the air, indicating the music floating through the store, courtesy of the overhead speakers.) Rolling Stones. Gimme Shelter, man. My favorite Stones song, man.

He returned his attention to his customer (me) and the wiper blade inventory that had now populated the computer screen.

APG: Yep! A327875-AE! Just like I said. (If he was a sideshow contortionist, he would have patted himself on the back.) I hope we carry these, because sometimes these new model numbers are fdkg hddkd djfgjfiueh jdhoidp jdpdpokf   (Things were starting to grow dim again and my hearing was getting distorted.)

I followed him to the windshield wiper section of the store, where he pointed to a bunch of similarly packaged wiper blades. He pointed out the prices and I selected a pair of beautiful Bosch Focus blades... just breathtakingly beautiful.

APG: Would you like me to put them on your car?

JP: Yes. (This was the first word I had spoken since I corrected him about the year of manufacture of my car.)

He instructed me to swipe or tap my credit card on the terminal and I did so. Then he asked for my phone number. And my last name. And my first name... in that inimitable style made so irritating by Radio Shack.

APG: Pincus? Is that a Scandinavian name? Sounds like a Nordic name. I think its a Nordic name. Is that Nordic?

JP: (thinking) What the fuck does the origin of my last name have to do with me buying wiper blades? And what the fuck business is it of yours to analyze the etymology of my last name? (I merely shrugged my shoulders and remained silent.)

The APG fumbled with the packaging until he finally removed the blades. I followed him out to the parking lot and, although I had earlier gestured towards my car from inside the store, he still needed me to identify it. It was, however MR. CAR PARTS GUY, the only Subaru Crosstrek in the entire lot. Even a non-car guy like myself could see that. Within three seconds, he had popped off the old blades and set the new ones in their proper place. I thanked him and offered an accompanying wave of my hand. His parting words were, "I think you'll really enjoy these blades."

I have owned and driven several cars in my lifetime. I do not recall ever — ever! — thinking, while observing the wipers sweep the downpour of rain off my windshield, allowing for a clear view of the road ahead of me, "Well, goddamn!, I certainly am enjoying these windshield wipers! Yes sir! Pure enjoyment!"

Guess where I will never be going again.  Go ahead.... guess.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the last time

I remember my final day of high school. I remember leaving the school building and thinking to myself, "Well, this is the last time I will ever come to this place." I remember, two weeks after giving my two-weeks notice to an employer, thinking to myself, "Well, this is the last time I'll ever set foot in this godforsaken place." I'm sure you have some of the same memories of school, or terrible jobs or any number of unpleasant (or sometimes pleasant) experiences, knowing it will be the very last time you will have that experience.

There is an author named Jason Pargin. He's a pretty interesting guy. He was, at one time, an executive editor of Cracked.com, the online humor website which has branched out to become more of a catch-all for pop culture and interesting trivia... sort of a Ripley's Believe It or Not meets Jeopardy! by way of Alex Falcone. Jason is also the best-selling author of John Dies at the End. I follow Jason on social media where he regularly posts little clips dealing with things you never noticed in movies or bits of trivia about past world events or, sometimes, just plain old thought-provoking ideas. 

Recently, Jason did a short commentary about traditions. Family traditions, to be specific. In this little piece of internet content, he talked about things that people do all the time, either as part of their everyday rituals or as annual traditions connected to a holiday. He mentioned things like putting a certain special ornament on top of your Christmas tree or your dad walking around the house on Christmas afternoon with a large trash bag to gather up discarded gift wrap or a specific side dish your mother always prepares for Christmas dinner (okay... okay, maybe he recorded this piece around Christmas time.) The point he made was: one day it will be the last time you ever do that particular activity. One day, that special ornament will be misplaced or it will have broken in storage or someone bought a different ornament to top the tree. He pointed out that, due to illness or, possibly death, or some other reason, your dad will not walk around the house with that trash bag this year. He noted that when a particular, regular event or activity is happening, you will have absolutely no idea that it will be the very last time it will happen. Unlike leaving a job or graduation from school  — two events in which you know when the finality occurs  — there are other times that offer no clues that this time will be the last time. He went on to say that things you do all the time  — all the time  — someday, it will be the last time you do them.... and you won't know it.

Many years ago, after my mom decided that she would no longer prepare and host our family Thanksgiving meal, my sister-in-law took over the holiday duties. My sister-in-law invited all the same family members and even prepared a kosher turkey to accommodate my wife and me, despite that fact that my sister-in-law is not Jewish (something my mother never did). For several consecutive years, we gathered at my brother's house for Thanksgiving. In 1993, however, my sister-in-law announced that she would be skipping a year as host for Thanksgiving. She had given birth earlier in the year and was not up to having a houseful of people and tending to a newborn. So, everyone made other plans and we would all plan to reconvene the following year. My father died unexpectedly at the end of that year. We never gathered at my brother's house for Thanksgiving again. However, no one knew that the previous year would be the last time.

One morning in 1967, the cast of Gilligan's Island assembled at Paramount Studios to film the final episode of the show's third season. Production wrapped and the cast members expected to see each other in the fall. However, during the summer, CBS executives decided not to proceed with a proposed fourth season. When John Lennon ate breakfast on December 8, 1980, he didn't know that it would be the last time he would eat breakfast. When two-thousand seven-hundred and fifty-three people went to work on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, they had no idea it would be the last time that would happen. One day, when you were little, your mother picked you up and put you down.... for the very last time.

It's a very daunting concept to grasp. It's a bit sad and a bit eerie. Just a little reminder about the reality of life. Remember the words of Warren Zevon.

Enjoy every sandwich.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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