just another story

I love movies. Love 'em, I tells ya! I have favorites, just like you. Those movies that I'll watch over and over again. There are others that I am happy to have seen, but don't feel the need for a second viewing. Then there are those that I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing and things would have been just fine.

I tend to shy away from big Hollywood blockbusters that are overhyped and loved by the masses because the masses have been told to love them. I have never seen any of the films in the Matrix franchise. Same goes for the Fast and Furious and Mission: Impossible series. I saw the first three Star Wars movies (Chapters 4, 5 and 6, for those of you keeping score), but that's it. And — to be honest — I didn't really like those three. To tell the truth, I don't care much for science fiction or movies based on popular comic books. I have, however, seen several entries in the Superman canon, only because my wife is a long-time fan of The Man of Steel. And, against my better judgement, I have seen a few of the Batman films, having grown up on the campy 60s TVB series. After 1989's Batman starring Michael Keaton, I kind of lost interest. Christopher Nolan's resurrection with Christian Bale did nothing for me.

I have always loved the horror genre. In my youth, I was a fan of the classics from Universal Studios, including the original Frankenstein, Dracula and The Wolfman. The subsequent reboots of those titles... not so much. I don't like the whole slasher trend and even more so, the so-called "torture porn" and "body horror" films that seem more like endurance tests than forms of entertainment.

As far as films go, I like a good story first and foremost. It seems, sadly, that Hollywood is more interested in blowing stuff up than a well-conceived story. Convoluted premises and totally implausible scenarios are frustrating to me. Also, movies that are "lovingly shot" and move along at the pace of paint drying do not bring me enjoyment.

Recently, I stumbled upon two — two! — films that I thoroughly enjoyed. These films shared similar attributes. They each featured an ensemble cast that deftly brought the story and their characters to life. They felt like real people, living real lives. They offered a thoughtful peek into the lives of people that you and I could know. — just regular people experiencing regular situations in their regular lives. No explosions. No evil plots to take over the world. No diabolical schemes driven by revenge. No outlandishly intricate action that the perpetrators execute precisely the first time, achieving impossible results. No. None of that. As a matter of fact, if you ask me what these two movies are about, I'm not sure I could answer. They were just a small glimpse of the lives of people. Just people.

The first film is My First Mister, a 2001 release that served as the directorial debut (and, so far, only directorial effort) of actress Christine Lahti. It is a small movie that had limited release in its initial run. It stars Albert Brooks — this time just as an actor and not portraying a character in his own script — and Leelee Sobieski, a talented young actress, who has since left the acting business to focus on her family and budding art career. The two main characters are skillfully supported by the likes of Carol Kane, Michael McKean, John Goodman and Mary Kay Place. Brooks plays an irascible menswear salesman who strikes up an unlikely friendship with Sobieski's angst-filled goth teen. But, My First Mister is so much more than that. It's a study of humans — their actions, reactions and interactions. It's a sweet, sad, funny, poignant way to spend an hour and a half. The insightful script was written by Jill Franklyn, best known for penning the "Yada Yada" episode of Seinfeld and the single season black comedy Gravity. The performances were spot on, as was the sharply accurate dialog. 

The second movie is The Station Agent, a 2003 film, marking another directorial debut, this one for actor/screenwriter Tom McCarthy (no, not the announcer for the Philadelphia Phillies). A dozen years later, McCarthy would win an Oscar for his screenplay for Spotlight, which he also directed and which won the 2016 Academy Award for Best Picture. What brought me to The Station Agent was McCarthy also co-wrote the screenplay for the Disney animated feature Up. The Station Agent, like My First Mister, is a little, unpretentious film that offers a candid peek into the lives of ordinary people and their ordinary lives. An early entry into his huge and celebrated body of work, the film stars Peter Dinklage as a quiet man who just wants to be left alone. His co-star, the versatile Bobby Cannavale, is a gregarious hot dog vendor who doesn't want to leave poor Peter alone. Filling out this unexpected trio is Patricia Clarkson as a mentally-preoccupied artist dealing with her own internal and external issues. Michelle Williams, John Slattery and the delightfully deadpan Raven Goodwin offer suitably realistic supporting characters. The story unfolds slowly and purposely, allowing the actors to fully flesh out their respective roles and create believable, relatable and emotion-filled people, not just actors reading line that were written for them to recite. It's funny and sad, joyful and nerve-wracking, sweet and touching. The plot of The Staiton Agent is ancillary. The real focus is the characters and how they are brought to life and how they evolve, thanks to the talents of three (and more) adept and very well-cast actors. (Screenwriter/director McCarthy noted that he wrote the characters with Dinklage, Cannavale and Clarkson in mind.)

I don't recommend movies. I don't know your particular taste in movies. I don't know if you'll like a particular film. I do know that I liked — really liked — My First Mister and The Station Agent. You might, too. But, you might not. There are no explosions or car chases or monsters or space ships. Just some solid acting and solid writing. 

I liked them. You? You're on your own.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the candyman can

This story previously appeared on my illustration blog.

For many years, I collected autographed photos of celebrities. “Celebrities,” I will admit, is a relative term and can only be defined as “someone who more people have heard of than have heard of me.” I obtained a good portion of my collection by attending local collector shows and conventions where promoters would gather together a sampling of celebrities from all levels of fame. I have met Oscar winners and I have met folks whose claim to fame was their appearance in a single —but iconic — film. (I’m looking at you, Danny Lloyd!) 

 

In early 2006, my son and I went to a horror movie convention in nearby Cherry Hill, New Jersey. We had been to this show several times over the years and I had met celebrities, engaged in lively conversation and purchased an autographed photo at the conclusion of our brief encounters. I don’t consider myself particularly “star struck.” My conversations with “celebrities” have purposely been about things other than the role for which they are best known. Over the years, I have spoken with Curtis Armstrong (of Revenge of the Nerds fame) about our shared admiration for singer-songwriter Harry Nilsson. I talked to the lovely Adrienne Barbeau about her long-running role in the touring company of the musical Pippin. I had a great conversation about California baseball with the late Jerry Maren, best known as the Lollipop Guild Munchkin who hands an oversized all-day sucker to Judy Garland in the classic The Wizard of Oz. 

This particular 2006 show was one of the first — if not the first — to feature actor Tony Todd and he appeared to be eager to meet his fans. Famous among horror movie aficionados as the malevolent “Daniel Robitaille,” the title antagonist in The Candyman series of films, Tony appeared in a number of non-horror productions before his first foray into the genre in the early 90s. Since then, he has been in and out of the horror realm, including stints on Law & Order, Murder She Wrote and multiple appearances in the Star Trek universe. Of course, horror films were Tony’s “bread and butter,” playing “The Candyman” in the original film, its two sequels and reprising the character in a 2021 reboot. He was also featured in the Final Destination film franchise, appearing in four of the six films as the mysterious “William Bludworth,” a funeral director with an intimate relationship with Death incarnate. But, Tony was a working actor and, not wishing to be pigeonholed, he took roles in the teen drama Riverdale and on the popular soap opera The Young and The Restless. He also lent his distinctively rich baritone to video games.

Unfortunately, a lot of attendees at these horror conventions have a difficult time separating the actor from the character. Tony, an imposing figure at 6 feet 5 inches, stood behind a table laden with glossy photos chronicling his career. He had a wide and welcoming smile on his face. Just behind him, a young man (later identified as Tony’s son), disinterested in the surroundings, busied himself with a hand-held video game. My son and I joined the queue to meet Tony. We were just behind a fidgety young lady. A series of belts and straps and buckles secured her tight-fitting leather garb to her person. Her jet black hair was highlighted with blood-red streaks. When she turned her head slightly to survey the room, I saw that her face was covered in white pancake make-up, accented with coal-black eyeshadow and color-coordinated lipstick. Without passing judgement, she cut a pretty frightening vision — even for a horror convention.

The line moved forward as each fan finished their interaction with Tony. The young lady in front of us was next. She approached the table and produced a large book, soon revealed to be a photo album. She opened the book and loudly began to spew a soliloquy about “The Candyman” to Tony. She was animated and passionate in her delivery, pointing out gory still photos in her book as she explained — in detail — her tale of Tony’s movie character, as though “The Candyman” was a real entity and Tony was The Candyman. As she continued, the smile disappeared from Tony’s face, replaced by a pained grimace. A thin sweat broke out on Tony’s forehead and he dabbed his brow with a tissue. His eyes widened slightly, as he tried to make some sense out of this… this… woman and her apparent delusions. A few times, he quietly interjected, “Um, thank you. You know, I’m just an actor,” but she would hear nothing of it. She plowed right over his words with more specifics of her “Candyman” manifesto. Finally, she selected a photograph from Tony’s available offerings and requested an autograph. After a quick exchange of cash, she closed her book, bowed her head and slunk away.

My son and I were next and we approached Tony’s table. We both greeted him, but were interrupted. A visibly shaken Tony Todd raised the index finger on his massive right hand and said, “Hi guys. Can you give me just a minute?” We both said, “Sure!” as we motioned obligingly with our open hands. Tony stepped back. He grabbed a bottle of water and pressed its cooling surface against his forehead. He lowered himself into a folding chair, twisted off the cap off the water bottle and took a long and calming swallow. He hung his head for a minute or two. His son put down his game and slung a comforting arm around his father’s shoulders. Soon Tony returned to us, slightly refreshed but still exhibiting the lingering effects of his previous fan encounter. We insisted to him that he get his bearings and we would wait until he felt better. The smile returned to his face when he realized that we were not going to accost him like the girl in leather.

We made no comment about the young lady before us, but he did. He questioned, rhetorically, “What was that?” My son and I shrugged and laughed. Tony was now warm, personable and humble. He became talkative and we discussed his other, non-horror roles. He signed a photo from his appearance on an episode of Smallville for me. My son and I each shook his hand and he thanked us for coming and especially thanked us for our patience. He even posed for a photo with my son.

In subsequent years, Tony became a staple at horror conventions. He evidently became accustomed to his eclectic fan base and the possibility of facing an “intense” fan. Tony passed away in November 2024 at the age of 69. 

He was a nice guy.

Tony and my son, 2006

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i've just seen a face

This is Daniel Roebuck. He's an actor. A pretty busy actor, as a matter of fact. You know him. He's that guy from that thing... you know. Actually, IMDB (the invaluable Internet Movie Database) lists him with over 250 acting credits, not to mention his numerous other credits as director, producer, writer and "special thanks." Here's a story about when I met Daniel... who is a really nice and gracious guy, to boot.

My in-laws owned and operated a store in a once-thriving farmers market just outside of Philadelphia. By the time they became my in-laws, the store was well into its fifth year of business. (Side note: my father-in-law opened this store as a stopgap while his primary business — a popular hardware store — was rebuilt after a devastating fire.) The store in the farmers market — Larry's Hardware — became a well-known "destination" as my wife and my mother-in-law brought in more "pop culture" merchandise, shoving aside precious shelf space once occupied by hammers, trowels and boxes of nails. 

I began working for my in-laws by the time my soon-to-be wife and I had our third date. I worked every weekend while I diligently sought a job in my chosen profession — graphic design. Even after I secured many a position in the design field, I still found myself stocking shelves and applying price tags to various items each and every Saturday from early in the morning until late at night. On Fridays, I was at my regular job, but Saturday was "Larry's Hardware" day for me. My wife, however, worked both days. When our son was born, Fridays were the times I spent with him while Mrs. P worked late. After putting him to bed, I would try my darndest to stay up until Mrs. Pincus got home. Sometimes, I didn't make it and I was often jolted awake by the sound of a key turning in the front-door lock. The TV was showing something that I don't remember watching. We'd go to bed to get a little rest before tackling a marathon Saturday at Larry's.

One particular Friday, I was watching a movie that I had never seen before. It was called River's Edge, a 1986 independent effort from director Tim Hunter, who went on to helm a lot of episodic TV, including Twin Peaks, Mad Men and the recent Hannibal. River's Edge is a dark, disturbing tale featuring a quirky cast of actors with a young Keanu Reeves at the forefront. I watched the film, admittedly dozing on and off as the hour got later. When Mrs. P got home, we talked a bit. She told me about some regularly-occuring incidents at the store and we headed off to bed.

The next day, I caught myself dozing off while sitting at the unusually not-busy cash register. I glanced over at one of the aisles — ten or so feet away — and I saw my wife talking to a customer. He was a man about my age. He sort of looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place him. I stared at this man as my wife talked, gesturing to some items on a shelf, although they were too far away for me to hear actual details of their conversation. Where do I know this guy from? was going over and over in my head. Finally, it hit me... I think. I got up and walked over to them. At first, I didn't interrupt them and the man smiled and nodded at me. I couldn't hold back any longer.

"Do I know you from coming into the store," I began, "or do I know you because I saw you kill your girlfriend in River's Edge last night?"

He wasn't even taken aback by my accusation. As a matter of fact, he laughed. Loudly. And so did my wife. Through her laughter, she explained that she just had a nearly identical exchange with this man.

"I asked," she said, "do I know you from coming into the store or because I saw you in an episode of Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman?"

Daniel in Lois & Clark and River's Edge

The man, as we soon found out, was Daniel Roebuck. Daniel, a native a nearby Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, explained that he has been coming to this farmers market since he was a child. Now that he lives in California, he makes sure that it's one of his stops when he comes in to visit family. As we continued our conversation, we heard customers whispering and pointing at Daniel. We heard things like "That's Cody Bank's father!" referring to his role in a popular kid's film franchise and "There's the guy from Lost!," recalling his role of the notorious "Dr. Leslie Arzt," who blew himself up in a memorable sequence in the cult series. Other folks remembered other times they've seen Daniel Roebuck flash across their TVs or the big screen during an evening at the movies. After all, he's been in a lot, working alongside some of Hollywood's biggest names (Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive comes to mind), as well as being cast as a regular in the TV series Matlock and Nash Bridges. Horror films seem to be Daniel's bread and butter, appearing in a number of shockers with both big and small budgets. Daniel briefly paused our conversation to run out to his car to retrieve a photo album (this was before such a collection could be conveniently stored on one's phone) displaying his vast accumulation of horror movie memorabilia. He also inscribed a glossy, black & white headshot of himself to my wife and me. He actually purchased a few horror-related items to add to his collection, thanked us and exited into the busy main aisle of the market — where more people rattled off some of Daniel's past roles in somewhat hushed tones.

Daniel as Grandpa

From that point forward, we saw Daniel Roebuck in everything! New shows, old shows that we've seen a zillion times, but just now noticed an appearance by our new friend. He's been in a slew of comedies, dramas and anthologies. He was even in a late-season episode of Love Boat... (but who hasn't?) He played Jay Leno in a made-for-television movie about the late-night talk show rivalries. He played Garry Marshall in a TV biopic about Robin Williams. He's been featured in small roles in several of rocker-turned-filmmaker Rob Zombie's productions. As a matter of fact, Daniel landed the plum role of "Grandpa Munster" in Zombie's upcoming take on the classic TV sitcom.

Daniel popped into the store a few more times before its permanent closing in 2007. I have contacted him through various social media platforms, and after relating the story you just read, Daniel confirmed the episode and told how it still makes him laugh. He's a good guy.

If you didn't know his name before, you do now. And, just like us, you will now spot him in everything.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

never before has a boy wanted more

As you probably figured out, I watch a lot of television. I love television. I've been watching television since I was first able to switch on that big, black & white number my parents bought to babysit me (I assume). Saturday mornings were filled with the cartoon antics of Huckleberry Hound, Yogi Bear and Underdog... as well as some forgotten favorites like Milton the Monster and Fearless Fly. During the week, I watched sitcoms, most of which I didn't understand. Sure the humor was broad, bordering on slapstick, but they were geared towards adults. The offerings on Friday nights on ABC, however, were made for a kid. 

The line-up kicked off at 8 o'clock with The Brady Bunch, followed by The Partridge Family, Room 222, The Odd Couple and This Is Tom Jones, which was replaced by Love, American Style after the Welsh singer's swiveling hips fell out of favor with middle-age American moms (my mom included).

I was nuts about The Brady Bunch. Watching their unrealistic adventures was fascinating to me. The show presented a household that was like nothing I had ever seen, despite the fact that my brother bore a slight resemblance to eldest brother Greg. I enjoyed watching the kids interact. I liked the fact that Mom and Dad never really lost their tempers. It was simple and silly and I ate it up. Of course, as the kids got older, I got older. And like every other prepubescent boy I knew, I stared dreamy-eyed at Marcia Brady. She was beautiful. I especially liked the "Marcia-centric" episodes of The Brady Bunch — even the painful "Oh! My nose!" episode, because the ending tied everything up in a pretty Brady Bunch bow. Somewhere around Season Four, perennially troubled middle child Jan blossomed into a beauty, becoming a formidable rival to Marcia for my imaginary affections.

The final season of The Brady Bunch kicked off strong with the iconic "Adios Johnny Bravo!" episode featuring the Brady kids final performance on the show as a singing group. January brought the back-door pilot "Kelly's Kids," a "show-within-a-show" and a possible vehicle for Ken Berry, coming on the heels of the cancellation of Mayberry R.F.D. Just three episodes later would come the beginning of the end for The Brady Bunch. Season Five Episode 17 was entitled "Welcome Aboard," and introduced one of the most innocent, yet notorious, characters in television history — Cousin Oliver. Played by 10-year-old veteran actor Robbie Rist (he already had two network television appearances under his belt when he was cast as Carol Brady's nephew), "Cousin Oliver" was an unwelcome addition to the Brady household. First maligned as a jinx, attitudes were quickly changed when the family was awarded the grand prize (while on a tour of a movie studio), because they had an extra person in their group. It was obvious that the pint-sized character was introduced because the two youngest Bradys had outgrown their cuteness, despite attempts to keep 13-year-old, puberty-sprouting Susan Olsen (as Cindy) in youth-evoking pigtails. For the next five episodes, Cousin Oliver delivered punchlines or offered reaction shots that were previously reserved for Bobby. The series wrapped up unceremoniously and the Bradys (with the exception of Florence Henderson) were relegated to "typecast hell."

I grew up. Got married. Had a child. And I still watched a lot of television.

Just a few years ago, I became very active on social media, specifically Twitter. I tweeted about everything — music, current events, movies, even "off limits" topics like politics and religion. And, yes, even television. One of my tweets caught the eye of a one-time child actor living in California. I don't even think it was about television, but he responded. And I responded. And then we "followed" each other. And a bond was formed. It was Robbie Rist.... after all these years. We corresponded regularly on Twitter, soon discovering that we had a lot more in common that me being a fan of a show he was on forty years ago. We had similar tastes in music with affinities towards bubble gum pop, glam rock and throwback kitsch. I had albums by a couple of the dozens of bands with whom he was affiliated. (A DJ friend of mine once assessed that Robbie — at one time or another — was a member of every indie band in Los Angeles.) Although Robbie would disappear from Twitter for long stretches of time, he would reappear and our correspondence would pick up where it left off, without missing a beat. After a while, I stopped seeing him as just "that kid who played 'Cousin Oliver'."

Over the past twenty five years, I have attended more than my fair share of fan conventions. I used to collect autographed photos until I abandoned all forms of collecting. My wife and I sold off our 30+ year collection of Disney memorabilia and other mementos we had accumulated, in an effort to streamline our possessions as we approach the twilight years of our lives. Our basement walls are covered with framed evidence of a quarter century of meeting and greeting celebrities of varying levels of fame. Most were pleasant encounters with a few cringe-worthy tête-à-têtes in-between. This past September, I saw that the annual RetroCon, held in nearby Oaks, Pennsylvania, would welcome, as one of its guests, the celebrated Robbie Rist. Mrs. Pincus, who had grown weary of the autograph portions of collector shows, agreed to accompany me — as I already insisted that we go. I suggested that perhaps she could wheel and deal for some merchandise to sell in her eBay store and she was on-board.

We arrived at the massive convention center, situated just outside of Philadelphia, smack in the middle of nowhere, but visible from the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Let me remind you that Robbie has never met me and never spoken to me. I, of course, like a host of other late period Baby Boomers, watched Robbie grow up, so I clearly have him at an advantage. We waded through the vendor tables, with the promise of perusing them closely on our way out. We made our way to the area where the invited celebrity guests had set up to meet fans and sell autographs. Sitting between Felix Silla (the original 'Cousin Itt' from the Addams Family television series) and a guy I never heard of was Robbie. He was a little older and a little grayer than depicted in some of his promo photos that decorated his table. But, then again, so was I. Robbie was putting the finishing touches on a signature for a young man in front of me. They were ending their conversation about Robbie's vocal contribution to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles film franchise (He voices Michelangelo). I waited patiently. Robbie asked his young fan if he'd like to sign up for his mailing list and he presented a clipboard obligingly. I still waited patently.

Finally, it was my turn.

Robbie smiled and greeted me with a friendly "Hello." I picked up the clipboard and said to him, "I don't wanna sign up for your fucking mailing list."

Robbie by JPiC

Robbie coughed and his lip curled into an awkward grin. I smiled and relented, "I'm Josh Pincus, Robbie." This evoked a wide smile and Robbie hugged me. Robbie Rist! Cousin Oliver from TV! We talked and laughed. We introduced our respective spouses and talked more. I certainly didn't want to monopolize his time. After all, he was there to sell some pictures. I didn't want to impede on his commerce. Mrs. P and I excused ourselves with the promise of returning to say "goodbye" before we headed home.... which we did. And I also presented him with his very own "Josh Pincus" portrait.

Robbie is a good guy. Mrs. Robbie is a good guy, too. (Oh, you know what I mean!) We have remained in touch via various other social media outlets besides Twitter... with which Robbie has had a contentious relationship. It's just still a little weird because I used to watch him on TV when I was a kid.

And now he's my friend.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

mary, mary

In December, with a house full of out-of-town guests, Mrs. Pincus and I were unable to fulfill our Christmas tradition of going to the movies followed by a dinner of Chinese food. We did, however, make it down to our son's house to feed his cat while he and his girlfriend celebrated the holiday with her family. But, alas, we missed our chance to see the highly-touted and highly-anticipated sequel to Walt Disney's 1964 Oscar-winning film Mary Poppins.

Until last night.

Nearly two months after its release, and with most of the excitement passed, my wife and I ventured out on a weeknight to see the film. We were enticed by an offer of five dollar admission — something we just couldn't turn down. When we arrived at the theater, it seemed that a lot of folks are not swayed by admission prices knocked down to below half off. The place was empty. That's not a compliant. Actually, that's a preference.

In 1964, my Aunt Clara took me to my first movie in a theater... and that movie was Mary Poppins. I loved it. It was bright and colorful, filled with cheerful songs and funny characters. Although I  was 3 years old, I actually remember standing up in my seat and clapping. In subsequent years, I watched Mary Poppins on television and later on a video tape that I purchased. I knew every scene and every song. My wife and I watched it with our son, who came to love it as much as we loved it. It was a bonafide, multi-generational family favorite.

So, when I first heard about the proposal of a sequel to Mary Poppins, I was very, very skeptical. Over fifty years had passed since the beloved original film. Many of the original cast members were too old to reprise their roles. Others were retired from acting while others were deceased. Of course, the new film would be recast. A new story would have to be written. And, with one of the celebrated Sherman brothers — the original's prolific composers — gone, recreating those infectious tunes would be a tall order.

When our opportunity to see Mary Poppins Returns at Christmas did not arise, I wasn't really that disappointed. I really didn't want to see it. I feared that it would tarnish the sparkling memories of the stellar original. But, when a five dollar admission to the movies presents itself, you don't think twice.

At the theater, Mrs. P and I sat through a number of trailers for forgettable films we decided we have no intention of seeing... not even when they are available on Netflix. Then the sparsely-occupied auditorium darkened and the familiar Disney Studio "castle" insignia filled the giant screen. 

I am happy to report that Mrs. P and I were held spellbound for the next 130 minutes. I wanted to dislike Mary Poppins Returns. I really did. But I couldn't. It was irresistible. It was a love letter to the original, loaded with nods and winks and subtle references. It was perfectly cast with the unflappable Emily Blunt capably filling the poised shoes of Oscar winner Dame Julie Andrews. Fresh from Broadway and settling nicely into his role as cheeky "Jack the Lamp Lighter" was the positively magical Lin-Manuel Miranda, whose put-on British accent wasn't nearly as distracting as Dick Van Dyke's attempt 54 years earlier. The supporting cast was spit-spot on. The sets were beautiful. The direction was snappy. The choreography was inspired (well, inspired by the original). The songs were jubilant when they had to be and sad when that was a requirement. Even the animation sequences were artistic homages to the style and characters of a Disney that wasn't out to sell you a time-share.

I seem to be gushing and you seem to waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sorry to disappoint, but not this time. I genuinely loved this movie. No snide remarks. No sarcastic asides.

No spoonful of sugar needed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

open the door, richard

For however long I have maintained a Facebook presence, I have posted the death anniversaries of notable (and not so notable) people on a daily basis. Each morning before I make breakfast for myself, I scan the dark corners of the internet and select a group of folks whose common bond is the day they took their final breath and joined the choir invisible (as George Eliot so eloquently put it). I find a suitable photo and post it along with the simple, non-descriptive line: "So and so died on this date in this particular year." It's up to the reader (one of the 244 faithful who have chosen to "like" Josh Pincus is Crying) to Google the name to find out more, if they so choose. Hey, it's a hobby. Just like collecting stamps. Sort of.

I also post current celebrity deaths as soon as I can confirm information of their demise. Now, my criteria for "celebrity" varies greatly. Of course, a famous actor or actress, politician or sports figure fits the bill. But, I have also included those with lesser-known sobriquets but well-revered significance in the world of pop culture. Last February, for instance, just a week prior to the passing of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, one Mary Fiumara, died at the age of 88. Ms Fiumara was prominently featured in a commercial for Prince spaghetti that ran for 13 years. In April, Lee Waas passed away at 94. He wrote the happy little jingle that blared out of loudspeakers mounted on the roofs of Mr. Softee trucks, announcing the welcome arrival of the ice cream man. Though I have been obsessed with celebrity deaths for years, I have taken my little hobby to the internet in an effort to keep better track of the demise of famous people and to bring the information to a wider audience. I have "met" (in internet terms) many people who share my interest, thus giving me a bit of validation. So, I will continue.

Just this week, I acknowledged the passing of a character actor named Richard Karron. Karron was a stand-up comic who was performing at New York City's famous comedy club Catch a Rising Star, when actor Dustin Hoffman took a liking to his routine. Through this connection, Richard began getting bit parts in television and films based on his distinctive, gravelly voice and boisterously fun personality. He appeared in television dramas and sitcoms, as well as taking small roles in Mel Brooks' History of the World, Part I and Anne Bancroft's slapstick but endearing Fatso, her feature-length directorial debut. In addition, he was in a series of commercials on TV and radio for the regional auto parts chain Royal Auto ("We're Sens-a-tive!"). Karron was a member of the Screen Actors Guild for 35 years, yet his name remained mostly unknown. Well, Karron fit the profile of the type of unsung "celebrity" I like to remember and when I discovered that he passed away on March 1, 2017, I let the internet know that I knew who he was.

I never anticipated the shit storm it would unleash.

At 1:20 PM, on a day nearly two weeks after the fact, I posted an innocuous, "Josh Pincus"-style death announcement for Karron on my Facebook page, like I've done hundreds of times before for similar-level celebrities. The "likes" and comments began almost immediately. First was my pal Steve, who joins me in my love for pop culture and forgotten celebrities. In his initial comment, he reminded me of Karron's Royal Auto commercials. Next came a "thumbs up" from my wife. An hour or so later, a fellow named "Gimmi" commented that Karron had lost a significant amount of weight. It's true. In his early career appearances, Karron cut quite an imposing figure and, based on the type of role for which he was cast, his size was an attribute. In more recent photos, he looks as though he had shed a good portion of his bulk.

Now, for those of you who do not know me personally — I am a bit of a smart-ass. No, actually, I'm a lot of a smart-ass. It's just my nature. I have been known to make jokes at "supposedly" inappropriate times. But that's the beauty of being a natural smart-ass. There are no inappropriate times. Nothing is sacred and everything can be funny. I have done my very best to have that aspect of my personality come across on my blog and, for the most part, I think I've been successful. I try to be funny any chance I get. And, if you don't think I'm funny, rest assured, I think I'm funny and that is what's important. So when Gimmi made his comment about Karron's weight loss, I couldn't resist. I replied:

Well, Steve thought it was funny. Of course, I thought it was funny. Mrs. Pincus, who has been my best audience for the last 35 years, thought it was funny. But, alas, Valerie, in The Beach Boys hometown of Hawthorne, California, didn't see the humor at all. As a matter of fact, I must have struck a nerve, because her outrage prompted her to tell me (with Gimmi in her corner): 

See, this is the stuff I live for! This is what makes the internet the greatest invention since... since.... well, ever! I insulted someone I never met, on the other side of the country with a joke that, technically, she had to search for. (I checked. Valerie is not currently a "Facebook follower" of mine. I guess I've blown that chance now.) I love getting comments on my blogs (this one and my illustration blog), especially negative ones. Sure, I appreciate the ones that tell me how wonderful I am. But the ones from readers that have been offended by something I've drawn or written (or both) are the ones I cherish and remember. It's the angry ones that tell me someone took the time to really study what I have produced and, instead of dismissing it as just another blemish on the face of the internet, they took the time to let me know how abhorrent they found my work. Now, that's a sincere commitment! So, imagine my excitement when this little exchange popped up under my original announcement for poor Richard Karron.

Steve joined in my elation and I offered another snide comment to all participants. Valerie, however, was not amused. As an alleged personal acquaintance of Richard Karron, she found my retort repugnant and Steve's accolade equally deplorable. (All claims to close relationships to celebrities — no matter what the level of fame — is "alleged" on the internet. Unless the claim can be backed up or is made by me.) Plus, Karron began his career as a stand-up comic working in small clubs delivering gritty material. I can only assume that he either heard or told jokes of a similar edgy tone.

My mom taught me to laugh at everything. I get my subversive sense of humor from her. My mom died 26 years ago and I have joked about her death on several occasions. It doesn't mean I am disrespecting her memory. On the contrary, with every snarky comment, I am keeping her memory alive.

Oh, this is not the first time I got into a "back and forth" with a total stranger on the internet. I don't think it will be the last, because you never know what benign statement will set someone off. Since the internet is so vast, coupled with the protection one gets from commenting under the guise of anonymity, these usually reserved voices are riled up without much effort. The more riled they get, the more likely they are to tell me exactly how they feel. 

And that makes me love the internet more and more every day.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

fame, fame, fame, fame...what's your name?

2016 was a rough year for celebrities. Or was it?

I have been tracking celebrity deaths for years. It all started back in 1981, when my brother's roommate at the time burst in to their apartment with the utterly hilarious statement: "The password is 'dead'." Of course, he was reporting the death of noted game-show figure and long-time host of the show Password, Allen Ludden. From there, I took my cue and, considering my slightly skewed sense of humor, there was no turning back.

I attended a small but respected art school in the early 80s. Every morning, before classes began, I would peruse the newspaper with several of my classmates. One morning, in 1983, while we sipped our coffee and pored over the printed accounts of events from the previous day, I stumbled across an obituary for Junior Samples, the hefty, overall-clad bumpkin comedian, famous for his slow delivery and dimwitted demeanor on the syndicated country music variety show Hee Haw. Samples. a former race car driver, carpenter and radio comic was a fixture on the show for fourteen seasons, bumbling his way through flubbed lines and corny jokes. When he died, my demented friends and I tacked his death notice on a school bulletin board, along with the caption: "The world has lost a great man... a great BIG man" alluding to his considerable girth. The joke, while it amused a small contingency of my colleagues, was met with a less than favorable reaction from the rest of the students and faculty. They also didn't care much for our sacrilegious treatment of the passing of singer Ethel Merman almost a year later. (That story is a classic in bad taste. See for yourself HERE.)

After I finished art school and entered the workforce, I encountered a few co-workers who, curiously, shared my absurd view on celebrity deaths. We created a sort-of informal contest to see who could report on the death of a celebrity before anyone else. As the years went on, and the internet and social media entered the equation, I gained a reputation as The Grim Reaper of sorts. Through a network of sources, I have made tracking celebrity deaths an on-going hobby, joining my other macabre pastime of visiting cemeteries. I have compiled an annual "Death Pool" in the final week of every year since 2009, listing a dozen or so celebrities who I think will meet their maker in the new year. I hang on to every minute of every news report wrap-up and award show's "In Memoriam" segment, paying close attention to those who are included and those who are unjustly snubbed. I regularly note celebrity passings on Twitter and Facebook, even becoming a confirming source for other celebrity death watchers (and, oh, there are others).

Which brings us to 2016 and the bad rap it's taken as the most unforgiving year for celebrity deaths. This malevolent notoriety is undeserved, as society's — and even my own — definition of "celebrity" has evolved over the years. "Celebrity" used to apply to movie stars, athletes, politicians, singers and regulars on television shows. Now, anyone with access to a computer and a YouTube channel is a "celebrity." People who were voted off the show on Week One of Survivor or The Bachelorette are considered "celebrities." I, myself, am guilty of foisting "celebrity" status on such folks as the guy who invented the plastic Red Solo cup and the woman who was featured in television commercials for Prince Spaghetti. Of course, my motives are strictly tongue-in-cheek. However, more people have heard of them than have heard of me, so, based on that alone, they are a celebrity at some level.

Also, consider my age. I was born in 1961. I am of a generation that bridges two generations that are significant in the roles they play in pop culture. My generation is a transitional generation. It comes at the tail end of the so-called "Golden Age of Hollywood," as well as the heyday of television hitting its creative stride. Some of the top names that graced the "silver screen" in huge Hollywood productions were now in the twilight of their careers and taking roles in television series in an obvious "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" career move. Screen sirens like Barbara Stanwyck and Joan Blondell were now reduced to roles in weekly dramas with skimpy production values. I would see people from my parents generation pop up on The Tonight Show and I'd have to ask my mom to explain their claim to fame. There are but a handful of stars from that long-gone era who are still with us. Doris Day, who will disputably turn 94 in 2017, Jerry Lewis, who will turn 91 early next year. and Olivia de Havilland, who will pass the century mark next summer, come to mind. When their ultimate time comes, will it matter to anyone under the age of 50? Will anyone from my son's generation even know who they were?

On the other end of the "fame" spectrum, I saw The Beatles transition into the Jackson 5 into New Kids on the Block into Britney Spears into Miley Cyrus. Is Katy Perry's impact on music the same as, say Frank Sinatra's? I would say "no," but someone thirty-five years my junior, with no clue who Sinatra was, would be quick to argue. Will the eventual loss of Lady Gaga elicit the same level of sorrow as the death of Ray Charles or George Harrison? Perhaps not to members of my generation, but how about two and three generations after mine? "Celebrity" and "fame" are relative terms and they have different applications to different generations. I don't think that Ringo Starr's passing will have the same worldwide impact as Paul McCartney's. And I don't know how the passing of Justin Bieber will rate. Not that I am wishing for any of those... well, not actively, anyway. There is also a whole crop of actors and actress and athletes that I don't know. Names from Netflix shows and internet series and a slew of obscure reality shows that I don't watch. There are men and women from sports that I don't follow, not to mention singers whose music I have never heard. But, some fan of theirs, somewhere, years from now, will be upset when they die.

Good riddance.

Sure, some pretty big names died in 2016, but if you look at each one individually, they aren't really that jarring. David Bowie was 69, and while it was definitely a shock, he was sick (although he hid it from the public). Plus, he was a drug user and cigarette smoker for a good portion of his life. Prince, at 57, was discovered to have had a long addiction to opioids. Merle Haggard undoubtedly, led a hard life. William Schallert, George Kennedy, Nancy Reagan and John Glenn were all in their 90s and, whether or not we care to face reality, old people die. Then, there were accidents, like the one that claimed the life of actor Anton Yelchin. Consider all of these situations coupled with the ever-widening label of "celebrity." So, while these deaths were indeed sad, they were not circumstantially extraordinary, 

Unfortunately, I can predict with a fair amount of certainty, more "celebrities" will die in 2017.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

say something, say something... anything

Once again, Mrs. Pincus and I attended the annual Mid-Atlantic Nostalgia Convention in Cockeysville, Maryland, the three day gathering of vendors, speakers, authors, celebrities and various other purveyors of pop culture from days past. We have taken the two hour drive south on I-95 many times over the past few years to this show. But this year's show has the potential to be our last.

I like to go to this show to add to my ever-expanding collection of autographed celebrity photographs. Mrs. P, on the other hand, dislikes the ritual of lining up and fawning over an actor who hasn't had an on-screen credit in over forty years. She prefers to scour the vendor area, searching for that elusive treasure on which she can turn a quick profit on eBay. Every once in a while, this show touts an appearance from a celebrity that sparks a warm and pleasant memory from our past, making our anticipation a bit more antsy.

Months ago, The Mid-Atlantic Nostalgia Convention. or MANC, as it is known to regulars, has grown exponentially since the first one we attended. It has noticeably gotten more crowded, probably due to the fact that show promoter and organizer Martin Grams Jr., has worked diligently to book celebrities that charge no more than $30 for an autographed photo. That is quite an accomplishment in the current trend set by such convention big-wigs as ComicCon and Chiller Theater, who have come to dictate the outrageous going rate of such memorabilia. Martin once told me that Adam West, TVs 1960s Batman, refused to budge on his $60 asking price and, therefore, would not commit to an appearance. Because MANC offers a more informal and personal atmosphere, as opposed to the rigid, cattle-chute, "get-em-in-and-get-em-out" procedure of other shows, its popularity has grown. It has also suffered somewhat.

Last year, Martin managed to book Lee Majors and Richard Anderson from The Six Million Dollar Man and Lindsay Wagner from The Bionic Woman. This was a major coup and the trio drew a lot more guests that would have normally attended the show. However, they also charged $40 each per autograph. Martin explained that he wrestled with breaking his own policy and regretfully consented because it was a "once-in-a-life" assemblage for fans. he promised to stick to his rules in future years. Mrs. P and I reluctantly shelled out $40 to Lee Majors, as my wife was a devoted fan of the show as a teenager. We did the same for Lindsay Wagner, who, disappointingly, came off as a stuck-up jerk.

This year's celebrity roster was announced several months ago and featured some enticing actors from beloved films and television shows from our youth. I was most interested in meeting Kathy Garver, best remembered as Buffy and Jody's big sister "Cissy" on the sentimental 60s sitcom Family Affair. I love Family Affair. There I said it! Also included in this year's group was Britt Ekland, the sultry Swedish bombshell and one-time Bond Girl (in The Man with The Golden Gun, reteaming her with her Wicker Man co-star, the late great Christopher Lee). Also included was movie and TV tough guy Robert Conrad, John Amos, star of Roots, Good Times and Coming to America, Debra Paget, the pretty diminutive actress from The Ten Commandments and Dabney Coleman, known for War Games, 9 to 5 and HBO's Boardwalk Empire. The real draw for Mrs. Pincus was Robert Fuller, rugged star of TV Westerns Laramie and Wagon Train. But to Mrs. P,  Fuller will always be cool Dr. Kelly Brackett on Emergency!, the original "Doctor Dreamy," nearly three decades before the moniker attached itself to Patrick Dempsey on Grey's Anatomy. (I was just informed that the character's name was "Doctor McDreamy." I never watched either show, so I apologize to anyone I may have offended.)

In the early afternoon, we parked in the Hunt Valley Wyndham Hotel's parking lot and followed the paved and landscaped walkway to the entrance. After handing over our pre-purchased admission tickets, we were unceremoniously informed that Dabney Coleman, John Amos and Debra Paget had all canceled. We were instantly disappointed, but still, we made our way though the aisles of vendors offering their pieces of the past. Mrs. P's interest was piqued by a few items, but nothing worth a full on negotiation. We descended a rickety escalator to the hotel's lower floor, where more vendors and the room housing the celebrities awaited.

I spotted an attractive, but heavily made-up older woman who I soon identified as Britt Ekland, seated along a row of tables. She was entertaining a group of fans, so I decided to press on and come back to Miss Elkand at a later time. At the end of the row was our old pal Geri Reischl, best known as replacing the uninterested Eve Plumb in the short-lived Brady Bunch Hour, a poorly-conceived variety show featuring America's favorite blended family. We have encountered Geri at enough shows that we have forged a budding friendship... an easy task, as Geri is a sweetheart. Seated next to Geri was Kathy Garver. She was surrounded by glossy photos highlighting scenes from Family Affair, as well as stills from her brief, uncredited appearance as a slave child in The Ten Commandments, guest roles in Adam-12 and Dr. Kildare, and shots of Firestar, the superhero character she voiced on Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends in the 80s. Of course, we chatted briefly with Miss Garver about Family Affair, purchased a signed photo and snapped a photo of her holding our traveling buddy Pudge. 

Mrs. P was looking at some potential purchases as I made my way back to Britt Ekland, who, by this time, was sitting idly at her table, sipping a cup of coffee. I approached and offered a friendly "Hi Britt." She lit up, a smile stretching wide across her face. I told her how much I loved The Wicker Man and The Night They Raided Minsky's, two early entries in her six-decade career. I could have talked and questioned her at length about her interesting and illustrious life, including her four-year marriage to Peter Sellers, a longer union with Stray Cats' drummer Slim Jim Phantom and her notorious tryst with rocker Rod Stewart, which inspired him to write his hit Tonight's the Night in 1977. After signing a picture for me, she — not me — suggested I pose for a photo with her, directing me around the table for an intimate shot. As Britt was maneuvering her slight frame close to me, I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Pincus ten feet away, mouthing, "What do you think you're doing?" in faux jealousy. Britt laughed and purposely snuggled in closer. Once the picture was snapped by her assistant, she insisted I check it to make sure it met my satisfaction — something no other celebrity has ever done.

Out in a hallway, lines were forming for a chance to meet Robert Conrad and Robert Fuller. A group of show staff were furiously working to corral eager guests in an orderly fashion. We asked a staff member to point out the end of the line, but were informed that the line was now closed. Once again, we were disappointed, but now our disappointment was accompanied by anger. Our questions, "Will Mr. Conrad and Mr. Fuller be returning later in day?," were were met with shrugs. We headed back to the vendor room, determined to check back later for a shorter line. After an hour of perusal and few purchases, we returned to the Conrad/Fuller lines, only to be told that they were, again, closed and no more guests would be accommodated. Mrs. P fumed. "I'm done with this goddamn show!," she proclaimed angrily. We went to say our "goodbyes" to Geri Reischl and were delayed as Mrs. P vented her dismay to Geri's sympathetic ear. 

As we started for the exit, I pointed out show organizer Martin Grams to my wife. Mrs. P walked right over to him and laid in. She expressed her disappointment and frustration over three cancellations and continued with her further disappointment over how the lines for Robert Fuller and Robert Conrad were being maintained. Suddenly, Martin interrupted my wife's tirade with a gentle "I'll get you in. No problem." He silently led us to the outdoor waiting area and requested the staff member-on-duty place us at the end of the line. The harried woman attempted to argue, saying she had firm instruction to not allow anyone else to join the queue. Martin flatly repeated, "Let them in the line. This is my show." Without another word, we took our place as the anchor of the snaking line.

We waited nearly two hours, biding our time with conversations with other fans, until we were granted access to Mr. Fuller, a tall lanky fellow sporting a large black cowboy hat. Mrs. Pincus gushed as she confessed her love for Emergency! and his character on the show. I offered Mr. Fuller a print of this drawing I did of the Emergency! cast. He marveled at the sketch and complimented me. Mrs. Pincus selected a photo for him to inscribe, then  he waved me off as I withdrew a $20 bill from my wallet and attempted to pay him. "I'm gonna get a frame for that drawing. You're a hell of an artist." he said. He rose to pose for a photo with us, still cutting a handsome and imposing figure at 83 years old, although he has trimmed back those awesome sideburns quite a bit. After a few shots were snapped off, he shook my hand and planted a long-overdue kiss on Mrs. Pincus's cheek. She was in heaven.

Robert Conrad, the dashing star of Wild, Wild West, Black Sheep Squadron and the one-time cocky and competitive leader of Battle of the Network Stars, has, unfortunately, been rendered partly paralyzed by a car accident in 2003. Once a righty, he now has to scrawl his shaky signature with his left hand with unsteady accuracy. He has not, however, lost his snide wit. He cracked sarcastic jokes and off-color innuendo to the delight of the fans awaiting a personal audience with the actor, At 81, he is thin and weathered, but his brash personality has not lost its edge. His endearing arrogance has not been tarnished by time or disability. He stayed until every fan was treated to the short tête-à-tête they had hoped for. I understood he did the same thing on the previous day.

Before we left, Mrs. Pincus and I stopped off at our respective restrooms in anticipation of the long drive home. As I reached out to push the men's room door open, I was met by Robert Fuller about to push the door as well. We each laughed and I respectfully allowed the venerable actor to enter first. I followed him into the empty bathroom and we each selected urinals on opposite ends of the far wall. And this paragraph is officially over.

Mrs. Pincus and I tracked down and thanked Martin once again for his thoughtfulness and for accommodating us above and beyond. We sheepishly admitted to expecting an angry confrontation, but we were grateful for the unexpected result. We told him we would be back again next year.

Maybe.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

they say the neon lights are bright on Broadway

I am no fan of live theater — plays or musicals. I know, it makes no sense, as I am a huge fan of live music (i.e. concerts). I don't know what it is. Actually, I do know what it is. I don't like the over-exaggerated movements and the shouting of dialogue and songs and actors trying their very best to upstage each other. (I wrote about my dislike for live theater here and here.) 

I am also no fan of televised awards shows. Despite my dislike, I have watched many of them. I've even stuck with most of them until the bitter, tedious end of a broadcast that usually runs well over its allotted time. For the most part, awards shows are long, sprawling, sometimes aimless marathons of self-congratulation and inside jokes, punctuated by celebrities — both big and small — who make it very clear that they should not appear before a camera without a script.

But, on Sunday night, I watched the 70th Annual Tony Awards. And I actually enjoyed it.

Dancing > interviewing

Because of my disinterest in theater, I was not familiar with any of the nominees, save for current media juggernaut, the unavoidable Hamilton. This year's festivities were hosted by James Corden, host of his own talk show on the Tiffany Network following Stephen Colbert. I have seen Corden's show a few times and, while I can say that his interviewing skills leave a lot to be desired, the guy is undeniably talented. He sings, he's funny, he's self-effacing and he's personable. Plus, there wasn't really anything on Sunday night.

I was surprised by how many shows I actually knew, mostly because the current Broadway season is fraught with revivals and musical versions of big-screen movies re-imagined for the stage. I was also surprised by how many actors I recognized — seasoned Frank Langella, enigmatic Michael Shannon, pixieish Michelle Williams, the lovely Jane Krakowski and that redheaded guy from Modern Family (a show I never saw, but I have spotted him in commercials). The brief musical highlights were energetic and richly produced, a stage full of original cast members giving their all, as though it were opening night once again. In between musical numbers, the cameras cleverly switched to the front entrance of the majestic Beacon Theater as the cast of a different current show performed a compact rendition of a song from a classic Broadway musical, much to delight of the crowds gathered on the sidewalk. (The young cast of Spring Awakening belting out "I've Got Life" from Hair was especially amusing.)

Love is love is love is love

I think what I enjoyed most was the heartfelt sincerity expressed by each and every winner in their acceptance speeches. The actors, actresses, directors and assorted "behind the scenes" people all seemed genuinely appreciative, grateful and humbled. Most fought back tears and some didn't bother to fight, delivering their gramercy through red-rimmed eyes and quavering voices. It was truly touching and emotional and very real. Everyone looked happy and happy to be with other happy colleagues. It was especially touching as it was hours after the massacre at an Orlando nightclub in which 50 people were senselessly murdered by a hate-filled miscreant with an assault rifle. It was an incident that hit close to home for a great many of the evening's honorees. Yet they felt the right thing to do, the only thing to do, was to celebrate life. They expressed their support for their fallen brethren, as well as their anger and frustration. There was an overwhelming feeling of love and camaraderie that was palpable to the home viewer.

The entire three-and-a-half hours flew by. It was joyous and sad and entertaining.

And real.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com