hooray for hollywood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sixty years on

I recently... celebrated? .... let's go with "acknowledged" my 62nd birthday. It's a pretty inauspicious milestone. Too young for retirement (as though I could actually retire). Too old to check those survey boxes that list "35-59" as an age demographic for marketing purposes. But as a new 62-year old, I am happy to report that I have outlived some pretty significant folks. Sure, these people accomplished way more than I ever dreamed of, but I have surpassed them in time on Earth, thus offering more time for achievements equal to or perhaps even greater than theirs.

Sally Ride was the first American woman in space, as well as the youngest American astronaut. After a career at NASA, Sally was a professor of physics at USC-San Diego. She passed away in 2012 at the age of 61.

Ernest Hemingway was a Nobel-winning author, widely regarded as one of America's greatest writers. In addition, he was a noted war correspondent, covering The Spanish Civil War and World War II. He was pretty handy with a shotgun, using one to take his own life in 1961 at the age of 61.

Anthony Bourdain was a chef and an adventurer. His legions of fans lived vicariously through Bourdain's travels and endevours across the globe. He lived a life of chances and risks, eventually taking his own life in 2018 at the age of 61.

Aisin-Gioro Puyi became Emperor of China in 1908 at the age of two. He mostly served as a puppet ruler, carrying out atrocities on his country at the behest of the Japanese government. He was eventually jailed by the manipulative and powerful authorities in Japan. He died of cancer at 61, expressing deep regret for his actions.

Sergei Prokofiev was a celebrated pianist and composer, best remembered for his ballet Romeo & Juliet and his "symphonic tale for children" Peter and the Wolf. He composed seven complete operas, seven symphonies, eight ballets, five piano concertos, two violin concertos, a cello concerto, a symphony-concerto for cello and orchestra, and nine piano sonatas before his death in 1953 at the age of 61.

Cynthia Myers was a popular Playboy Playmate in the 1960s. A copy of her centerfold was secretly smuggled aboard the 1969 flight of Apollo 12. Cynthia made frequent appearances on the TV series Playboy After Dark and later served as a spokesmodel for Schlitz Beer. She was an early vocal witness of Bill Cosby's illicit behavior at the Playboy Mansion, as later related in a 1994 interview. Cynthia died in 2011 at the age of 61.

Roderick Toombs adopted the name "Roddy Piper," based on his proficiency of the bagpipes. He gained worldwide popularity for his antics in the wrestling ring and, despite his villainous persona, he was a fan favorite. Roddy dabbled in film and television and made regular appearances at conventions where he mingled with his fans. He died in his sleep from a pulmonary embolism at the age of 61.

Billy Martin was a second baseman but gained his notorious reputation as a manager. Billy served as manager for several Major League Baseball teams, including five separate stints with the New York Yankees. Despite 5 World Series Championships, Billy regularly butted heads with Yankees owner George Steinbrenner. Following a dismissal at the end of the 1988 season, Billy was killed in a single-car accident on Christmas Day 1989. He was 61.

Huddle Ledbetter, better known as "Leadbelly," was a multi-instrumentalist who introduced a number of compositions into the American songbook, including "Goodnight, Irene," "In The Pines," "Midnight Special" and "Cotton Fields." He sang and wrote about topical subjects including politics and racial issues. He often advised his black audiences to "stay woke," in one of the earliest known uses of the term. Leadbelly died in 1949 at the age of 61.

Peter Lawford was an actor and cohort of Frank Sinatra in the illustrious Rat Pack. He was a constant companion of the singer. Peter married JFK's sister Patricia, giving politically-connected Sinatra an "in" with America's so-called "first family." But a politically-charged falling out with Lawford led to an end of their friendship. Peter popped up on television throughout the 60s and 70s without Sinatra's help. After years of various substance abuse, he died from a heart attack at 61.

Goru Suzuki was born on a ship in en route to Japan. Although they were residents of Oakland, his parents wanted their son to be born in Japan. Goru lived in Oakland until his family was sent to an interment camp in Utah during World War II. With a leaning toward entertainment and hoping to avoid Japanese prejudice, Goru changed his name to the more Chinese "Jack Soo" and worked as a stand-up comic and singer in a Cleveland nightclub. He appeared on Broadway and many guest roles in television before landing the familiar role of "Detective Yemana" in the sitcom Barney Miller. Jack died during the fourth season of the series at the age of 61.

I don't expect to manage a baseball team or fly into space or write a symphony or rub elbows with political figures or appear in a sitcom or write the "great American novel," but at least I have time ahead of me to accomplish at any and all of those.

I guess...

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dumb boy

Do you think I'm dumb? I don't think I'm dumb. Sure there are plenty of things about which I am not knowledgeable. I will be the first to admit that. I'm terrible at math. I don't know the technical names for medical procedures. (My wife — with no medical training or background whatsoever — will happily inform me when such terms are mentioned in a movie or TV show.) I am not mechanically inclined. I don't know much about building things, as evidenced by the three screwdrivers and four hammers that make up our household set of tools. Same goes for the ins-and-outs of automotive repair. Aside from pumping my own gas, I am lost regarding anything that goes on under the hood of my car (It is called a "hood," right?) I can't cook and I can't sew.

I can, however, identify an episode Brady Bunch within the first 20 seconds. I can recognize an actor on a fifty year old episode of The Andy Griffith Show as the same guy who appeared (much older, of course) briefly in a Season 4 episode of Seinfeld. (I am referring, specifically, to prolific character actor Bill Erwin.) I can remember nearly every drawing I have done and posted to my illustration website. I can remember, with near pinpoint accuracy, the locations of almost every celebrity grave I have visited over the past several decades. Are these qualities I have included on my resume? No. Are these qualities of which I am proud? Yes. Embarrassed by... but proud. Some of this knowledge has resulted in a small collection of coveted trophies awarded at the end of a number of cruise ship trivia contests. It has also brought on jeers and dirty looks from those who can fix cars, do math and cook.

If you are my Facebook friend or perhaps follow my antics on Facebook, you know that each morning, I post a group of "death anniversaries" for that particular day. I go through several sources and select an assortment of famous names (and not-so-famous names). Then, I choose a photo from a quick Google search to accompany my post. Sometimes the post is illustrated by a drawing I did of that particular person. In other instances, I include a photo of the celebrity's grave, if it is one I have visited. I post between three and ten celebrity death anniversaries per day, depending on if it was a particularly moribund date in history.

Each of my posts gets its fair share of "likes,"👍 "loves," ❤️ "cares" 🥰 and sometimes even "ha-has," 😂 depending on the level of "belovedness" of the celebrity in question. Some of my connections will leave a comment, usually along the lines of "awww" or "I miss him/her" or, again depending on who it is, "good riddance!" (This is usually reserved for someone like Adolf Hitler or Charles Manson.) Every so often, someone will comment with a single, out-of-context line, stating the name of the person or the most famous character they played. As an example, on November 30, I acknowledged the passing of actor-singer Jim Nabors. I received comments from a few people that merely read "Gomer Pyle." Not "I loved him in Gomer Pyle" or "I hated him in Gomer Pyle"... just "Gomer Pyle." When I see comments like that, I stare at them for some time. Does the commenter think I don't know who he is? Does the commenter think he is doing me a favor by identifying a photo that I posted and found through a Google search? Does the commenter think.....? I have to stop myself from replying: "Yes! Yes! I know! I fucking know who Jim Nabors is! I posted this! I am not, nor have I ever, posted a picture and said "This guy died on this date in this year. I have no idea who this is. Please tell me." I pass on a lot of names that I don't recognize. I don't post their death anniversaries. I leave that to their families. If I really wanted to know who they were or what they did to make them famous, I'd Google it.

I have "friends" on Facebook that I do not know. I am connected to them via the common bond of death, cemeteries and old Hollywood. I am very, very well versed in those subjects. Very well versed. Sure there are people who know more than I do about those subjects. I have gotten information from them and I am thankful for the exposure to such information. I like information. I like to learn new things about the subjects in which I am interested. I don't like to be told things that are painfully obvious. If you have seen my Facebook posts for a period of time, you should be able to gauge what I know, what I don't know and when I am joking about what I know. If you can't tell, then just sit back and wait until you can tell. But, please — please! — don't talk to me like I am stupid.

Wanna be helpful? Instead of telling me that Bob Denver played "Gilligan" on Gilligan's Island, as though you are disclosing a long-protected government secret, tell me how to change the oil in my car.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i can't go for that

I am a rule follower and a direction follower. I just am. It's just in my nature. I am irritated by people who see posted rules or understood societal policy and think to themselves: "Well, that doesn't mean me, of course. That means everyone else." I have known plenty of people who have blatantly ignored rules or instruction. One guy I know drove the wrong way down a one way street, while saying with a smile "It's okay." I have had a constant battle with people parking their cars several feet into my driveway (sometime even fully across my driveway). I often wonder, do they get out of their car, assess how they are parked and think: "Yeah. This is okay." ? I suppose they do, because I have witnessed the evidence regularly for almost forty years.

Rules are not a bad thing. They are what separates us from lower forms of life on this planet. We, as humans, have the ability to understand and follow rules. The animal kingdom has more primitive rules. If a lion doesn't like what another animal is doing, he just bites his head off. Humans, I think, are more reasonable than that.... but not by much.

It makes me crazy when people don't follow directions. Even simple ones. I don't know if it's because they don't read directions or they don't understand directions or they just don't feel the directions apply to them. (Hang on.... I'll make my point shortly.) Social media is the biggest forum for direction ignorers, Facebook specifically. Facebook is filled with folks who just look at the pictures, disregard simple directions and ask questions that could easily be answered if they would just go back and read instead of commenting first. You know, open your ears and shut your mouth.

(Okay.... here comes my point.)

Yesterday, I posted my annual JPiC Death Pool list. For those of you who have known me for some time, you are aware of my somewhat ghoulish fascination with celebrities, especially dead celebrities. I draw them. I visit their graves. I read about them and I report when a live celebrity becomes a dead celebrity. This actually began as a little race among a few friends to see who could report on a celebrity death the quickest. Since then, I have become a "grim reaper" of sorts, sometimes accused of having an inside connection with the Pale Rider himself. But — I swear — that's not true.

For many years now, I have compiled a list at the end of the year enumerating a select group of celebrities that I think will pass on in the coming year. It is not a "wish list." It is not a "hit list." It is not a "death wish." It is none of those things. It is merely an extension of my interest in all things celebrity.  When I first started doing this, I just shared it with friends, family and those who I thought might be interested. Since the advent of social media, my list sharing has become more widespread. I began posting my year-end list on Twitter and Instagram and — ugh! — Facebook, the armpit of the internet.

Facebook is the great equalizer. Everyone with access to a computer, smartphone and an opinion has the same voice as you on Facebook. And rules? Unless the mysterious watchdogs that quietly monitor subversive Facebook activity deem your particular post "offensive" and throw you in "Facebook jail," pretty much anything goes. There is limited reading on Facebook. People like to look at pictures and will read maybe the first five words of a post.... then begin to comment. They have already formed their opinion based on a picture, a headline or four or five words. So, when I started posting my Death Pool list, I accompanied my post with a bit of information that, foolishly, I thought will be informative. Invariably, it is ignored. 

For the past couple years, my Death Pool introduction has included this wording:

As I have said in previous years, this is in NO WAY a "wish list." THAT would look totally different. This is not a vendetta. This is merely a prediction with no insight or merit of any kind. Once again, please don't question my choices.

• Please don't tell me to add a name.

• Please don't ask me to remove a name.

• Please don't comment with an "OH NO!"

This is MY list. If you don't like my choices, I encourage you to make your OWN list.

And for the past couple of years — including this year — the comments have included people telling me who to add, people questioning why I included a particular name as well as several "OH NO"s. Right off the fucking bat! Doesn't anybody read? Doesn't anybody follow direction? 

I have a friend who owns a business. In his business, he has had to hire employees and he uses a custom job application. The nature of his business requires understanding and comprehension of sometimes intricate and complicated, multi-step procedures that have to be read. The job application (that he designed) is fairly lengthy, with lots of long questions and many, many lines on which applicants can write a detailed answer. However, at the very top of the application is a paragraph of instruction. The last line of the paragraph reads: "Please ignore all of the previous instructions. Just write your name on the first line and leave the rest of this application blank."

Guess how many qualified applications he has received?

Please follow directions. Thank you.

Oh, and in case you are interested, here's my 2023 Death Pool list. Happy New Year.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

revolution 9

I have become pretty active on Instagram. I've been active on social media for some time now, but recently Instagram has taken a big leap over my previously favored platform, the now-vile, politically-charged garbage heap known as Twitter. Sure, I spend waaaay too much time on Facebook (Hey! Who doesn't?), but Instagram has become more... oh, I don't know.... sociable?!?! I find it easier to post  and it's more receptive to creativity, specifically with its stickers and text and music accompaniments. I have been enjoying the enhancements that Instagram allows as far as posting my daily celebrity death anniversaries. And because I fancy myself as an artist (I know, some of you might debate that claim...), I'm always looking for new outlets for creativity. Plus, Instagram is the perfect forum to display my admittedly skewed sense of humor and my love of old television shows. So it's a win-win-win!

A few years ago, Instagram started this end-of-year thing where it allows — or even encourages — the posting of a nine-image collage consisting of one's nine most favored or "favorited" posts from the previous year. With the assistance of several third-party apps, a collage is created — available for downloading, posting and eager for comments. Other internet services have jumped on the "year in review" opportunity, with folks posting their annual granular breakdown of listening habits via Spotify, Pandora and other music-streaming platforms of which I don't use. (Yep, I still listen to the radio.) Instagram's "Best Nine" apps were clunky at first, but have since been reworked and a suitable-for-posting compilation is ready in just a few minutes.

I did mine for 2022 a few days ago and I am posting it here before I post it to Instagram. (Oooh!  JPiC exclusive content! And you don't even have to be a Patreon member!) In past years, I got just a random mish-mash sampling of disjointed and unrelated posts from the previous year. This year, however, I was intrigued by how spot-on my selections were. Of course, there are drawings. I suppose the majority of my Instagram posts are drawings. After all, I like to draw. But the five chosen drawings featured three dead celebrities and quotes from two that are still with us. If you have been following me for any length of time, you know about my affinity for dead celebrities and propensity to immortalize them in my little corner of the internet. Also two drawings are in black & white, two are in color and one is in limited color — a very accurate overview of how I work. 

In addition to the drawings, there are photographs. I post a lot of photographs on my Instagram account. A good portion of my photographs are freeze-frame screenshots if my television. I watch an inordinate amount of television and I see a lot of cool, interesting and unusual stuff (well... to me anyway) and I feel compelled to share them. In this year's "top nine," there are two pictures from television. One is from an old TV show and one is not. The former is a scene from a 1962 episode of The Andy Griffith Show. The scene features a young Barbara Eden, three years before her iconic role as the mischievous bottle-dweller on the sitcom I Dream of Jeannie. I love to spot actors and actresses in unlikely appearances outside of a role for which they became famous. And I love to share them with the people who, like me, are fascinated by this sort of thing... all six of you. The other television photo is from a news report on CNN. I don't remember what the story was about, but I was startled by the fact that the reporter bore an uncanny resemblance to They Might Be Giants guitarist John Flansburgh. And that needed to be shared, too.

The two remaining pictures rounding out my "top nine" are a picture of our dining room table laden with a tempting array of home-baked goodies prepared by my wife, the celebrated Mrs. P. This picture, taken just prior to the onslaught of guests coming to our annual Night Before Thanksgiving Dessert Party, shows the results of a single day of baking (that's right! a single day!) and how Mrs. P makes it look so easy. (Spoiler Alert: It is not easy.) This photo is similar to other photos taken of past year's gatherings, however this one was snapped before our 38th one. These have been going on every year — uninterrupted, even by a pandemic! — for well over a quarter of a century.

The last picture is my favorite. It was taken at this past summer's XPoNetial Music Festival (presented by Subaru), a yearly outdoor music festival held over three days on the Camden waterfront — one of the few beautiful things about Camden, New Jersey. The picture shows me (uncharacteristically wearing a hat) with my two favorite people in the entire world — my wife and my son. And there's no one with whom I would rather spend three days out in the sun, listening to music and surrounded by thousands of people than these two.

I don't know why I was so taken by this little visual glimpse into the world of Josh Pincus. I just was. And, to be honest, it's hard to write a new blog post every week.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the impression that I get

I have told this story many times, so I'll tell it here...

Many years ago (probably in the middle 1980s), My wife and I were in Atlantic City with our friend Randi. (You remember Randi...) We were at Caesars Casino on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk. Atlantic City, New Jersey is a little over an hour away from Philadelphia, so it was not unusual to drive to the famed shore resort for a day trip. We would often go for dinner, a stroll on "the boards" and then into one of the casinos to try our luck at instant riches. That third one never quite came out the way we had hoped, despite our most courageous efforts.

As the evening progressed and we felt it was time to start heading home, Mrs. P and Randi needed to make a quick stop at the closest ladies' room before we left on a lengthy car ride. The parking lot at Caesars was accessed via a long narrow hallway from the casino. It had an unusually low ceiling and the width of the corridor barely accommodated four people across. (Over the years, several building renovations have changed this.) Mrs. Pincus and Randi located the rest room and I stood alongside the doorway to wait for them. To entertain myself, I watched the interesting faces in the crowd as they passed by in relatively close proximity. There were old people, young people, short people and tall people. There were men in three-piece suits accompanied by women in sparkly gowns. These couples were followed closely by disheveled-looking fellows who looked as though the last place they should be was a casino. 

I smiled to myself as this cross-section of society paraded by me. Then, in the crowd, I spotted a familiar face, one I had seen on television numerous times. It was comedian Charlie Callas. He was a staple performer on television in the 60s, 70s and early 80s. He made 50 appearances on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, as well as The Ed Sullivan Show, Merv Griffin's show and the full roster of variety shows that were so popular on the 1970s. Charlie was a regular on the Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts, often showing up in military garb and doing as dead-on impression of show biz patriarch George Jessel. Charlie was known for his rubber-faced mug and the barrage of strange noises that he would inject into his stand-up routines. Folks like Jerry Lewis and Mel Brooks loved his act so much, he was cast in films like The Big Mouth and High Anxiety just to play upon the recognizability of his stage act. On television, he was seen in The Monkees, The Flip Wilson Show and singer Bobby Vinton's short-lived series, in addition to a Carpenters special. He even popped up on an episode of The Love Boat and also provided the voice for the animated Elliot the Dragon in the Walt Disney film Pete's Dragon. If you are of my generation, you knew who Charlie Callas was. 

Well, I certainly knew who Charlie Callas was. And there he was, walking past me wearing dark glasses and a terrycloth bucket hat pulled down to his brow. Evidently, he was trying to conceal his identity, but there was no mistaking that it was indeed Charlie Callas. Curiously, not a single person pointed or whispered or acknowledged him in any way. No one but me. I smiled to myself a little wider.

Soon, Mrs. Pincus and Randi emerged from the ladies room. As we continued to walk to the parking lot, I mentioned that I had just seen Charlie Callas walk past me in the crowd. They both stopped, and with jaws agape, simultaneously exclaimed, "NO, YOU DID NOT!," as though they had rehearsed it. Now, I stopped... and scratched my head. 

"Why would I make that up?," I asked. "Do you think I'm trying to impress you? It's not like I said 'Hey, I just saw Frank Sinatra!' It was Charlie fucking Callas! The guy who sticks out his tongue and makes funny noises. That's not impressing anyone."

They both kind of sheepishly smiled. We found ourselves at the building's exit. I opened the tinted glass doors and we stepped outside. At a taxi stand, about ten feet away from us, wait for a cab, was Charlie Callas. I pointed at him. "See?," I said to my companions. Again, we were the only ones looking in his direction.

We didn't say "Hello" to him or ask for a picture (actually, in the days before cellphones, who carried a camera?) or even request an autograph. We just looked at him. And he was still Charlie Callas.

And then we went to find our car.

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

our love's in jeopardy (finale)

I usually don't weigh in on topical subjects until the subject is no longer topical. Today, I will make an exception.

I love watching Jeopardy!, the game show with a twist, where contestants offer the questions to match up with provided answers. Jeopardy! appears in syndication in most television markets paired with Wheel of Fortune. This is an interesting coupling. These two shows appeal to two entirely different audiences. Most people who watch Wheel of Fortune dislike Jeopardy! — mostly because they can't answer a single question. Wheel of Fortune doesn't require the intellect that most Jeopardy! contestants posses. All you really need to do is be able to identify letters and read, something that 90% of Wheel of Fortune contestants are capable of doing. Jeopardy! requires a vast knowledge of many subjects and the ability of quick recall. As a long-time trivia fanatic, I find I can answer a decent amount of questions on any given episode of Jeopardy! The ones I can't answer, I take as a learning experience.

I remember watching Jeopardy! in its first incarnation in the 1960s. This initial version was hosted by Art Fleming, a typical game show host in the mold of contemporaries like Wink Martindale, Bill Cullen and Dennis James. My mom — a whiz at trivia herself — would take time out of her morning of laundry and vacuuming to add to her knowledge of "World Geography" and "Potent Potables." On days when I was home from school with the sniffles (either real or imagined), my mom and I would watch Jeopardy! together over a cup of healing tea and plate of dry toast. The ever-cheerful Art Fleming would smile, introduce the contestants, read the "answers," recap the scores, congratulate the champion and console the losers and bid the television-viewing audience a fond "Good Day" at the end of 22 minutes, not including commercials. Jeopardy! ran from 1964 until 1975. It was brought back in 1978 as All-New Jeopardy! but was canceled after five months due to unpopular (and downright confusing) changes in format. The unnecessary tinkering with the game play prompted Art Fleming to turn down the offer to host when the show was revived in 1984. Scrambling for a new host, show creator Merv Griffin (yes, that Merv Griffin) took the advice of his friend Lucille Ball (yes, that Lucille Ball) and hired up-and-coming game show host Alex Trebek.

On September 10, 1984, a bright and colorful Jeopardy! premiered in syndication with host Alex Trebek. Trebek expressed in interviews that he insisted on being introduced as the host of Jeopardy!, not the star. He humbly explained that the game was the star and he was merely there to keep things moving. However, after three decades, Trebek seemed to have changed his mind, often injecting personal opinions into contestant interviews and overly berating contestants on wrong answers. One could say he earned that right after so long. I would not and I often found Trebek's behavior distracting in a "steal the spotlight" sort of way. His eye-rolling, snide remarks and sometimes mean retorts were very unbecoming. But it certainly wasn't enough to get me to stop watching Jeopardy! 

In 2019, Alex Trebek announced that he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer (coincidentally, the same type of cancer that claimed the life of Art Fleming in 1995). While fans of the show were sent reeling at the inevitable loss of the beloved Alex Trebek, the "elephant in the room" needed to be addressed — "Who would be Alex Trebek's successor?" When he passed away in November 2020, enough episodes had already been filmed to take the show into the new year. From January until the summer of 2021, Jeopardy! was hosted by a long parade of guests from all sorts of backgrounds. There were actors and newscasters and reporters and former Jeopardy! contestants, even a sports figure and a sportscaster were among the mix. Their "auditions" lasted one or two weeks and, thanks to the power of social media, there was a daily consensus on how each one fared. I watched each guest host and, with one exception, found them to be — well... completely unremarkable. And that's a good thing. I don't watch Jeopardy! for the host. I watch for the show. The show is the star of the show, just like Alex Trebek originally asserted. Each guest host had their quirks, their strengths and weaknesses. I remember that Today Show co-host Savannah Guthrie behaved as though Jeopardy! was a brand-new show that no one in the country had ever seen before, prompting her to over-explain every single move that was made by everyone. (In her defense, perhaps she herself had never seen Jeopardy! because of the early hour in which she has to get to bed in order to wake up to host an early morning news program.) 

I was actually unimpressed by the majority of the guest hosts. Any one of them would have been fine with me, with the exception of "Doctor" (and I use the term very, very loosely) Mehmet Oz. He was unbearable. He was cocky, condescending and thoroughly annoying. He commented on nearly every response (right or wrong) and made the contestant interviews all about him. "Doctor" (and again, I use the term very, very loosely) Oz and his outrageous claims regarding various medical issues specifically the COVID-19 pandemic, was (in my opinion) a poor choice by the Jeopardy! producers. The show serves as a 30-minute escape from the daily grind. Controversy has no place in a game show, especially a popular one.

After all of the prospective hosts had their time in the spotlight, the announcement came that the Jeopardy! baton had been passed to Mike Richards, the show's executive producer. Almost immediately, the internet lit up with disapproval. Complaints flooded all social media outlets, voicing dismay — and disgust — with the decision. Folks campaigned for reconsideration of their favorites among the passed-over candidates. Others vowed never to watch the show again if Mike Richards is the host. Within a day or so, however, Mike's past unsavory behind-the-scenes antics came back to — as they say — bite him in the ass. It seems that "Who is a creepy asshole?" would be the correct question to the answer "Mike Richards." Richards stepped down while filming episodes for the new season and second runner-up, actress Mayim Bialik, took over as "interim guest host." Oh yes, Jeopardy! fans, the search continues.

Personally, I don't care who hosts Jeopardy! I really don't. And honestly, you probably don't either. Did you really tune in every evening to see Alex Trebek? Did you wonder what pithy words of wisdom he would offer? No, of course not. You tuned in to see how smart you are by answering some questions. Or perhaps you'd learn something about the Galapagos Islands or Marie Curie that you didn't know before. You watched to wind down after a day at work or dealing with your neighbors or a particularly trying hour in the dentist's chair. In the big scheme of things, does it really matter who reads those questions or recaps the scores or bids you "Good day until tomorrow"? 

No. It really doesn't.

Unless it's Dr. Oz.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

happy place

Vanessa Hudgens is a popular (I guess?) singer and actress who rose to her level of fame as part of the young ensemble cast in Walt Disney's celebrated High School Musical. As a teenager, Vanessa became a staple among the prepubescent set via a generous, though well strategized, push from the mighty Disney publicity machine, much in the same way as Miley Cyrus and Britney Spears. And, like them, Vanessa has done her very best to bust out of the safe and wholesome confines of the "Disney brand." First of all, she is 31, hardly an age that would appeal to any pre-teens. But, still, she has adopted a more sultry and sophisticated persona in hopes of being recognized as an adult and taken seriously by an adult audience.

In her quest to maintain a career, she has done some good things and done some bad things — just like any one of a zillion actors trying to "make it" in a cut-throat business. She costarred in some box-office successes as well as some failures. She stayed in the positive headlines by dating her High School Musical co-star Zac Efron. She caused a bit of controversy when she carved her initials into a rock and posted the photo on her Instagram account, proudly displaying her handiwork to her nearly forty million followers. The US Forest Service wasn't among those lauding accolades on the young celebrity. The rock, you see, was in Coconino National Forest and she was ordered to pay $1000 in damages.

Well, Miss Hudgens is at it again. She posted a photo on her Instagram account for which she received a good amount of criticism. Unjust criticism, in my opinion and the opinions of some of my death-obsessed pals across the internet... and there are a lot of us. On October 10, in a time where most Hallowe'en celebrations have been stifled by the global COVID-19 pandemic, Vanessa offered a bit of the dark holiday season to her followers. She posted an artful, black & white shot from a recent photoshoot that took place in a cemetery in the storied New York burg of Sleepy Hollow. Vanessa is pictured in a clingy black dress (and accompanying face mask) cavorting among the headstones. She originally captioned the image as "my happy place." Immediately, the post was hit with a barrage of angry comments, as the internet is want to overreact to pretty much everything — including: “Why would you pose in a cemetery and post ‘happy place?’ Bruh.," “Um am I the only one who finds that disrespectful?," "Ur happy place is a cemetery?," and my personal favorite - "What's wrong with you?"

Some folks came to her rescue, noting that — at one time — a great many cemeteries were park-like places that welcomed family picnics. However, the overwhelming response was negative. Vanessa did not remove the post, though she did revise the caption to read: "Searching for that headless horseman" - a reference to Washington Irving's beloved tale that takes place in the otherwise quiet little town of Sleepy Hollow. 

I know that "the internet" is very judgmental and awfully quick to jump all over those who are deemed "objectionable." That means everyone at one time or another. But, just because something seems strange to one person, someone else could — and often does — find that same thing thoroughly enjoyable. Skydiving, getting a tattoo, eating octopus, liking the Dallas Cowboys — all of these things are both joyful and repulsive. It all depends on who you ask. Which is why I found "the internet's" initial condemnation of Vanessa Hudgens's photo so... so... offensive!

I have been visiting cemeteries for years. Years! They are fascinating, interesting and informative. In addition, I find them to be both majestic and peaceful. They are not merely storage places for the deceased. They are three-dimensional history lessons for the living. Grave markers are works of art, sometimes engraved with personal sentiment or loving memorials to the person buried beneath. Many graves are adorned with statuary, commissioned by the surviving family to honor their loved one. The grounds are usually pastoral areas of rolling lawns and shady trees, offering a tranquil retreat in which to reflect.

Or it's a cool place with dead people.

However you feel, there are a lot of people who like cemeteries. I regularly peruse the Find-a-Grave website to plot out my next cemetery field trip. I find myself craning my neck for a better look when we pass a cemetery while out running errands. Vacation destinations would often include a side trip to a nearby cemetery, much to the chagrin of my family. (They love me, so they humor me.) I belong to a private Facebook group called "The Death Hags" — a darkly humorous name for a bunch of folks who share my love of cemeteries and all things death. (Note: I have since been kicked out and banned from this group based on the feelings of a paranoid and over-zealous admin.) Before you start passing your self-righteous judgement, the group boasts eleven thousand members. So, your neighbor, your boss or even your spouse might be one of us... so watch it.

As far as Vanessa Hudgens's little jaunt through Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.... I was there in 2014. It's a beautiful spot and a local tourist attraction. It is the final resting place of some pretty notable names like Walter Chrysler, Elizabeth Arden and, of course, Washington Irving. You can visit vicariously through this link.

I am really not that familiar with Vanessa Hudgens's work and I believe I am way out of her target audience. But.... she's okay by me.

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

tv party

If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I am an outspoken smart-ass who makes fun of everything. If you are a fan of my Facebook page, you know that I have an unnatural affection (or did I just spell "obsession" wrong) for dead celebrities and the anniversaries of when they acquired that dubious title. If you are a reader of my illustration blog — either new, occasional or loyal — you have seen my dark portraits of the unsung, the recently deceased and my skewed vision of the world around me.

But, if you only follow me on Instagram, you probably think I have lost my mind completely.

Since I have been sequestered in my house for nearly... what are we up to? ..... seventeen weeks, I've been looking for things to do. Sure, I do my best to help around the house. I bring the dirty laundry down to the basement when asked. I gather and take the trash out to the curb on Tuesday nights for pick up on Wednesday morning. Then I bring the receptacles back up to our driveway. Every Saturday, Mrs. Pincus and I sweep and clean the house (mostly) from top to bottom. I even got the hang of using a Swiffer, that ingenious cleaning implement I've seen guys effortlessly guide around their spotless apartments on rather-effective television commercials. I still find myself waking up daily at 6 AM, just because of the routine I'm used to. I make myself breakfast, then park myself in front of the television. Ah, television. My friend since I was a child, television is reliable and always ready to entertain with something new or something comforting and familiar that I've seen a zillion times and can watch a zillion times more. And now, since the advent of cable, on demand and streaming services, I am never ever without something to watch.

Daytime television is strange and I'm really not sure who is its target audience. There's a lot of news. There's also game shows, soap operas, talk shows and reruns of "classic" TV shows. That's where I come in. But, based on the commercials wedged between the programming, I would like to think that I am too young to be the demographic... but, alas, I am probably not. I don't think I need a reverse mortgage, a smoother-to-insert catheter or a pillow that's endorsed by Jesus himself. But, television thinks otherwise. I just want to watch the television shows that entertained me as a child and teenager. Stupid, mindless, nearly plotless episodes of programs from a time devoid of real problems. Sure, I lost my job six weeks into this harrowing pandemic, but Beaver Cleaver losing his first baseman's mitt seems like a more pressing issue.

My typical weekday finds me shoveling Honey Nut Cheerio-s into my mouth to the accompaniment of a forty year-old episode of The Partridge Family on retro broadcaster Antenna TV. Next, my preferences lead me to The Beverly Hillbillies, then My Three Sons and two — count 'em — two episodes of Leave It to Beaver, all courtesy of the wonderful Me-TV network. Then, I grab the remote and switch to TBS, where I'll catch back-to-back showings of Seinfeld (yes, I know. The celebrated "show about nothing" doesn't quite fit into the same realm as the aforementioned sitcoms, but, I remind you that Seinfeld broadcast its last "yada-yada" 22 years ago.)

Now, I am faced with a choice. I can watch Friends, a show that on recent viewings has proven to be inconsistent in its humor and uncomfortably sexist, misogynistic, racist and homophobic than I remember. Or I can watch The Lucy Show, a mid-Sixties attempt by Lucille Ball to ride the popularity of her ground-breaking I Love Lucy, but without the comedic benefit of Desi Arnaz, William Frawley and Vivian Vance. I have seen every episode of the "classic" 50s sitcom more times that I can count. For the longest time I hated it, until I realized what I hated about it. It was Lucy. The other three stars were hysterical, evoking genuine organic laughter. Lucy, however, was so incredibly annoying and unfunny as compared to her co-stars, she made the show unbearable. Why do I choose to watch The Lucy Show, then? Well, the first three (of its inexplicable six) seasons featured Vivian Vance... and I love Vivian Vance, just for the simple fact that she remained loyal to Lucy for so long, considering Lucy's treatment of her (weight demands, second billing). By season four, Viv had had it and left the show. Despite that, Lucy had a lot of big name, show-biz connections and she managed to get every one of her friends to appear in some stupid scenario or make-shift showcase for their particular talent. I like celebrities and Lucy knew how to get 'em.

After The Lucy Show, I stick with Decades network for two episodes of The Donna Reed Show and Petticoat Junction. Sometimes, I'll switch to Dennis the Menace and Hazel, but I always come back for the gentle heartwarming adventures of my personal favorite Family Affair. By this time, it's afternoon and I'll watch The Middle, a recent sitcom which my wife and I discovered late in its original run,  but found to be very funny. Or I'll draw a picture in our third-floor office while an episode of the Nickelodeon teen sitcom iCarly plays in the background. (Don't knock it. The show, created by former actor wunderkind Dan Schneider, is chock full of clever humor that appeals to parents as well as kids.)

A little while ago — I forget exactly when, since  the concept of time is no longer relevant — I began using the magic of the Xfinity remote that works with my X1 advanced enhanced cable service (that I pay waaaaay too much for) to pause live television. I have been watching so much old TV that I have begun to see current celebrities in small, unassuming roles in forty and fifty year-old shows. Respected actors have popped up in comedies and Westerns. Familiar TV stars show up long before their fame exploded in a role to which they became so closely associated. Then, there's the same small group of actors whose names are forgotten (except by me) but whose faces are instantly recognizable in the dozens of roles they've played in dozens of shows. 

So, I regularly pause the show I'm watching, snap a picture (or two) of a particular celebrity and I post it to Instagram, to share with the world... or at least those that share my special brand of insanity. I have seen a number of actors in unlikely roles, like Jack Nicholson as a panicked father of a lost baby in The Andy Griffith Show or Angie Dickinson in full Native American makeup and costume in an episode of Gunsmoke. Mrs. Pincus has even joined in, tracking the guest stars in shows that she watches but I just can't sit through. Kathy Garver, "Cissy" from Family Affair, in Big Valley was a  great recent find. 

I even get requests from followers. Just today, a guy asked for a scene from a particular episode of The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. I get "likes" from relatives of the star in question... and sometimes the star herself, as proven by a "like" from Morgan Fairchild on a recent post acknowledging her appearance in Mork and Mindy. See? I'm not alone in my madness.

Now, if I can only figure out a way to make this little hobby profitable. Before someone has me committed.

Follow along and join the my fun.... josh pincus is crying on Instagram.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com