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

I didn't recognize the man in the mirror

Nearly thirty years ago, my wife and I were in the food court of a local mall with our son. Our son was about seven or eight at the time. Taking a break from shopping, we selected a table and ate our standard mall food fare, probably pizza or the always "safe bet" salad. As we ate I looked around at the other folks doing pretty much the same thing we were doing. It was a fine example of suburbia and I silently laughed at the tableau before me. 

I continued to eat and observe my surroundings when my glance landed upon a startling sight. Sitting at a table about ten or so feet away was a man eating his dinner alone. His head was down as he guided his food-laden fork to his mouth. Not particularly unusual... until he lifted his head up. He was the spitting image of my father. I don't mean he was a guy who kind of resembled my father. I mean he looked identical to my father. So much so, that — if I didn't know otherwise — I would have thought it was my father. But I did know otherwise. My father had passed away over eighteen months prior. This made this sighting all the more.... unusual.

I am not a believer in the afterlife or omens or signals from the Great Beyond. I cringe when I hear people interpreting the appearance of a cardinal as a representation of a deceased loved one. I dislike when folks wish dead people a "happy heavenly birthday" and I certainly do not — under any circumstances — entertain the unscientific concept of reincarnation. You want to believe those things? Go ahead. Don't foist them on me, 'cause I ain't buyin'.

But seeing my father sitting at a table ten feet away from me, eating dinner, knowing — knowing —that he died a year and a half ago.... well, it was a bit unnerving. Not enough to make me a "believer," but unnerving just the same. I couldn't take my eyes off this guy. I tapped Mrs. Pincus's hand and discreetly pointed in the direction of the man eating his dinner. "Who does that guy look like?," I asked. She glanced behind her and needed no further direction. "Holy shit!" she exclaimed, trying to lower her voice to a whisper. Her reaction let me know she understood exactly which guy I was asking about.

Next thing I knew, I found myself doing something very un-Josh Pincus-like. I went over to the guy. "Excuse me," I began. He looked up from the open sectioned Styrofoam container from which he was extracting Americanized Chinese food. "You look just like my father.," I continued, "Do I know you?" The man smiled and identified himself as "Harold Simons." I instantly recognized "Simons" as my paternal grandmother's maiden name. My memory also scrambled to register his name as my father's first cousin. Coincidentally, "Harold" was also my father's first name, leading me to believe that, in the early part of the 20th Century, there was only a limited amount of male names available. Evidently, other more exotic names like "Tristan" and "Chase" had not been invented yet. (There were several "Max"s on both sides of my wife's family.) 

I told the man my name and noted our familial relationship. He chuckled in much the same way my father used to chuckle. I invited my father's cousin over to our table and introduced him to my wife and son. We talked for quite a while. He was much nicer and way friendlier than many of the members of my father's family — most of whom were not on speaking terms with one another. After some time, we excused ourselves, explaining that we had to be getting home. We expressed parting pleasantries and went our separate ways.

I sometimes think about one day being out in the world somewhere and a kid coming up to me, having been spooked by my familiar looks. You see, every time I look in the mirror lately, I see my father looking back. It's very unnerving, making me revisit my encounter with my father's cousin/doppelganger all those years ago. I suppose that's why I avoid shaving so much. I don't want my father watching me from such a close distance.

No. That's not an "up in heaven looking down on me" reference. That's a "Jeez! I'm getting old" reference.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

feels like the first time

I keep finding him... or maybe he keeps finding me.

Perhaps you have encountered him, too.

You are in your car, waiting to enter a parking lot for a concert or a baseball game or some other large event that draws thousands of commuters to a parking facility provided by the venue to store your vehicle for a few hours. You've done this dozens of times. You drive up, pay the attendant who tosses some sort of official voucher on your dashboard and you pull away, off to seek a suitable spot to safely leave your car while you enjoy the evening's entertainment. Your interaction with the parking lot attendant — usually a young man or woman working their way through college or responsibly earning a few bucks to get their parents off their backs — is minimal, sometimes even wordless, unless you are the friendly type who greets everyone with  a rhetorical "Hey, how you doin' today?" (Unsurprisingly, I am not one of those.) But, invariably, I usually get in the entrance line behind that guy who is experiencing the "public parking lot adventure" for the very first time. It never fails! The queue line comes to a screeching and unnecessary halt while that guy in front of me begins a long and involved dialogue with the hapless (and usually disinterested) attendant. From my car-length vantage point, I can see this guy's hands expressively gesturing through his open driver's side window, I can't see a face, just the hand. And that hand is waving around as though performing an interpretive dance. Just when you think that this conversation will end, it continues. Way too long. "What," I think to myself (sometimes out loud), "could this guy possibly be asking or saying or explaining or complaining about? Pay your overpriced parking fee, you get your little ticket and you go!" But, no! It is obviously that guy's first time at a parking lot.

I know some people use them every day (sometimes several times a day), but I have not had the need to access an ATM in some time. As a matter of fact, it is so infrequent that I use an ATM, I have to seriously think about my password on each occasion. However, every time I have had the need to have some banking transactions via the convenience of an ATM, that guy is once again in front of me in line. He was issued his card and left, by the bank, to his own devices. No explanation was offered. No instructional pamphlet to read or video to watch. To be honest, how much teaching is really needed? ATMs are pretty intuitive. There is only one slot that could accommodate your card. The numerical buttons are nice and big. Hopefully, you have selected a fairly easy-to-remember four-digit access code and hopefully you have not forgotten what it is. The entire transaction should take just a few minutes (unless the machine keeps your card, which it has been known to do). Even then, after a few open-palm "bangs" on the ATM faceplate, your real beef is with the malevolent forces within the bank itself. But, that guy is having his first rendezvous with an ATM... and it is not going well. From a comfortable and socially-acceptable, privacy-aware distance, you can see that that guy has pressed waaay too many buttons after inserting his card. He appears to have canceled his transaction, only to start again, by inserting his card and, again, pressing double the amount of buttons this time around. He looks as though he is typing a report on a typewriter as opposed to merely entering a four digit number. As your patience wanes, that guy has begun the process of accessing the ATM no less that ten times. In between the fifth and sixth attempts, he turns around and, with mournful puppy-dog eyes, silently requests your help - only to shrug and return to the procedure. It is obviously that guy's first time at an ATM and here I am.... once again.

Recently, my wife and I accompanied her young cousin to his very first Major League Baseball game. As the game made its way to the late innings, Mrs. P thought it would be a nice idea to get him one of those "My First Baseball Game" certificates that all MLB stadiums offer. It's a cool memento and it's totally free, which is very nice in these days of six-dollar hot dogs and eighteen-dollar beers. A little research on the stadium's website revealed that the certificates are readily available at the Fan Services window which is located a short walk from  our seats. We hopped up at the bottom of the seventh inning, excused ourselves and made our way through the concourse to our destination. Navigating through the wandering crowd, we spotted the "Fan Services" sign jutting out from a wall just ahead. There was a woman at the window when we arrived. She must have been that guy's spouse. Keeping a respectful distance from her, we could see that she was waving her arms and gesturing to the poor young lady on the receiving side of the window. Mrs. That Guy went on and on and on, flailing her arms, stomping her feet and tapping the window to make her point. "What," I thought to myself, "could have possibly happened to this woman to warrant such an animated display? I don't believe she was pitching for the home team when back-to-back home runs were given up. I'm sure the manager didn't bench her for not running out an an infield hit. Eventually, she concluded her rant. The young lady behind the counter made a phone call and soon handed that woman something that made everything all better. Perhaps this was her first baseball game and her expectations were not satisfactorily met. And we were there to witness it.

Everything from self check-out at the supermarket to the simple operation of an automatic door to a traffic signal turning from red to green... I have been lucky enough to get a first-hand, eyewitness view of that guy's first time for everything. We always find each other. Most of the time, though, he's first.

Interestingly, when he is not first and I manage to get a seat in front of him, say at the movies or a concert or sporting event), he lets me know he is there. 

How?

He kicks my seat through the whole event.

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

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

hollywood swinging

Last week, as you may recall, I wrote a rambling, near incoherent piece (I know, I know...that describes most of my writing) about the Mid-Atlantic Nostalgia Convention (MANC), the annual gathering of all things pop culture from the innocent days of my youth, as well as a contingency of representative celebrities from the same era.

This show marks the first time that I attended one of these shows that I did not purchase a single autographed photo. Instead, I approached each celebrity (with a few exceptions), offered words of praise and presented them with color print of one of eight drawings I did especially for this show. It turns out that — believe it or not — celebrities are people just like you and me. Every one has his or her own unique personality. Some are nice. Some are not. Here are the reactions I got from some of this years' special guests:

Ricou Browning. Sure, the name may not sound familiar, but this guy has had quite a career. Starting out performing  in and producing entertainment at Florida's Weeki Wachee water park, Ricou was recruited to star as the terrifying "Gill Man" in Universal Pictures classic Creature from the Black Lagoon, as well as its two sequels. Ricou, who is now the only living actor to have portrayed one of the Universal Monsters, performed all of the underwater scenes while another actor played the dry-land version of the title character. Ricou was also a stuntman and stunt coordinator for films and television shows, including Gentle Ben, Sea Hunt, The Aquanauts and Flipper, a series he created. He was the second unit director for Thunderball, Caddyshack and one of the Police Academy franchises. He served as director for the family films Hello Down There, Salty and the cult favorite Mr. No Legs. Now 87, the once barrel-chested robust Ricou is a small, gentle man who accepted my rendering of his classic role with grace and heartfelt appreciation. Ricou's daughter, who accompanied her father at the show, expressed equal gratitude.

Diahann Carroll. The Tony Award-winning actress and singer can look back on her career with great pride. She was nominated for an Academy Award for the title role in the 1974 film Claudine. She starred in the groundbreaking television series Julia in the late 1960s, a role for which she earned a Golden Globe. Diahann has worked with Sammy Davis Jr., Paul Newman, James Earl Jones, Sidney Poitier and many others, She was married to singer Vic Damone for ten years. When I presented Ms. Carroll, now 83, with a drawing depicting her from an early time in her career, she seemed distracted, commenting that "short hair styles were nice." Otherwise, her reaction was fairly indifferent.

Ed Begley Jr. The lanky blond actor is familiar to most people for his portrayal of "Dr. Victor Ehrlich" in the NBC medical drama St. Elsewhere. Since then, Ed has appeared in dozens of TV series and films, bringing a touch of quirky humor to each role. I approached his table at MANC during a slow period and found the actor sitting alone with his hands folded like a schoolboy. When I handed him a glossy print of his deadpan visage as the aforementioned Dr. Ehrlich, he offered a quiet — nearly whispered — "thank you." Then, when I explained that I did the drawing, his fair eyebrows arched and his pale brow wrinkled. "You're very talented." he continued in a doleful monotone.

Kristy McNichol. Known for her Emmy-winning role as "Buddy" Lawrence on the ABC drama "Family," Kristy drew critical acclaim throughout her career. As one of the most popular teen stars of her era, she appeared in theatrical and television films, as well as a co-starring role on five seasons of the sitcom "Empty Nest," and guest appearances on other episodic television. In 2001, she abruptly announced her retirement from acting, much to the disappointment of her fans. Kristy devoted her new-found time to charity work and teaching acting. At the age of 50, she came out as a lesbian in hopes of showing support to younger people who are bullied because of their sexuality. Kristy was very receptive and warm as I handed her the drawing did. She smiled and laughed when I told her I saw Little Darlings in the theater when it was released in 1980.

Trina Parks. An accomplished singer, dancer and choreographer, statuesque beauty Trina Parks has the distinction of being the first African-American "Bond Girl." Her uncredited portrayal of "Thumper," one of the villainous "Blofeld's" cronies was brief but crucial in the plot of 1971's Diamonds Are Forever and forever tagged her as the answer to a pretty cool piece of pop culture trivia. She was also featured in a few "blaxploitation" movies in the 70s, as well as dancing on several variety shows and specials. I waited patiently while a gaggle of lumbering MANC employees gathered around Ms. Parks's table, arranging themselves and snapping pictures without regard for other convention attendees who were also waiting for the opportunity to speak with the actress. When they finally cleared away, I gave Trina a drawing and her face lit up. She complimented me over and over again. I mentioned to her that my wife and I caught her recent appearance of the revival of To Tell the Truth, where she was presented along with two impostors as the game's objective of choosing who was the "Bond Girl." She told me that she was originally contacted by the show's producers with the premise of having the panel guess who was the first African-American "Bond Girl." She further explained when she arrived for the taping, expecting to find two other black girls, she was told plans had changed and the ethnicity aspect was scrapped. Admittedly, I am not a big fan of the James Bond series. I don't think I ever saw Diamonds are Forever, so I was not familiar with Ms. Parks's role at all. However, she was so sweet and engaging that our little tête-à-tête was an unexpected and welcome high point of the afternoon.

Morgan Fairchild. Born Patsy Ann McClenny in Dallas, Texas, aspiring actress Morgan Fairchild landed her first screen role as a double for Faye Dunaway in Bonnie and Clyde. Miss Dunaway could do a lot of things, but she shouldn't drive a stick shift. That's where young Morgan's talents first emerged. She went on to make numerous appearances in episodic television, usually handling the type-cast requirements of a conniving vixen. Morgan was a regular on the nighttime soap operas Flamingo Road, Falcon Crest and Paper Dolls. She made a number of made-for-television and theatrical films, including her poker-faced cameo on Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. She was the epitome of over-the-top 80s glamour. Unfortunately, that look does not bode well in 2018. Morgan was cordial when I greeted her with a drawing. Her hulky assistant, however, seemed a bit over-protective, but Morgan (who was surprisingly much shorter of stature than I expected) daintily shook my hand and demurely thanked me for my artistic efforts.

Robert Wagner and Stefanie Powers. The TV power "couple" from ultra-cool detective series Hart to Hart were sequestered in their own, guarded area of the convention floor, curiously treated like royalty. Robert Wagner, now approaching his ninetieth year, was seated behind his table, looking fittingly dashing in an open collar and ascot — begging the question "Does anyone besides fading movie stars wear those things?" I brazenly jockeyed my way past the preoccupied security to the edge of his table as an assistant extended a cautionary arm in my direction. "Mr. Wagner is about to attend a Q & A session," he warned. I explained that I merely wanted to gush a little "fan appreciation" and give him a drawing that I had done. Despite graying temples and few crow's feet, Robert Wagner still displays the rugged good-looks that brought him modest notoriety for over fifty years and 148 IMDB credits. He examined my drawing and scowled. He poked an accusatory finger at his likeness and spat, "You made me look like Kirk Douglas!" I offered an embarrassed grin and replied, "Well, you do look like Kirk Douglas!" What I should have said was: "At least I didn't help Christopher Walken kill my wife."... but I didn't wish to cause a scene. As I turned my attention to Stefanie Power's direction, I saw Mr. Wagner drop my drawing on the floor behind his chair.

Wagner's co-star, the lovely Stefanie Powers certainly lacks the sex appeal she exuded in the single season of the spy series The Girl from U.N.C.L.E., but at 75 she looks pretty darn good — kind of like those ladies you see power-walking in the early morning hours around the blacktop track at one of those over-50 gated communities. When I gave Stefanie a duplicate drawing of my Hart to Hart piece, she responded with a polar opposite reaction from her co-star. She literally squealed with delight and showed it around to a group of her travelling companions. She shot me a big smile and thanked me. That made up for Robert Wagner's arrogance.

Tim Reid, Howard Hesseman and Jan Smithers. Three stars of the ensemble cast of the 70s sitcom WKRP in Cincinnati were in attendance. Previously-announced and confirmed Loni Anderson had to back out at the last minute. The trio was even further removed from the festivities, as a lengthy queue line was carefully metered for nearly the entire day. Access to their cordoned-off area was tough. However, just as Mrs. Pincus and I had decided to call it a day, I made one last attempt to gain access to the stars of the radio industry sitcom. At this late hour, the line had dissipated and Tim Reid was just sitting at his table fiddling with his phone. I walked up to him, introduced myself and told him I was a fan of all of his work. I quickly scanned his selection of photographs to remind myself of his post-WKRP projects. He chuckled when I told him I even liked his work in the TV mini series of Stephen King's It. I gave him a drawing and he seemed amused as he shook my hand. Tim returned to the pressing matter of his phone as I turned to my right and spotted an ancient-looking bedraggled Howard Hesseman and a frail-looking, gray-tressed Jan Smithers. I felt they didn't need to hear my praise and could do without my silly drawing. I decided I was finished for the day.

Two additional guests that cancelled in the eleventh hour were I Dream of Jeannie star Barbara Eden and Hollywood Squares host Peter Marshall. Mr. Marshall had an emergency family commitment to attend to. Ms. Eden, as we were told, was spooked by the on-coming Hurricane Florence. Signs posted around the convention expressed their regrets and pledged a make-up visit in 2019. I sure hope so because I did drawings of them too. I just hope they don't appear in my "Dead Celebrity Spotlight" before I get the opportunity.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

break on through to the other side

When I created the "Josh Pincus is Crying" character over a decade ago, I did my very best to maintain the illusion of the outspoken, opinionated, little red-headed stepchild that lives inside of all of us. I decided that rascally persona would remain online and online only, presenting my twisted illustrations, my somewhat dark sense of humor and my cranky demeanor as a goofy magnified version of the real me. I was able to keep the online "Josh" separate from the real-life "Josh" for quite some time.

Between Twitter and Instagram and, more recently, Facebook, I gained followers from all across the country and even across the world. Soon, I started to let small bits of my real life trickle into the online version of me, I infrequently posted photos of myself (previously a big no-no), although I tried to obscure my face, only allowing my "trademark" red hair to identify me. Sure, there are plenty of people who knew me in my pre-Josh Pincus days, but the more personal information I let slip out on my blogs (the one you're reading and my illustration blog), the more my two lives were brought together, making me more recognizable to those who only know me as that red-haired smart-ass who complains about everything and draws dead people.

April

Still only a handful of people who know the online Josh have met the real Josh. The first was voice actress April Winchell. Among her many talents, April briefly ran a website called Regretsy.com (now defunct), a hilarious dig at the artsy etsy.com. April relentlessly scanned the numerous entries on etsy.com, seeking out (and making fun of) the cream of the crap. I was a frequent commentor on Regretsy.com, regularly acknowledged by Miss Winchell. One year into the website's run, April published a book based on the Regretsy site, presenting the "best of the worst" that etsy.com had to offer. She went on a limited book tour that brought the transplanted Californian back to her native New York. My family and I attended the book-signing event and when I approached the table to get my book inscribed, I sheepishly (well, actually boisterously) revealed myself as "Josh Pincus." April lit up and afforded me a warm hug. We have remained in touch, albeit infrequently.

Indigene

Surviving my first real-life "Josh Pincus" encounter, I dove headfirst into my second one. Through my long-time association with Illustration Friday, an online weekly artistic challenge, I have interacted with fellow artists around the globe. One of those artists — Indigene — I discovered, lives near me in the Philadelphia suburbs. Indigene is a real artist (not like me and my silly little drawings), using all sorts of media to create unique pieces of striking beauty. I saw that she was participating in a small showing at a house/gallery not far from me, so I decided to surprise her. After a morning traipsing through a couple of cemeteries, I arrived at the location of Indigene's art exhibit. I entered the house. Towards the back of the cramped basement, I spotted Indigene's work displayed along a long wall. I surmised that the woman alongside the pieces was Indigene. She was speaking with some prospective buyers, so I waited patiently. When she turned her attention to me, I smiled and introduced myself, first by real name, then as Josh Pincus. She shrieked and threw her arms around me. I suppose this is the reaction I should have expected. From her perspective, it was like meeting an imaginary being — finding out they are, in fact, real. Suddenly, I'm like Santa Claus. Maybe a little closer to Freddy Krueger.

Amy

One evening at the end of last year, my son and I went to see local (but soon to bust out worldwide) rock and rollers Low Cut Connie at a hometown show at the grand old Trocadero, a one-time vaudeville theater - turned strip club - turned concert venue. Before the show began, my boy and I were standing in our usual "down in front of the stage" position chatting, when we were approached by a woman. She hesitantly spoke to me, asking the single syllable, "Josh?" I had never seen her before and, at first, I found it a little unnerving. My son E., a DJ on a Philadelphia radio station and a self-proclaimed "minor local celebrity," is used to getting recognized. But, me...? I'm just a regular guy... with bright red hair. She introduced herself as "Amy" and confessed to being a Twitter follower and a big fan of Josh Pincus. In the darkened lights of the venue, it must have been difficult to see that I was blushing. It was equally as difficult to see that E. was rolling his eyes. Amy jabbed her husband in the ribs and pointed in my direction. "This is Josh Pincus!," she excitedly explained. He appeared as disinterested as everyone else in the room. "Who's Josh Pincus?," he obligingly asked. "You know," she said sternly, "the artist from the internet!" He obviously didn't know, nor did he care. But, it was still pretty cool — and a little embarrassing — to get recognized. I have seen Amy at other concerts, as well as on Twitter. She says she proudly wears her official "Josh Pincus" buttons, but "proudly" is a relative word.

Mrs. Pincus and I just returned from our sixth cruise. That's right — sixth! I realize that I have become the person that I made fun of on our first cruise. We had a great time, but, to tell you the truth, all cruises are the same. Our experience has been nearly identical on each sailing. Sure, the faces change and the entertainment may be slightly different, but the overall experience is the same. That's not a bad thing. It's enjoyable, fun and relaxing, it's just the "cruise experience."

A few weeks prior to our departure date, Mrs. Pincus joined a Facebook group specifically for our cruise. She began interacting with various members of the group and soon, she was referring to "Marilyn this" and "Richard that" and "George said this." "Who are these people?," I asked. She explained that I would meet them all on our upcoming cruise. After a week or so, I felt like I was going on this cruise with my wife and a bunch of her friends. One evening, my wife was telling me about a member of the Facebook group who blogs about cruises and mentioned that she has a child with severe food allergies. I paused and, out of nowhere, I asked, "Does she live in Toronto?" Mrs. P shot me a look of confusion. "I don't know. I'll check.," she replied. A quick scan of Facebook yielded an affirmative answer. This woman did indeed reside in Toronto. It turns out that we have been following each other on Twitter for years! I write regularly about my past adventures in Disney theme parks. She contributes to a blog that asked to use one of my illustrations. Since our initial connection, I have been sending her links to my Disney-centric blog posts. Over the years, we discovered that, among other things, our children both saw their first baseball games at Toronto's SkyDome (now the Rogers Centre). And, of course, I have made playful fun of Canada at her expense... but I make fun of everything. I shot her a quick private Twitter message to let her know that — ta daa! — we would be on the same cruise. 

Hiromi

A meet and greet gathering was scheduled for the Facebook group for the first full day at sea. On that morning, Mrs. P and I headed to the ship's buffet, what would be the first of many, many visits during our week at sea. We called for an elevator and when the doors opened, there was already a passenger inside. The woman looked at Mrs. Pincus and exclaimed, "You're Susan!" By strange chance, it was Hiromi, my Twitter pal. We all laughed and embraced. An hour or so later, we formally met at the meet and greet, along with many other members of the Facebook group. I had to explain to Hiromi that "Josh Pincus" is a pseudonym, but she took to calling me by my real name almost instantly. Later in the week, we had a lovely dinner with her, her husband and son. (Hiromi has a teenage daughter that we met for a fleeting moment, as she spent the week off doing "teenager-y" things, sans parents.) Mrs. Pincus, the nicest person in the world, prepared little gift bags for Hiromi's children. We were sailing over Hallowe'en and she didn't want them to miss out.

On the evening of the day Mrs. P and I arrived home, I went to a concert with my son, my brother and a few friends. Before the show, I was telling my brother about the Twitter-Hiromi-Cruise internet triangle, and how my "online" life was slowly crossing paths with my "real" life. Our conversation was interrupted by a young woman who walked past me and cheerfully said, "Hi, Mr. Pincus!" I cocked my head and tried to place her. She said she follows me on Twitter and we had met earlier in the year at an outdoor music festival. My brother, surprisingly impressed, shook his head and laughed. "Boy," he observed, "you are quite the celebrity." 

After the show, singer Nicole Atkins was busily attending to her merchandise. Nicole, a stellar performer with a magnificent voice, is friends with my son. My pal Steve approached her merch table to purchase an album and he asked me if Nicole knew me. I said, while we have met, it was some time ago. I would probably have to explain who I am. As we drew nearer to the table, Nicole looked up, gave a little wave and, with a smile, said, "Hi, E.'s dad."

Okay, now, it's getting weird.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

for pete's sake

In between commercials for reverse mortgages, suing for a wrongly-applied trans-vaginal mesh and Life Alert® (the good people who brought you the unforgettable "I've fallen and I can't get up!"), I started seeing announcements on my favorite nostalgic TV network for an appearance by Peter Max at an art gallery not too far from my home. So, on Saturday afternoon, with nothing else to do, Mrs. P and I ventured out to the Wentworth Gallery* in the tony King of Prussia Mall to maybe have a close encounter with the artist.

In the 1960s, Peter Max was a pretty big deal. Taking the pop art movement to a more commercial (read: money-making) level, Max's work appeared in advertisements for 7Up, while slyly remaining an icon for the burgeoning hippie counter-culture and a friendly face of the otherwise malevolent world of psychedelia. With his charming good looks and guest shots on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and The Ed Sullivan Show, he made himself even more accessible to Mr. and Mrs. Average American. And he got very, very rich. He remained popular into the early 70s, as the United States Postal Services commissioned his work for postage stamps. He was contracted to create a series of paintings featuring the Statue of Liberty in conjunction with nation's Bicentennial celebration. Although he remained active and viable, with commissions from Major League Baseball and the Grammy Awards, his popularity and relevance was at its height in the carefree and wild 1960s.

In 2012, Max designed the art for the hull of the Norwegian Cruise Line's massive ship Breakaway, just prior to its maiden voyage. Mrs. P and I sailed on the Breakaway in February 2014. So, before we drove out to the local Wentworth Gallery, I printed a photo that I had taken of the vessel docked in the ice-filled waters surrounding the Manhattan Cruise Terminal. Maybe we could get him to autograph it.

"I could buy this friggin' ship."

We arrived and parked in the multi-level garage at the mall. We found an entrance and began our search for the gallery. Just past the second-floor entrance to Bloomingdale's, a large crowd was converging on a small glass-fronted store, its windows displaying the unmistakable work of Peter Max. The tiny gallery was packed with all sorts of people — kids, older folks, peers close to my age — all craning their necks and standing on tip-toes for a glimpse of Peter Max. My wife asked a smiling gallery employee about the evening's policy for meeting the artist. He explained that original works were available for purchase, that would include a personal inscription on the piece, as well as a professional photo with Mr. Max. "If there is time later," he continued, "he may offer additional autographs." He also noted a strict protocol of no personal photography.

We stood in the midst of the crowd, catching an obscured peek at Mr. Max, as he wielded a Sharpie across the brown kraft-paper backing of a rather large farmed piece of one of his paintings. With an exaggerated flourish, he scribbled some lengthy sentiment, finishing it off with a large "MAX" and punctuating it with the year 2015. In his ill-fitting tweed blazer and ridiculously sparse comb-over, he was hardly recognizable as the one-time charismatic virtuoso of  kaleidoscopic artistry. 

The signed piece was suitably bubble-wrapped and handed off as another gallery worker called out a name from an official-looking log of buyers and waited for an acknowledgement. Mr Max turned and faced the immediate crowd with a cocked, if somewhat disinterested smile. Many people began shoving an assortment of books, posters and other ephemera in his direction. He dutifully swiped a signature across each one while the next paying art collector made themselves known. Mrs. P asked me for the Breakaway photo and I quickly slid it out of the manila envelope I held at my side. She took the picture and wormed her way up to the velvet rope barrier that separated the common gawkers from the artist and those willing to overpay for the privilege of getting really close to him. Mrs. P. caught his attention and offered the photo to him, saying with a grin, "My husband and I sailed on the Breakaway last year."

He looked at the picture and muttered atonally, "How do you spell your name?" She replied and he scribbled, obviously not interested in any further conversation.

The next buyers were located and ready for their little meet-and-greet and the gallery employee asserted, "Peter Peter? Peter?," trying to get the artist's attention. Max turned and sneered, "How many times are you planning to say my name?"

My wife stepped away from the still-clamoring group, holding the signed photo high above her head. "Well," she assessed, approaching me and handing over the picture to slip back into its protective envelope, "he certainly isn't as good looking as he used to be,"— adding, "And he's a bit of a jerk."

Artists. We can't get a break.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*The Wentworth Gallery is an East coast chain of art galleries located primarily in shopping malls that cater to the clueless affluent who are solely out to impress. They bring well-known contemporary artists to the upscale masses, actually presenting authentic works by Henri Matisse and Pablo Picasso alongside those by Paul Stanley... yes, that Paul Stanley. It's sort of the art equivalent of The Capital Grille.