I just had to laugh, I saw the photograph

If there's one thing I've learned about the internet, it's I'll never learn.

A few days ago, I posted the above picture on my Facebook page. If you are not currently my Facebook "friend" or if you are unfamiliar with the weird, wonderful and often wacky world of Josh Pincus, let me tell you... I post a lot of stupid shit on Facebook. I know, I know — everyone posts stupid shit on Facebook. But, the stuff that I post has only one purpose — and that's to make me laugh. Not, necessarily to make you laugh, but to make me laugh. If you happen to laugh along the way, well good! But, believe me, that was not what I set out to do. I find a lot of things funny and they may not be the same things that you find funny. Honestly, more often that not, you won't find them funny. But, as long as I do... well, mission accomplished.

So, as I started to say before I interrupted myself, I posted the above picture on Facebook. It is allegedly one of the last pictures taken of The Beatles as a group. Supposedly, it was taken as part of a photoshoot at John Lennon's home on August 22, 1969. The caption I wrote to accompany my post read:

When this photo was taken...

John Lennon was 30.

George Harrison was 27.

Paul McCartney was 28.

The drummer was 30.

Now, the purpose of this post — as I have previously stated — was for my own amusement and it covered a few of my... um.... uh... shall we say "obsessions." First, there's my long-standing fascination with people's ages. I am constantly confounded by old photos of stalwart-looking celebrities or actors on television sporting gray hair and wizened features, only to find out that they were twenty or even thirty years younger that I am now. I still can't get over that fact that Carroll O'Connor was just 46 when All in the Family premiered. 46! Or that Brad Pitt and Art Carney were the same age when they won their respective Oscars — and that age was 56. I just discovered that Julie Andrews was just 28 when she filmed Mary Poppins. 28!

Secondly, this photo plays into my long-running, exclusively one-sided nonsensical feud with beloved (by some) Beatles drummer Ringo Starr. I have have a completely unfounded disdain for the left-handed Liverpudlian stickman. I regularly post jabs at Ringo for no other reason than it makes me laugh and it pisses Beatles fans off. Folks who know Josh Pincus personally and have kept up with my internet antics, know of my feelings towards the probiscusly-endowed percussionist — and they know (I think) that's it's all just a stupid joke that has gotten way out of hand. Now,  it's too late to stop. It's also too funny to stop.

Speaking of Beatles fans, especially Beatles fans of a certain advanced age — they are a relentless bunch. Beatles fans as a whole, are predominantly old, predominantly white and predominantly uncompromising and very defensive of those four mop tops. They spend a good portion of their time on the internet trying to educate members of the younger generation on how great the Beatles were and how you should not be listening to any band except The Beatles. Never mind the fact that the Beatles' last album of completely original material came out 56 years ago. 56 years ago! That is ancient history to someone in their teens. This was five years before the Vietnam War "officially" ended. To someone currently in eighth grade, the Vietnam War was fought between the United States and England and ended when the Constitution was signed. And Paul Revere announced "I shall return" somewhere along the way. Nevertheless, die-hard Beatles fan love to expound on how there would be no Oasis or Nirvana or Metallica or Taylor Swift or hip-hop or sliced bread or NASCAR if it weren't for the Beatles. But, younger generations (with a few "old soul" exceptions) couldn't possibly care less. To them, the mighty Beatles were just another band that their parent's parents listened to. 

So, I posted that picture and that caption and I moved on. I'm sure I posted a stupid sign or a misspelled headline or the death of some obscure celebrity. By that time, I have forgotten all about my Beatles post. But... the internet would not let me forget. The post got 87 reactions, 5 "shares" and a whopping 46 comments — mostly from people that I am not connected to... or even know. Most of them were furious that I did not identify Ringo by name, with several going so far as to actually tell me his name. Others haughtily corrected me on the date of the photo and the ages of the subjects. A few of those people went on to contradict each other on the actual ages. One of them pointed out that John (in the photo) looks like his son Sean, who is now 50. (Off topic and I don't give a shit.) One commenter felt compelled to leave the single word "Nope" as their assessment. I decided not to respond to any of the comments. Any reply would have set off a lengthy argument and I have learned that no one is wrong on the internet. 

My friend Kathy summed things up nicely by inquiring: "Doesn't anyone here know you at all?"

No, Kathy, they don't. Evidently, I'm not as famous as the Beatles' drummer.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it was all of sixty-five years ago

Well, this is it. I reached a so-called milestone. Sixty-five! The traditional age of retirement... although that concept appears to be no where in sight. I expect to go out the way my father went out. Working every day until  my collapsed body is dragged out from behind my desk, a rigor mortis grip tightly locked on my wireless mouse, right in the middle of making some asshole's logo bigger for the tenth time... that day!

I suppose I should consider myself lucky. As of right now, I have outlived a lot of people who have achieved more fame and notoriety is a shorter period of time. Shorter by one year, to be exact. People like...

Lyndon Johnson and Franklin Pierce both served as president of the United States. Johnson became president after the assassination of President John Kennedy. Some pretty significant laws were passed during his administration including those concerning civil rights, gun control and social security. However, his escalation of the Vietnam War was heavily criticized. After serving a full term, he did not seek re-election. Franklin Pierce's policies were determined by historians to have contributed to the start of the Civil War. He is consistently ranked as one of the worst presidents in United States history. Both Johnson and Pierce died at the age of 64.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis was one of the most recognizable First Ladies in the history of the United States. Her iconic fashion style and genial personality made her extremely popular. She was by the side of her husband on that day in Dallas and famously wore the blood-splattered dress for days afterwards. She married shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis under much public scrutiny. Jackie became a respected editor at Viking Press and Doubleday. She died at 64 and was interred next to JFK at Arlington Cemetery.

Sammy Davis Jr. began his celebrated career in show business at the age of two. As the featured performer in the Will Mastin Trio, little Sammy delighted vaudeville audiences with his dancing, singing and personality. He went on to become an all-around, multi-talented entertainment icon, with great success in films, in nightclubs, on television, on recordings and on the Broadway stage. As a charter member of the notorious "Rat Pack," Sammy rubbed elbows with Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, yet continued to battle racism and discrimination even at the height of his career. A lifelong smoker, Sammy succumbed to throat cancer at the age of 64.

Waylon Jennings was an influential singer and a pioneer in the "Outlaw Country" genre of music. In 1959, as part of Buddy Holly's "Winter Party" Tour, 22-year old Waylon gave his seat on the plane to J.P. Richardson (The Big Bopper) who was suffering from the flu. Waylon would take the tour bus instead to the next stop. Buddy Holly argued with Waylon about the transportation choices, until finally agreeing to take the plane, quipping to Waylon "I hope your bus freezes." to which Waylon jokingly replied: "I hope your plane crashes."  Waylon lived another 42 years, dying in 2002 at the age of 64.

Hannibal was a general and war strategist who famously led the Carthaginian army across the Alps on elephants to battle the mighty Roman Empire. His assaults spooked the Roman so that the cry of "Hannibal ad portas" (Hannibal is at the gates!") was applied to any grave and threatening situation. Hannibal lived to be 64.

Donna Reed was a popular pin-up during World War II, right alongside beauties like Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth. Always a favorite in films, Donna won an Oscar in 1953 for her out-of-character turn as a prostitute in From Here to Eternity. Based on the role, Donna was inexplicably recruited to play a typical suburban housewife in the long-running sitcom The Donna Reed Show. She later briefly took over the role of family matriarch "Miss Ellie" on the night-time soap Dallas. When original actress Barbara Bel Geddes opted to return to the role, Donna sued for breach of contract. She passed away a short time later at the age of 64.

"Shoeless" Joe Jackson was a pretty good baseball player. He had a career batting average of .386 and set several team records that still hold today. In 1919, as a member of the Chicago White Sox, Joe, along with his teammates, was accused of throwing the World Series as part of a deal with organized crime. Although he admitted to accepting bribe money, Joe made several spectacular plays and  hit the only home run in the series. Nevertheless, ruthless baseball commissioner Kennesaw Mountain Landis imposed a lifetime ban from baseball on eight players. Joe went on to manage a few amateur teams and later opened a dry cleaner with his wife. He died in 1951 at 64.

Malcolm Young was a founding member of the Australian band AC/DC. With his younger brother Angus on lead guitar, Malcolm assembled the band who opened a 1977 European tour for headliners Black Sabbath. Their stage presence, searing guitars and screeching vocals by Bon Scott catapulted the band to international stardom. Malcolm suffered from alcoholism, then later lung cancer and heart ailments. An eventual diagnosis of dementia ended his playing career in 2014. He retired from the band and passed away in 2017 at the age of 64.

Tiny Tim was born Herbert Khoury and had been performing his brand of folk singing since the 1950s under a series of stage names. He performed on a stage at the Expo 67 World's Fair, where the crowd pelted him with beer cans. Tiny Tim appeared on the very first broadcast of Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In, much to the bewilderment of co-host Dick Martin. Tiny Tim went on to appear on the show 22 more times. He became a pop culture curiosity, with stints on The Ed Sullivan Show, The Tonight Show and even charting on the Billboard Hot 100. He enjoyed a nine-day run at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. He remained an enigmatic performer into the 90s. In 1996, he suffered a heart attack on stage while singing his signature "Tip Toe Through the Tulips." Several attempts at resuscitation were unsuccessful. Tiny Tim was 64.

Al Jolson was wildly popular in his day. He was known as "The World's Greatest Entertainer" years before Sammy Davis Jr. Al's unique song stylings and exaggerated facial expressions were keys to his success. His appearance in 1927's The Jazz Singer, the first "talking" picture, only added to his mystique. Al was the first performer to entertain troops overseas during World War II. He even provided his own voice for actor Larry Parks to lip-sync in the biopic The Jolson Story. He died four years after its release at the age of 64.

Lisa Loring played the adorably morbid "Wednesday Addams" in the 1964 sitcom The Addams Family, based on the cartoons of the equally-morbid Charles Addams. Later, Lisa was "Cricket Montgomery" on the long-running CBS soap opera As The World Turns. Lisa stayed in the industry, working behind the scenes as a make-up artist. She frequently appeared at conventions where she loved to mingle with her fans. She died unexpectedly from a stroke at 64.

Gig Young was a well-known and popular actor, although reportedly difficult to work with. Always an intense performer, Gig won the 1970 Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his role in They Shoot Horses, Don't They? His reputation as an alcoholic lost a lot of acting roles for him. Producer Mel Brooks offered Gig a "comeback" role in his comedy Blazing Saddles. Gig showed up drunk for the first day of shooting, experiencing an episode of the delirium tremens on set. He was fired, with Gene Wilder taking over the role. In 1978, just three weeks after marrying his fifth wife, Gig fatally shot her then shot himself. He was 64.

Joseph Pulitzer was a renowned newspaper publisher and a leading figure in the Democratic Party. He had a fierce professional rivalry with William Randolph Hearst. He set up and subsidized the world's first school of journalism and Columbia University. Six years after his death at 64, Columbia University awarded the first prizes for journalism named in Pulitzer's honor.

Allan Pinkerton was a barrel maker by trade. While out in the woods looking for wood, he stumbled upon a band of counterfeiters. Allan observed their actions and reported them to the local sheriff's office. This led to his appointment as Chicago's first police detective. This led to his own private detective agency. Allan foiled an early plot to assassinate President Lincoln. He also provided military intelligence for the Union Army during the Civil War. Later, he became a major opposition to the labor movement in the United States, generally tarnishing the Pinkerton legacy. In 1884, Allan slipped on a sidewalk and bit his tongue. He contracted gangrene and died at the age of 64.

Malcolm McLaren served as manager for early punk bands including The New York Dolls, Bow Wow Wow and Adam and the Ants. In 1977, he introduced the world to Johnny Rotten and the Sex Pistols. Malcolm dabbled in fashion merchandising, as well as a solo musical career and an unsuccessful run for Mayor of London. He was diagnosed with peritoneal mesothelioma and died from the disease at 64. His last words were "Free Leonard Peltier," referencing an imprisoned Native American activist convicted of murdering two FBI agents.

None of these people lived long enough to collect Social Security, be eligible for Medicare or obtain a SEPTA senior pass for free transportation. I may not have started a detective agency or a journalism school. I may not have represented famous rock bands. I may not have dodged death in a plane crash or been elected president of the United States (or even married one), but I'm here to write about it.... and they're not.

Happy birthday to me. Another one down.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hidden treasure

Remember those stories about someone who picked up a non-descript framed painting at a yard sale, only to find that hidden behind the amateurish artwork is an original Declaration of Independence. Or someone purchasing a nice, inexpensive frame at a thrift store, discovering later that the copy of the Mona Lisa contained in the frame is the real thing? Well.... this isn't one of those stories.

My wife and I moved into our house in the late 1980s. Always a fan and frequenter of thrift stores, Mrs. P found one such establishment in a section of Northeast Philadelphia, jus a short drive from our suburban home. This was new and uncharted territory, as he had hit most of the other thrift stores within our area as well as the ones near her Queen Village apartment, where she lived when we met.

When we met, I was a second-year student at a fairly well-known and modestly respected art school in Philadelphia. I had dreams of becoming a world-renowned artist. Actually, I didn't. I did, however, hope that I could secure employment in my chosen field that would bring me enough money to support my soon-to-be wife and future family. (Over the years, that dream was both fulfilled and dashed at various times./ Such is the life of an artist.) As a student, working nights behind the counter at my cousin's health food restaurant, I could barely afford to purchase gifts when birthdays and holiday time rolled around. Instead of buying some useless trinket that would be tossed into a drawer and forgotten, I would offer family members a piece of my very own artwork. Of course, my homemade gift would be fawned over (before it was tossed into a drawer and forgotten) much to my feigned embarrassment. One year, I gave my aunt a six-color, hand-silkscreened (made with hand-cut stencils for each color) print of a character called "Flower Man." Flower Man was a guy who could be found ever weekend prowling the sidewalks of lower South Street in Philadelphia. South Street was a haven for quirky characters and, in the early 1980s, Flower Man was one of the quirkiest. Dressed in a rumbled tuxedo, his face covered in traditional identity-obscuring mime make-up, Flower Man toted a tray filled with single, long-stemmed roses. His shtick was, for a few dollars, he would trim and wrap a selected rose with innocent, but flirtatious, flair — all without the utterance of a single word. Before I met my wife, I was a veritable staple on South Street and would often bring dates to the hip mecca for dinner, maybe a movie — and always a little street-side performance by Flower Man. I was obsessed with Flower Man, He was the subject of a number of the pieces I produced at art school. I did block prints, paper sculptures and silk screened prints of Flower Man — even producing a few custom t-shirts with the image.

Mrs. Pincus had perused nearly the entire contents of the thrift store and finally brought her selected items to the front check-out counter to purchase. She got in line behind a woman who was holding her selections... including a large picture frame, the subject of which was facing away from my wife. When it was her turn, she placed her items on the counter and swung the frame up to show the cashier and ask a few questions.

"What can you tell me about this print?," the woman asked, as though the thrift store was an exclusive Park Avenue art gallery and the cashier was a highly informed art scholar. Mrs P glanced at the framed picture in question as the cashier rolled her eyes.

Then, Mrs. P let out an audible gasp. "I can tell you about it," she said. An expression of relief fell upon the cashier's face, happy that this customer was about to field any questions about the print. Mrs P continued, "The artist is my husband."

The customer and the cashier turned towards Mrs P, their eyes now widened. This woman looks to young to have been married to Pablo Picasso, their faces conveyed.

"I have no idea how this print ended up here," Mrs P explained, "but my husband made that print in art school." 

"Is your husband famous?," the potential customer asked. Mrs. P chuckled. "No, not really.," she admitted. Then she added, "But the frame is nice." The customer, now aware that she did not hold a museum piece, turned her attention back to the cashier. The transaction was completed and the customer left. She didn't even say "goodbye" or "thanks" or anything to my wife on her way out.

The mystery of my print ending up in a Northeast Philadelphia thrift store remains just that... a mystery. It's not unsurprising that some recipient of one of my homemade art school-era gifts tossed it among a pile of charity donations. 

However, that frame was pretty nice.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

get out the map

Among the many interests that I share with Mrs. Pincus (my wife of nearly forty-two years), is a love and appreciation for kitsch. We like pop culture, especially roadside attractions placed along our country's interstates and throughways for the sole purpose of quaint entertainment for families crisscrossing the land and looking for a little distraction — and perhaps a place to grab a bite to eat and a needed visit to a rest room (not necessarily in that order).

While traveling by car on our honeymoon (almost four decades ago), we stopped at arguably one of the most famous "roadside attractions" on the east coast — the notorious South of the Border. Taking up roughly 350 acres across the intersection of I-95 and US 301, South of the Border has been a welcome respite for harried vacationers and weary truckers since it opened its faux Mexican door over 70 years ago. I had never been to the Hamer, South Carolina refuge before this stop with my new bride in 1984. I had only been aware of the day-glow bumper stickers I'd seen plastered on cars that advertised the campy oasis. My father, who wouldn't dare drive further south than Cottman Avenue, would never ever afford his family the pleasure of an out-of-state excursion (Atlantic City, New Jersey being the sole exception). Mrs. P, on the other hand, was an experienced patron of South of the Border, having stopped countless times on car trips to Miami Beach in her youth.

In reality, South of the Border's popularity and staying power is a true headscratcher. Comprised of crappy gift shops, crappy convenience stores, crappy motels, crappy fast food counters and a store the size of a supermarket that only stocks the most dangerous of fireworks, South of the Border has questionable appeal. However, with clever billboards placed hundreds of miles before a single neon light is visible, South of the Border has made itself a "must stop" destination — by way of appealing to your kids' sense of curiosity and ability to whine. The first time I visited South of the Border (and every subsequent time), I've had the same feeling. "What on earth am I doing here?" And, if you look around at the other folks, wandering aimlessly across the parking lots and through the various retail outlets, they all appear to be asking themselves the same thing. Yet, people have been stopping for years, so they must know what they're doing. In recent years, South of the Border has faced financial difficulty and has been forced to sell off land and property, yet, every day, cars filled with travelers flood Instagram with duck-faced selfies posed before a backdrop of brightly-painted buildings and giant fiberglass "Pedros" (South of the Border's suspiciously-racist mascot).

On the same trip, a little further south, Mrs. P and I chanced upon our very first Cracker Barrel. This corporate recreation of the old time general store was also brought to our attention by a series of homey billboards placed enticingly along the roadside of the narrower portions of I-95. Cracker Barrel was kitschy in a different way than South of the Border, but kitschy just the same. Boasting the promise of authentic Southern cooking (including pork ribs, cornbread smeared in bacon drippings, a puzzling dish called "chicken fried steak" and other selections that were off-limits to a couple of kosher-observant Yankee newlyweds), Cracker Barrel featured a retail area chockful of tchotchkes that looked as though they were absconded from Drucker's General Store or Aunt Bee's living room. Although we didn't actually eat in a Cracker Barrel until years later when we were assured that their "world famous" pancakes did not come in contact with sausages during the cooking process, we did make several small purchases from their store and did partake of their surprisingly clean bathrooms.

Just this past weekend, Mrs. Pincus and I found ourselves driving south on Interstate 81, traversing the scenic Shenandoah Valley. Our eventual destination was a lovely bed and breakfast in Waynesboro, Virginia. This would be our accommodations while we attended the wedding of Mrs. P's cousin Veronica. If you like to see trees and mountains and trees and mountains — endlessly — for close to four hours, I highly recommend a leisurely drive on Interstate 81. Personally (and I believe I speak for my spouse as well), I prefer a more interesting journey, with stuff to see and places to stop... or at least the promise of places to stop. I-81 has trees. A lot of them. However, somewhere south of Zenda (you know where the Bethel Church of Brethren is?), we spotted a billboard in a clearing behind the proverbial "white picket fence." The ambiguously risqué sentiment announced the location of a Buc-ee's just ahead... well if you call 120 miles "just."  Buc-ee's, from what I have heard, is right up our kitsch-loving alley.

Buc-ee's is the new trend-setter in the competitive world of interstate travel stops. Leaving old stand-bys like Stuckey's, Flying J and Love's in the dust, Buc-ee's has emerged as the place to stop on your way from here to there... especially if your "here" and your "there" are in Texas. Currently, there are 55 Buc-ee's in the United States, with its Luling, Texas location deemed the "World's Largest Convenience Store," taking up a whopping 75,000 square feet. In 2018, Buc-ee's expanded outside of Texas, with its Rockingham, Virginia location (the one we were 120 miles from) welcoming excited travelers in the summer of 2025. We decided to stop at Buc-ee's on our way home... and we did.

After a weekend of nuptial-related activities, Mrs. P and I said our familial "goodbyes," loaded our luggage into our car and headed home — with a stop at Buc-ee's in our near future. Taking the Frieden's Church exit on I-81, Buc-ee's is located on 74,000 square feet on — of all places — Buc-ee's Boulevard (what are the chances?!?) We drove past the 120 gas pumps and selected an unoccupied space in the lot of 600 available spaces. The place was bustling with activity. Groups of leather-clad bikers hovered around their cycles as they enjoyed various edible offerings from Buc-ee's extensive menu. Families with kids in tow breached the entrance and scattered in all directions — Mom perusing the crafty housewares, Dad eyeing up the fresh carved brisket, bro and sis gazing hungrily at the hundreds of flavors of fudge made fresh in the store. Buc-ee's is a happy combination of South of the Border, Cracker Barrel, Walmart and Wawa — all the best of each establishment, but with a decidedly redneck appeal. (That's not an insult. That seems to be exactly the way Buc-ee's likes it.) Under Buc-ee's enormous roof, you can find practically everything you'd want to eat, wear or give to someone to prove you were there. They have shirts, playing cards, bottle openers, stickers, postcards, hair ties, frisbees, dog bowls, party decorations (who wouldn't want a Buc-ee's-themed birthday?), pajamas, socks, license plates, drink bottles, plush characters, key rings and so much more. Hungry? Buc-ees makes sandwiches, tacos, chicken, potato chips, candy, as well as pre-packaged snacks — all emblazoned with the friendly Buc-ee's beaver mascot right on the label. Plus, there's a whole section of national products arranged in easy-access aisles and cooler after glass-doored cooler filled with water, soft drinks and beer. And the place was hoppin'! Everywhere you looked, folks were filling shopping carts with dozens of Buc-ee's branded items. Families were selecting piles of foil-wrapped sandwiches from the massive self-serve stock, debating whether to get the pulled pork with or without sauce. There was an entire wall covered — floor to ceiling — with every possible configuration and flavor of beef jerky imaginable. The restrooms — the self-proclaimed "world famous" ones — were also bustling centers of movement (No pun intended. Well, maybe a little.) Attendants hustled their sparkling, cleanser-laden carts in and out of the discreet entrance as dozens — nay, hundreds — of travelers answered the call of nature with the chain-wide pledge of "the cleanest bathrooms in the world!" 

I stood and marveled at the operation unfolding before my eyes. It was positively fascinating. Everywhere you looked, someone was buying something, There were dozens and dozens of cashiers busily ringing up purchases. There were employees wearing Buc-ee's vests stocking Buc-ee's products on Buc-ee's shelves. It was like watching a ballet being staged by the local Chamber of Commerce.

Mrs. P and I sampled their store-made roasted peanuts. We posed for a photo with Buc-ee himself and tried to remember where we parked our car.

Interested in seeing a spectacle? Buc-ee's is a spectacle.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

five years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It read:

Josh, I was a dick. 

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

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

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

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

I regret what I did. I am sorry. 

Scott

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

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

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's all coming back to me now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

crazy game

My son has become enamored with all things Japanese. He recently visited the Land of the Rising Sun and it only heightened his admiration and love for the country and its culture — especially its pop culture. And Japan is brimming with pop culture. A lot of it is a happy amalgam of traditional Japanese lore mixed with a skewed interpretation of American influence and iconography. This produces an interesting blend that is compelling and flashy, but uniquely Japanese.

My son recently enjoyed? endured? experienced? a screening of a 1985 Japanese cult science-fiction musical comedy called The Legend of the Stardust Brothers. The movie — all 100 confounding minutes of it — started life as a concept album by a non-existent Japanese pop group called The Stardust Brothers. Inspired by the quirky The Rocky Horror Picture Show and the even quirkier The Phantom of the Paradise, Japanese singer-songwriter-producer Haruo Chicada wrote a dozen songs and released the album in 1980. A few years later, filmmaker Makoto Tezuka (son of manga legend Osamu Tezuka, creator of Astro Boy, Kimba the White Lion and a zillion other beloved Japanese animated properties) adapted Chicada's work into a live-action, big-screen presentation.

Although my son got to watch The Legend of the Stardust Brothers in a proper theater, I managed to track down the film on one of the free streaming services available though my cable television provider. On a Sunday afternoon, after watching the Phillies drop an early season game to the beleaguered Washington Nationals, I spoke the magic words — "The Legend of the Stardust Brothers" — into the voice-activated search feature on my cable box remote control. My TV screen came alive with several options on which I could view my son's cinematic recommendation. With a few quick navigations, I settled back to watch The Legend of the Stardust Brothers.

The film is about.... um.... it's about... well, it's sort of.... I mean.... it's kind of.....

Honestly, I don't know what it was about. I watched it. At its conclusion, one hour and forty minutes after it started, I wasn't quite sure what I had just seen. Admittedly, it was filled with catchy songs. There were two main characters who seem to be just as bewildered as I was. There was a girl and there was a guy with dark glasses and thick sideburns. There were two bumbling inept security guards. There was a guy who looked like David Bowie. There were girls in shiny jumpsuits. There were monsters. There were gangsters. There was a little cartoon. It was colorful and fast-moving. It featured a lot of jumpy camera work and quick cuts. Did I mention that the songs were catchy? 

Was it bad? No, not really. It held my interest, from a curiosity standpoint. Was it good? No, not really. It was cute, but nearly plotless. The budget for this movie looked to be about 261 yen. (That approximately $1.80 American). But, the songs sure were catchy.

a dedication

I saw The Phantom of the Paradise in its original theatrical release in 1974. I loved it. It was the coolest movie I had ever seen. Granted, I was 13 and it was replaced on my "Gauge of Coolness" just a few moths later by the Who's silver screen adaption of  the rock opera Tommy. I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show after its midnight showing buzz reached me in my sheltered Northeast Philadelphia cocoon. I ventured down to the exotic world of Philadelphia's notorious South Street to witness the rice-throwing, talk-back-to-the-screen spectacle for myself. Years later, I could definitely see the influence both of these films had on the filmmakers in bringing The Legend of the Stardust Brothers to fruition.

After the final credits scrolled to darkness, I called my son. When he answered the phone, I merely said: "What did you just make me watch?" This echoed my son's own retort after I made him sit by my side to view my newly-purchased DVD of The Phantom of the Paradise approximately two decades ago.

I guess now we're even.

The songs were catchy, though.

The Legend of the Stardust Brothers is streaming for free on Freevee and Tubi.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i think i'm in trouble

Last week, I wrote about baseball. The week before, I wrote about being an instigator on the internet. This week, I combine the two.

I spend a lot of time on the internet, specifically Facebook. On any given day, I get a lot of suggestions to join various Facebook groups based on my interests or something I may have clicked on or something I searched for on Google or something I discussed with my wife or even something I may have just thought about. You know how the technology has advanced in those algorithm things.

Because I have shown an interest in baseball, primarily my hometown's team, I get a lot of suggestions to join Facebook groups that are devoted to all things Philadelphia Phillies. In an effort to entice me to join, I get to see a post here and a post there from the particular group — sort of a "free preview" as though it was a weekend of free HBO MAX. In typical "Josh Pincus" fashion, I feel compelled to leave smart-ass comments mostly for my own amusement, but also hoping they will cause the algorithm to immediately reject such unwarranted — and unwanted — behavior. So far, it hasn't worked, but I am still mildly amused.

The once-dominant Phillies have hit a late-season snag. After a rocky start, the Phillies turned things around, riding high and defeating opponents left and right... until they didn't. While they still hold a substantial lead over the other teams in the league, the gap has begun to narrow as the season winds down to its final weeks — weeks that will determine who moves on to the coveted post-season. With a glimmer of hope for ending this nasty slump, the Phillies scored a whopping 11 runs on the Kansas City Royals on August 24. The Phils' offense was on fire with bats a-swinging, including catcher J.T. Realmuto knocking two over the outfield wall and racking up 7 RBIs. Every starter in the Philles line-up recorded a hit. Well... almost everyone. Poor Alec Bohm, the Philles usually-stellar third baseman, couldn't hit nuthin' despite five times to the plate. At the end of the evening's contest, the Royals retreating to their clubhouse with their collective tails between their legs, the fraternal assembly that is the current Phillies roster, hung around to congratulate their efforts. Photographers captured a tender and intimate moment as first baseman Bryce Harper, who went 1-5 with an RBI in the game, threw a brotherly arm across the sagging shoulders of Alec Bohm in a gesture of camaraderie, consolation and compassion for his beleaguered teammate. A Facebook group called A2D Radio posted the image with the single word caption "THIS!". Hell, it didn't even need a caption. Everything you needed to know about the team bond these players have for each other was apparent in this photo. Harper's Jesus-like expression of benevolence. Bohm's sadness and frustration with just a touch of hope at the words of his colleague. The dimly-lit, slightly out-of-focus, slightly off-center composition. It was all there. I didn't even need the thirteen hashtags A2D thought were necessary. The initial post generated 41 thousand positive reactions as well as 276 comments, most offering some sort of variation on the "I love this team!" sentiment.

I say most offered a positive comment. Most, not all. Let us not forget about one Josh Pincus, the internet's favorite redheaded stepchild who was only put here to be the cynical smart-aleck that you have come to know and love... or loathe... whichever the case may be. 

Among the outpouring of love, I commented: 

Yeah. I did that. Yeah.... I know. But it made me laugh and that is what is most important. Jeez, it even garnered 32 reactions — granted three of them were angry. But, as they say, there's no such thing as bad publicity. Honestly, I was just making a joke. I'm always making a joke. Some are funny. Some are not. I know that. Depending who you are, none of them are funny, but I can't help that. We each have our own taste in humor. Personally, I don't find Sebastian Maniscalco to be funny, but I think Andy Kaufman was hysterical. I love the Marx Brothers but Laurel and Hardy do nothing for me. I understand that my sense of humor isn't for everyone and I will happily admit when one of my jokes bombs. Just like I'm sure you'll happily admit when one of my jokes bombs.

And then along came a wave of folks who were only too happy to tell me exactly how funny they thought my comment was. On a scale of 1 to 10, they found it to be not funny at all.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, to:

• get my head out of the gutter
• grow up
• grow the fuck up
• come out of the closet (After all, where would the internet be without a homophobic slur. One thing you can say about Facebook, it is consistent.)

In addition, I was informed that "one day I would make a friend," that I'd "probably start gooning all over [my] living room" (I didn't understand that one.) and that I had made a "douche bag remark." (That one I understood.) I was questioned with "Dude? Really?" and "Are you 10?" All in all, it was a funny diversion until I got bored and looked for the next post just begging for a "Josh Pincus" comment.

Will this make me stop making comments on the internet? Are you kidding? Does the Pope shit in the woods? (Oh, you know what I mean.) No sir. This is only the beginning. I am on a mission.

And that mission is to make me laugh. Me. Not you.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com