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

monster mash

I love horror movies. Or rather.... I loved horror movies. Frankenstein, Dracula, The Wolf Man, The Mummy... all of them. I watched them as a kid on my family's black-and-white TV on Saturday afternoons. They were campy and creepy at the same time. Since most of them were made in the 40s, they all had this strange — yet endearing — quality. Like the actors knew they were in a movie and were delivering scripted lines. It was like watching a play. It made things fun and not too scary. 

My love of horror movies progressed to the low-budget camp of the 1950s with beings from outer space and teenage werewolves. The acting was bad. The make-up was bad. The special effects were amateurish. But I loved them just the same. In some of the Japanese imports of the late 50s and early 60s, I swear I could see the metal pull of a zipper at the base of Godzilla's neck and he tore down an obviously miniature elevated train set in a faux downtown Tokyo.

The 60s, however, brought the real horror. England's notorious Hammer Studios offered garish takes on classic tales. Under the capable lead of Christopher Lee, Dracula, Prince of Darkness splashed vivid red blood across  the screen at a Saturday afternoon matinee, the likes of which I had never seen before. On television, I cowered with my mom as we watched the shadow of Norman Bates slash poor Marion Crane to bits in her shower in Psycho. I still maintain that Psycho is among the scariest movies I have even seen.

Of course, horror films grew more provocative and more daring and more bloody as directors pushed their limits and audiences demanded more. So-called "slasher films" became the norm with Halloween and Friday the 13th and A Nightmare of Elm Street (and all of their imitators) monopolizing theatres. Anti-heroes Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers became icons, beloved among horror movie fans. I enjoyed the initial entries into these long-running (and lucrative) film franchises, but I lost interest after the umpteenth sequel presented essentially a retelling of the original movie.

I like an interesting and clever story. That grabs my attention. I don't care to see someone getting their limbs slowly separated from their torso by a crazed madman with unexplained super-human strength and an even less concise non-sensical backstory. The current trends in horror movies tend to present a skimpy outline of a plot and rely more heavily on overly gory, in-your-face exercise in torture, sadism and suffering.

Years ago, I saw a movie called Hostel. Actually, I saw part of a movie called Hostel. I was only able to stick with it until a man was strapped into a chair and various parts of his body were removed by a masked man wielding a power saw. I don't know how Hostel ended and I really don't care. Hostel, no thanks to me, was very popular. It spawned sequels and copycats — none of which I have seen or have any intention of seeing.

There have been a few recent horror movies I have enjoyed. The Ring was clever. I didn't find it particularly scary, but I appreciated the intelligent story telling. Silence of the Lambs, if that can even be considered a "horror" movie, was taut and spine-tingling, another example of a good story being executed by good actors. Even the Japanese import Audition with its hard-to-watch climax, was well-done and suspenseful in its presentation.

It seems that today's horror movie lover is not particularly discerning. Every new release (and there are a lot of 'em) boasts a similar synopsis as other recent films. A mysterious killer that kills for the sake of killing. A variety of killing methods each designed to produce the most blood, viscera and humiliation of the victim. Overly and gratuitously explicit scenes unfairly and disturbingly equating sex with mutilation. I read a capsulized plot of a recent horror "hit" called Terrifier about a murderous clown named "Art." Art seems to have joined, if not overtaken, the ranks of Freddy and Jason as the new slasher icon. The plot was nauseating, as were the similar plots of Terrifier's two sequels. I have no plans to see Terrifier, Terrifier 2 or Terrifier 3 (when it's released in early October). As long as all the right boxes are checked, the film should do well.

I just want a good old-fashioned horror movie with a monster and a good story and good acting and not a reservoir's worth of blood and guts.

Is that too much to ask?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

running with the devil

This morning, my wife and I drove down to our son's house in South Philadelphia to feed his cat while he is away this weekend. The route we took from our suburban home was straight down Broad Street. As we drove though the stretch of Broad Street that bisects the campus of the hospital of Temple University, I glanced out the window and saw something that caught my attention. Emerging from one of the many hospital buildings was a family — Mother, Father and two teenage daughters. What intrigued me was their appearance. From their clothing, it was quite obvious that they were Amish. Dad was wearing a royal blue button-down shirt and black pants with black suspenders looping over his shoulders. He sported a wide-brimmed straw hat atop his head. The three ladies — Mother and the two daughters — all wore similar dresses. They were long and all fashioned from a single pattern of cloth. They each wore a white apron tied around their waist and a white kerchief tied around their head. Dad stood on the pavement in front of the building and surveyed his surroundings. He looked as though he had been dropped out of an airplane blindfolded and had just removed the blindfold. He scratched his jaw as he turned his head from left to right and to left again. Then, he raised his head and considered the multi-story cement and steel structures that surrounded him and his brood. The three women cowered behind him. They appeared to be lost. To be honest (and based purely on their appearance) they would seem lost in most environments that did not feature at least one barn and several cows. Yes, I managed to take in and assess this situation from the passenger's seat in a car traveling in the neighborhood of thirty-five miles-per-hour. Okay.... maybe I embellished a little.

The whole scenario reminded me of a story that appeared on my illustration blog in 2011. It was a funny story when the incident actually occurred (in 1993) and it was a funny story when I wrote about it (and even illustrated it) years later. It's still a funny story...

My son and I experienced Niagara Falls for the first time at the same time. My wife, whose parents took their three children on numerous family vacations, saw the renowned natural spectacle in her youth. I went on my last furlough with my parents at the age of seven, and Atlantic City, New Jersey is severely lacking in the waterfall department. When I became a father, I was determined to travel with my own family as much as time and money would allow. They would need not be extravagant, cultural excursions — just good, old-fashioned family fun time. So, in the summer of 1993, the three-member Pincus family loaded our typically-domestic minivan with suitcases and snack foods and headed in the direction of our neighbors to the North. 

Niagara Falls, in all its majestic aqueous glory, is truly breathtaking. However, after staring at an enormous wall of furiously rushing water, one’s sensibilities tend to shift from awestruck to bored to “I really have to go to the bathroom.” The Niagara Falls Chamber of Commerce is obviously aware of this emotional phenomenon. That has to be the reason that one of the most glorious displays of natural wonder and beauty is surrounded by kitschy souvenir shops, wax museums, arcades, miniature golf courses, spook houses, fast-food joints and budget motels. The average traveler might be turned-off by such vulgarity but this was right up the Pincus family’s alley.

Once past the brief, yet friendly, interrogation by the international border patrol, we crossed the Rainbow Bridge at Niagara Falls, New York and entered its bright and sparkly Canadian namesake on the other side of the Niagara River. As our son E. peered out of the backseat windows at the flashing lights and colorful building facades of frantic Clifton Hill, Mrs. Pincus navigated our Plymouth Voyager to the Quality Inn that would be our accommodations for several midsummer nights. We pulled into the Victoria Avenue driveway of the Quality Inn and my wife let me out by the front office entrance to check in. The motel was standard, no-frills lodging consisting of a two-story, horseshoe-shaped structure encircling a small in-ground swimming pool surrounded by unassuming chaise lounges and enclosed by a chain-link fence. The rooms were nondescript and served their purpose in cleanliness, convenience and affordability. 

Our first evening included a search for restaurant food that didn’t contain meat — evidently, a fairly difficult task in Canada. Afterwards, we strolled Clifton Hill, its surreal promenade alight with exuberance that spilled out of every open door and into the streets. E. was amazed and excited and we capped the night with a stop for ice cream before turning in. As we made our way back to our motel, we noticed a large group of Amish* teens — the boys in straw hats and dark vests with dark colored shirts; the girls in solid color dresses and starched white bonnets — heading in the same direction. As we walked, the population of the Amish youths steadily increased. When we reached the Quality Inn, the Pincus family proceeded to our first-floor room and the faction of Jakob Ammann‘s young disciples climbed the open-air staircase to the second story and retired to three adjoining rooms. 

Our next day was spent doing all the activities that tourists at Niagara Falls do. We donned disposable rain gear for the famous, yet drenching, Maid of the Mist boat ride. We retained our slickers for the equally waterlogged tour of the tunnels behind the Horseshoe Falls. We snapped photos along the guardrails protecting us from the hundred foot drop to the churning river below. Our whirlwind expedition sapped our collective energy, so we retreated to our motel for a rejuvenating dip in the pool. We hurriedly changed into swimming attire and started toward the small oasis in the middle of the parking lot. I laid claim to several recliners and accompanied my wife and son in the humble, water-filled cement tank. A few laps and splashes later, we were toweling off and relaxing. 

Soon, two boys emerged from the second floor rooms where the Amish family had disappeared the night before. They joined the small congregation of hotel patrons at the pool and commenced to splashing and cavorting and doing the playful things boys do in a pool. While the usually sheltered youngsters amused themselves, two attractive, bikini-clad young ladies sauntered across the parking lot from the far end of the hotel property. Their sights were set on the same midday refreshment the swimming pool offered their fellow guests. The girls idly chatted to each other as they dropped their towels on some chaise lounges on the opposite side of the pool and absentmindedly kicked off their sandals. The two Amish boys froze in mid-movement, their bodies rigid, their eyes transfixed. The young ladies — unaware that their every move was being observed and tracked by two innocent and bewildered 12 year-olds — continued their conversation. It was obvious that these two young men had never, ever, in their short lives, witnessed anything that remotely resembled the figures now on display before them. The female members of their traveling contingency sure as hell didn’t look like these… these…. females. Suddenly, one of the girls rose from her seat and strode to the edge of the pool. The boys’ eyes widened. The young lady pointed her leg and slowly and precariously dipped her toe into the water. At the exact same pace, the two boys slowly and precariously backed out of the water, never once taking their gaze away from the girl. It was as though Satan himself had chosen this small, man-made body of water to cool off his cloven hoof. The girl lazily stirred the water around with her extended leg, then withdrew it and patted it with a towel — never once glancing in the boys’ direction. By the time the young girl returned to the seat by her friend, the two boys were, no doubt, on their knees in their room praying and repenting for whatever they had done to have been subjected to the Devil’s temptations. 

Sometimes, vacations yield more sights that just the ones for the average tourist. And that works on several levels. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* For over fifty years, my wife’s family owned and operated a general merchandise store in a farmer’s market located in the heart of Pennsylvania’s Amish population, so we are well-acquainted with their practices, observances and attire.

scary monsters... and super creeps

Halloween is approaching. It's the time for tricks and treats. Well, because of the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic, most communities across the country are figuring out creative — and safe — alternatives to the traditional, door-to-door, decidedly anti-social distancing trick-or treating. Watching scary movies is a good way to get into the Halloween spirit (pun intended!).

I love scary movies. I have loved scary movies since I was a kid when I would park myself in front of the television on a Saturday afternoon for a marathon broadcast of  horror films that were made decades before I was born. Local Philadelphia UHF station Channel 17 showed "Mad Theater" back-to-back with "Horror Theater," both hosted by the pseudo-frightening, always campy "Dr. Shock." The good doctor would entertain his mostly pre-pubescent home audience with magic tricks and hokey skits during breaks in the film. I even got to meet Dr. Shock when he made an appearance at a carnival in my neighborhood. It was a thrill... if I remember correctly. It was on Dr. Shock's show that I had my first exposure to Bela Lugosi's Dracula, Boris Karloff's Frankenstein and Lon Chaney Jr.'s The Wolf Man, along with a creepy parade of monsters and witches and zombies and ghouls and all kinds of things that go bump in the night. The only problem was.... they didn't scare me. I was drawn to these characters. I was fascinated by them. I marveled at them. I just wasn't scared by them... and that's what I was looking for. And so began my life-long quest for "the big scare"... the movie that would finally give me that scare I craved.

I have seen hundreds of horror movies, from the classics of the 30s to the low-budget thrillers of the 50s and 60s, to the blood-saturated gorefests from Britain's Hammer Studios in the 70s to the cookie-cutter slasher films of the 80s. Recently, I have watched movies that have been recommended by self-proclaimed aficionados... all to great disappointment. 

In fairness, I enjoyed the initial entry of a number of horror "franchises." Films like "A Nightmare on Elm Street," "Friday the 13th," "Halloween" and even the venerable "Texas Chainsaw Massacre," in my opinion were all entertaining, but — Jesus! — do we really need eleven sequels that essential tell the exact same story over and over again? I think not.

The current crop of horror movies are either more concerned with giving the viewer a front row seat to an autopsy or offering a flimsy, nonsensical plot as an excuse to splash gratuitous nudity across the screen. I know that I am in the overwhelming minority, based on the disciple-like attendees I have seen packing the aisles at horror movie conventions. (Yeah, I used to go to them when I collected celebrity autographs.)

I watched the Netflix series Stranger Things based purely on the buzz it received among friends and on the internet. I was not entertained. Yeah, yeah... I got all the references and jokes. I just didn't think they were as clever as the writers thought they were. I actually watched all three seasons of the series, hoping I would "get into it" as it progressed. I did not. I found myself constantly checking my watch and wondering how much longer it would go on. The acting was good. No complaints there. I felt the story was limp and took too long to tell. And when it was finally told, I didn't care. And I certainly wasn't scared.

Glutton for punishment that I am, I am currently in the throes of the HBO series Lovecraft Country. I was intrigued by the dichotomy of the subject matter — an examination of the oppression of African-Americans coupled with the supernatural. I am not a fan of science fiction, comic books, suspension of belief or stories that end with the cop-out of deus ex machina. I hate that. It's as though the writers just couldn't be bothered with thinking up an ending. I have watched Lovecraft Country and did not enjoy it. Oh, I watched the whole thing — all ten grueling episodes, just to see how everything wrapped up, but the storytelling is clunky and sprawling and disjointed. And I felt it's beneath the talents of the compelling cast. Yes, I realize that I am probably not the target audience. I knew that going into it, I already have a disinclination for the genre. But I gave it a shot anyway. I shouldn't have. I want to reiterate that the production and acting of this limited series was terrific, but with the exception of a few scenes, I did not find it scary. Just long-winded.

Yesterday, I watched a movie called Trick 'r Treat. Again, this film has maintained a cult following and a lot of praise since its awkward release in 2007. It is an anthology story comprised of several stand-alone tales linked by a single character that appears in each one. I have enjoyed this format in films in the past. I found Creepshow, Twilight Zone: The Movie and even a few of the 70s examples featuring Peter Cushing (like Dr. Terror's House of Horrors) to be entertaining. They didn't scare me, but I liked them. Trick 'r Treat was awful. It was doing its very best to look cool for the cool kids. It was run-of-the-mill, uninspired, unnecessarily gory and not nearly as clever as it thought it was. As far as scary....? Uh.... nope.

Look, monsters aren't scary. Guys with big knives aren't scary. Aliens aren't scary. Ghosts aren't scary. Gallons and gallons of blood and entrails aren't scary. Messy, yes.... but not scary.

Please. I'm not asking for a whole lot. I just want to be scared. I want a movie to scare me. I want to see a movie so goddamn clever and so goddamn frightening that I wont forget it for years to come. Honestly, I have seen only two horror movies that have come very close to legitimately scaring me. Psycho, the original 1960 Hitchcock tour-de-force and Jonathan Demme's Oscar-winning thriller The Silence of the Lambs. Both films were beautifully shot and impeccably executed. Both of these films featured a despicable villain that was not — by outward appearances — a monster. Both films elicited nerve-wracking suspense and both films — thanks to great performances and thoughtful directing — made the viewer root for the bad guy. That is scary.

Halloween will be here soon. We are all stuck in the house with a lot of free time. What's a guy gotta do to get scared around here?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

world of a king

I am no fan of Stephen King. 

I have read a bunch of his books, though admittedly, not the really long ones. I read Carrie and The Shining and Gerald's Game and.... oh, I don't really remember all of them. What I do remember is that I was disappointed by almost every one of them. Stephen King is a terrific writer of the middles of stories. They are compelling and inventive. The writing is decidedly descriptive. One can almost picture the events unfolding on a movie screen.... which, I believe, is King's intention. The "meat" of King's tales are truly engrossing. However, he has a hard time wrapping things up and arriving at a satisfying ending — especially after such epic plot lines. After investing quite a bit of time reading King's indulgent, often intricate, novels, I have felt cheated by the so-called "pay-off" of most of them. (The one exception is Thinner, his 1984 book released under the "Richard Bachman" pseudonym.) 

My literary relationship with Stephen King ended when I completed The Regulators, which I read after finishing Desperation, its companion piece meant to be read at the same time. When I turned the final page of The Regulators, I closed the book, dropped it to the floor and sighed. It was then that I decided to never waste my time reading a Stephen King book ever again. That book should have ended at several different points, but it stretched on unnecessarily for countless pages of mystical back-story nonsense. I could wait to be through with it.... and with Stephen King. I decided right then and there, never to entertain another Stephen King-penned volume again. (Don't start recommending this book or that book... because I am not going to read them. I'm just not!)

Funny thing.... I enjoy some movies that are based on Stephen King books. I love The Shawshank Redemption (based on Rita Hayworth and The Shawshank Redemption, one of four novellas included in the 1982 collection Different Seasons), although the ending of the movie is way more satisfying as compared to the ambiguous conclusion of the original story. Stand By Me is another of my favorite Stephen King book-based films. (It, too, is based on The Body, a selection from Different Seasons.) Again, there are differences between the book and the movie. And, again, the film is more concise in its message. The majority of Stephen King movies are just as disappoint as their source material. (I won't include The Shining in this comparison, because they, essentially, tell two completely unrelated stories.)

Just this week I was scanning the offerings under the "horror" category on Netflix. After scrolling past countless, blood-splatters posters for obscure slasher films (I love horror movies. I hate slasher movies), I stumbled across a film called Horns starring Daniel Radcliffe. I like Daniel Radcliffe. My wife and I just binge-watched the TBS ensemble anthology comedy series Miracle Workers. The show was hilarious (Season two was better that season one) and Daniel Radcliffe was a delight. The synopsis for Horns looked intriguing, so I watched. It was tedious. It was a non-linear, overly — and unnecessarily — atmospheric mess. Radcliffe and the supporting cast (familiar screen faces like Kathleen Quinlan, Heather Graham, James Remar) were all good. Too good for the script. They all looked as though they were trying their best, but were being dragged down by the heavy-handed premise. At just a hair under two hours, I felt like I had invested an entire day into this disjointed adventure that couldn't decide what exactly it wanted to be.

Horns, I later discovered, was based on a highly-touted novel by one Joe Hill. Joe Hill — it turns out — is the nom de plume of Joseph Hillström King, the eldest son and middle child of Stephen King. And let me tell you... the poison apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I should have known immediately, as the entire set-up of Horns smacked of a Stephen King story. There was the close knit group of misfit friends depicted in flashback sequences. There was the camaraderie that can only be experienced in a small New England town. There were dark secrets of youth that smolder and eventually manifest to weigh heavy on the lives of the now-adult friends. There was an awful lot of slow-motion and unexplained, other-worldly manifestations. And there was plenty of gratuitous gore. It was the kids of It and the kids from The Body and the quirky formulaic townspeople of Derry, Maine all rolled together in Daddy's signature style. Did Joe rummage through the wastepaper basket by his father's desk looking for castoffs to crib for his own career?

Eh... what difference does it make. I was sucked in. But, as The Who once warned — I won't get fooled again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

down on the farm

I started a new job in August and my morning commute takes me on a lot of highway driving. When September rolled around, I noted that the billboards began to sport colors of browns, reds and golds, mimicking the changing leaves on the surrounding trees. The advertising had taken a noticeable slant towards autumn marketing, with ads for television shows debuting for fall, Thanksgiving offerings available at local supermarkets and pumpkin spice everything at local coffee outlets.

Most of the advertising is pretty standard and predictable, although I really wish the one for Dunkin Donuts read "Pumpkin at Dumpkin." That would make me happy, but I'm not about to pull off to the side of I-195 for a little bit of impromptu vandalism. That's just not me.

There is one billboard that has intrigued me since I saw it rise above the horizon just past the Big Bear Natural Foods store near the Route 13 exit, a few miles from the Pennsylvania-New Jersey border. I silently stare at it as I approach from the Northbound lane and I continue to contemplate its content long after I pass by, when I should be concentrating on the volume of traffic that surrounds me. The object of my — dare I say — obsession is a billboard for something called "Bloodshed Farms." As the Halloween season approaches, many so-called "haunted attractions" spring up in the area. Most of them have fright-inducing names like "Jason's Woods," which evokes the menacing killer from the Friday the 13th film franchise. (I don't think it's a reference to Jason Alexander, although that would be pretty intriguing, too.) "Bloodshed Farms," however, made me think — obviously. The words "Bloodshed Farms" filled my imagination with thoughts of a demented Green Acres of sorts. It makes me laugh to myself every morning. I found it funny enough to want to share it via Instagram. Because I pass the billboard most mornings at around 60 miles per hour, I cannot take a photo. Instead, I searched for a suitable graphic of Bloodshed Farms to post on Instagram along with a suitably "Josh Pincus" comment.... the kind you've come to expect from the Internet's favorite red-headed stepchild.

You see, Philadelphia is surrounded by a lot of rural farmland. There are several actual farms in the area that cheerfully offer tours for those curious about how milk, cheese and other dairy products end up on your kitchen table. When I was a kid, I visited a large orchard on class trips, where apples were grown and they produced apple-centric products right there on the premises. We often took my son to a nearby dairy farm, where he'd run through their annual "corn maze" and later we'd purchase fresh milk and cookies from their small convenience store. That's the type of dichotomy that "Bloodshed Farms" brought to my skewed sense of humor. So, I certainly couldn't keep that to myself!

In my search, I also found an ad for Bloodshed Farms offering their services to accommodate your private event, like birthdays, anniversaries and the like. This gave me more fodder for an even "smart-assier" Instagram post. So, I posted....

 

It reads: "Aside from a few weeks out of the years [sic], was it a wise business decision to choose "Bloodshed Farms" for the name of your establishment?  Is this the kind of place you'd expect families to bring their kids to see cows and horses? Do you expect schools to plan class trips to see how a working farm operates? Am I buying milk and cheese from "Bloodshed Farms?" And private parties and special events? C'mon guys..."

I tagged the Bloodshed Farms Instagram account in post... just for good measure. And then I went about my day.

Almost immediately, I started getting "likes" on the post, as well as a few comments including one from @jasperdyne, an art school pal of mine, who noted that the name stems from "Ol' Zeke, who got caught in the combine back in '86" and my son, whose claim of getting butter and eggs from Bloodshed Farms is suspect, especially when they're delivered by a hockey-masked driver. Mrs. Pincus had an entirely different take, explaining that she assumed Bloodshed Farms was a summer camp for pubescent girls. Bottom line.... everyone got the joke.

Except for Bloodshed Farms.

Later in the day, I was alerted of a new comment on this Instagram post. It was from Bloodshed Farms.... and they didn't seem too pleased with my making light of their serious business of seasonal fright. They countered my levity with this:

"No. This is NOT the kind of place we expect families to bring their kids to see cows and horses. We do NOT expect schools to bring children and see how a working farm operates. Do we advertise this? No. But we do get buses of kids from Lenape High School every year as well as trips by soccer and baseball teams, dance teams, and more. We even host groups from Bancroft earlier in the day before we officially open. You should really give us a try! :)"

They started off strong and indignant, making vague references to a local high school and then a special-needs facility. Their tone grew a bit softer as they signed off with a smile and half-hearted invitation for me to experience their brand of "farm living." I'm not sure that Bloodshed Farms fully understood that I was joking. But, if you operate an establishment that produces either dairy products or blood-curdling screams (at this point, it's still unclear), do you really possess the most sharpened sense of humor?

Maybe I'll ask this guy. He left the comment: "SMH....." (shaking my head)

Though he doesn't look like a farmer to me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

shake that rat

I used to fixate on — actually, I still do — the uncomfortable fact that my parents took me to see The Godfather when I was eleven. This bothered me a lot. What were they thinking? What kind of parent subjects an impressionable child to that kind of gritty violence? Were there no babysitters available? Did they discuss this and conclude that, as responsible parents, this was an admirable thing to do? I even wrote a lengthy blog post about this a few years ago, so the people that I couldn't tell in person wouldn't miss out on some serious parent shaming.

A few nights ago, I was scanning the multitude of entertainment options available through my cable television provider. I stopped at Turner Classic Movies — one of my favorites — to see what they were offering. I scrolled through to the schedule and soon found myself viewing the movies that TCM reserves for the wee hours of weekend nights — a period they refer to as "The Underground." While most folks are fast asleep, Turner Classic presents films that fall into the category of "cult." Just after midnight on Saturday, such forgotten gems as Coffy starring an ass-kicking Pam Grier and Hillbillys in a Haunted House, a painfully campy romp that Jayne Mansfield turned down, are screened for the pleasure of insomniacs everywhere.

At 3:45 a.m., Turner Classic presented the 1971 thriller Willard, a heartwarming tale of an awkward young man who befriends a bunch of rats. This was followed by its 1972 sequel, the equally preposterous Ben, featuring a cast of every character actor the 1970s had to offer. An unexplainable wave of excitement shot through me and I instinctively set the DVR to record both movies. 

I hadn't seen either one of these movies in years! Decades! On Sunday morning, I set myself up with a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee and settled into the den sofa for a "blast-from-the-past" double feature. I remember loving these movies when I was a kid. Hey, what's not to love? It had Ernest Borgnine, excitable "Commander McHale" playing against his TV type (but not movie type, as he portrayed numerous assholes on the silver screen) as Willard's asshole boss. It had the eccentrically other-worldly Elsa Lanchester at the end of her illustrious career as Willard's mother, acting as though she didn't get the same script as the rest of the cast. There was lovely waif Sondra Locke as Willard's pseudo love interest and a supporting assortment of characters from TV including J. Pat O'Malley (Google him, you'll know him) and the delightfully daffy Jody Gilbert, who made a career of playing "Woman" or "Fat Woman" in 115 screen credits. With newcomer Bruce Davison (who has gone on to a five-decade career that included an Oscar nomination) in the title role, Willard was a typical 70s schlock horror film. It was a low-budget, zero production value, poorly-acted 95 minutes of dreck... and I loved it! Movies in the 70s were churned out with assembly-line regard. They followed trends and genres and there was very little originality. Actors wore, what seemed like, their own street clothes — or maybe costumes just mimicked the brightly-colored polyester fashions of the day. It certainly did not try to top Citizen Kane and that certainly was not its goal. It was just crappy entertainment and it delivered. 

Mom and Dad's guide
to parenting

While I watched and chuckled at the over-dramatic antics flashing across my television, remembering my first view of this film, something dawned on me. I saw Willard at a Saturday afternoon matinee at the Parkwood Theater in 1971. I was ten. Ten years old! I went with friends. My mom most likely drove us there in her lime green Rambler, dropping us off and providing me with a few dollars for popcorn and candy. She was well aware of what sort of movie Willard was, as our television was bombarded with ads for the movie. They must have caught Ernest Borgnine shilling on Johnny Carson's show, explaining how the stunts and effects were accomplished after running a promo clip for the audience. So, what was she thinking? Why would she allow a ten-year old to see this? This was not a film for a ten-year old! I should have been seeing Bedknobs and Broomsticks or Million Dollar Duck or The Barefoot Executive or any number of movies more suitable for a ten-year old. Not a movie where a pack of hungry rats rip "Commander McHale" apart right before your eyes. So, I shouldn't be surprised that, a year later, my parents thought it was a fine idea to take me to see The Godfather. After all, once I saw thousands of rats gnaw through a wooden door and attack the once-sympathetic Willard, watching a helpless James Caan get riddled with thousands of rounds of machine gun fire was nothing.... I guess. And that severed horse's head? Piece of cake.

Perhaps my Mom and Dad should have read a good book on parenting skills after they finished Mario Puzo's tale of "family."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

early morning strangers

Every so often, I ride the train to work with my friend Randi. I met Randi when our kids went to nursery school together, so I have known her for a very long time. A few years ago, Randi and her husband moved into my neighborhood and, coincidentally, we both work in the same office building in center city Philadelphia. Randi usually takes an earlier or later train than the one I regularly take, but, a few times a week, we ride to work together.

On our short commute into Philadelphia, we discuss a multitude of topics — religion, family situations, movies, television shows. This particular Monday morning, I was telling Randi about the Monster Mania convention, a twice-yearly gathering of all things horror that my son and I attended the day before.

I don't know why I continue to subject myself to this convention, but I do. And with much regret. I go specifically to add to my autographed photos collection, but over the years, the cost of admission and the autographs themselves, have become ridiculously overpriced. I really wrestle with myself every time a new roster of "celebrities" is announced. I assess the pros and cons of driving to Cherry Hill, New Jersey, finding a place to park in the small hotel lot, paying the inflated admission and then paying the exorbitant fee for an autographed photo. But, this past weekend's "guest of honor" — Danny Lloyd — was the clincher. Thirty-seven years ago, Danny played Jack Nicholson's enigmatic son in Stanley Kubrick's 1980 horror classic The Shining. After filming wrapped, Danny had one more role in a TV movie about Watergate nut-job G. Gordon Liddy, then abandoned show business and fell back into "real life." Now, at 44, he is a biology professor at a community college in Kentucky. Well, I don't know exactly what he's teaching in his class, but he sure learned how to get forty bucks for writing his name on a photograph of himself from his youth. I begrudgingly handed him two twenty dollars bills (Oscar-winner Louise Fletcher, who was also at this show, was only asking thirty bucks) and tried to make some small talk. I asked him if the Internet rumors about his not knowing that The Shining was a horror movie were true. He laughed and confirmed that Kubrick, a vicious taskmaster to the adult actors, was very protective of his underage actors (Danny and the Burns sisters, who played the ghostly Grady twins and were, coincidentally, seated at their own table to Danny's left). I asked if his students know about his former life as an actor (albeit two roles). He said some did, some didn't and most were not impressed and didn't care.

As I related my little weekend adventure to Randi, I noticed another commuter, just across the train aisle from us, was hanging on to every word I was saying. It was so obvious. He wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he was listening so intensely to our conversation as though he would be transcribing it later. I tried to subtly nudge Randi to covertly point the eavesdropper out. When the train stopped at our station, we all got off and I pointed the guy out as he hurried up the platform stairs.

The next day, I was standing on the train platform waiting for my morning train. Randi was not in sight on this morning, but that was not unusual. So, as I waited, I fiddled with my phone. Suddenly, in my peripheral vision, I could see someone approaching. I looked up and I was startled to see the eavesdropper from yesterday's morning commute standing less than a foot away from me.

"Hi.," he began, innocently enough.

"How're you doin'?," I mumbled, still trying to figure out what this guy wanted. I am, admittedly, very suspicious of people I don't know.

"I heard you talking on the train yesterday about The Shining." Well, at least he got right to the point. "I wanted to know if you ever saw the documentary Room 237? Have you ever heard of it?," he asked. Not only had I heard of the film, I had seen it. It is an independent production from 2012 that unobjectively relates several wild theories that The Shining is not merely an adaptation of a Stephen King novel, but an elaborate puzzle, cryptically alluding to either the systematic slaughter of Native Americans or an apology by director Kubrick for his collusion with NASA in the ruse that was the first moon landing or a symbolic tale of the Holocaust or a combination of the three.

But the real question was: Why did this guy care if I saw this documentary? Plus, he just admitted that he was listening to my conversation from the previous day.

This was weird. I, however, was uncharacteristically polite. I answered his question and engaged him in a little chit-chat about my views on The Shining and my conversation with the now-adult Danny Lloyd. A train pulled up to the station, thankfully bringing this awkward exchange to an end. I started towards the last car of the train and he called out "Nice talking to you!," as he headed in the opposite direction. I was relived that he didn't feel compelled to continue our tête-à-tête in a more intimate setting on the train.

On subsequent days, I have seen the eavesdropper milling about on the train platform. He seems to be purposely steering clear of me. That's just fine with me. His "striking up a friendship" skills are in need some refinement.

Oh, and Room 237 was absolute bullshit.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

and now, the tragic story

Am I about to write a review of a movie that's forty-three years old? Um, possibly.

When I was thirteen, I used to go to the movies with my friends and my family. It was 1974 and I accompanied my parents to see Mel Brooks' Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein. Riding on the successful coattails of the 1972's  The Poseidon Adventure, the trend-setter in the disaster film genre, I saw The Towering Inferno, Airport '75 and Earthquake (presented in theater-shaking Sensurround). Although titillated by the provocative TV commercials for the animated adult feature The Nine Lives of Fritz the Cat, I had to settle for tamer, more age-appropriate offerings like Journey Back to Oz and Herbie Rides Again. When I was out with my friends, we gravitated towards cooler movies, like The Lords of Flatbush (with Henry Winkler and a pre-Rocky Sylvester Stallone) and the rollicking, swashbuckler The Four Musketeers. However, one movie stood out among all the others that year. It was a hodgepodge of horror and music and comedy and just plain weird. I'm speaking, of course, about Brian DePalma's Phantom of the Paradise. (Yes, that Brian DePalma.)

Phantom of the Paradise stars singer/songwriter/actor Paul Williams as Swan, a villainous record impresario who flim-flams a poor sap named Winslow Leach out of his elaborate cantata. The film is chock full of everything to appeal to the cinematic masochist. There's mediocre acting, over-the-top musical productions (as over-the-top as the small budget would allow), and a handful of Paul Williams-penned tunes — none of which come close to "We've Only Just Begun," "Old Fashioned Love Song" or "The Rainbow Connection," though spunky Jessica Harper (in her motion picture debut) was obviously coached to mimic Karen Carpenter in her somber take on "Old Souls" about midway through the film.

By no means is Phantom of the Paradise on the level of Citizen Kane. Nor does it pretend to be. It does, however, possess all the elements of a great cult film. It's one of those "so bad, it's good" films. You know, like a big-screen car wreck at which you cannot look away. It pre-dates The Rocky Horror Picture Show by eleven months, and certainly, in my opinion, deserves the same (dis)respect. Phantom of the Paradise boasts similar production values and hokey story, though the Tim Curry-Susan Sarandon-Barry Bostwick trifecta is far superior to Paul Williams and a handful of glitter. When I was thirteen, Phantom of the Paradise was the coolest movie I ever saw — until it was usurped by Tommy only five months later. But those were a glorious five months.

When my son was in high school, Phantom of the Paradise was released on DVD and I bought it immediately. I was so excited to watch this film with my son, hoping that he would enjoy it as much as I did. He was very leery of my big build-up for the film. In his defense, I had not seen it in thirty years and I only had fuzzy but fond memories of it. So the two of us sat on the sofa as scene after garish scene flashed across our TV screen. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my son giving me that look. "This is the coolest movie you every saw?," he muttered in disbelief. "Well, I remember it being a lot better.," I explained, "Besides, I was thirteen." He was a sport and he sat with me until the end. Then he got up and left the room without saying a word. I got the message, though I think I may have watched it again by myself.

Over the years, I would still pull out my Phantom of the Paradise soundtrack and give it a nostalgic listen. Sure the songs are not particularly memorable, but they are like a visit from an old friend. So you can imagine my excitement when it was announced that there would be a special screening of Phantom of the Paradise at a popular concert venue on the night before Easter. My excitement level could be measured in direct contrast of Mrs. Pincus' reaction when I asked her if she'd like to go. I noted that it was free admission. She gave a defeated exhale and agreed to go. My son even joined us. (Granted, the venue is in the same building where he works.)

All day Saturday, I tweeted about my evening plans and Instagrammed screenshots from the movie (some of which were "liked" by Paul Williams himself, who, for some reason, follows me on social media. Yep, the real Paul Williams.) I was as giddy as I had been when I saw the movie in its initial run.

That evening, we sat in an audience that was comprised of about eight people and a whole lot of empty chairs. I sang along with all the songs. (I still knew all the words.) My son laughed at the terrible acting and my wife checked her eBay auctions and answered emails, pausing several times to ask me "How much longer?" Ninety-one minutes and one big, splashy, puzzling finale later, it was all over.

And it was great!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

life's no fun without a good scare

I have always been a horror fan. The problem with the current trend in horror is it's too stupid and formulaic. What happened to good writing and clever plot twists? Now it's all jump scares and gory images for the sake of exhibiting someone's special effects skills. Where is the stylized framing of Silence of the Lambs? Where is the suspenseful storytelling of Psycho? Even the original slasher films like Halloween, A Nightmare on Elm Street and even Friday the 13th had well-conceived back stories before they were milked dry by four hundred inane sequels.

Submitted for your approval.

Since movies were disappointing, I turned to television and there was plenty of promise. When I was in elementary school, I was permitted to stay up to watch the NBC horror anthology Night Gallery hosted by Rod Serling. It was my favorite show (at the time) offering short vignettes featuring a roster of popular television actors in roles outside of their comfort level. Then I discovered reruns of Rod's earlier show, the venerable Twilight Zone. I also watched The Outer Limits, Alfred Hitchcock Presents and Thriller. All of these pretty much followed the same formula — some better some worse — but all satisfied my horror cravings... for the most part. I even enjoyed the 80s revival of The Twilight Zone as well as the theatrical film.

More recently, my television series watching habits have been limited to the unlikely pairing of HBO's brutal and gritty gangster saga Boardwalk Empire and the mindless teen fluff of Nickelodeon's iCarly. Now that both of those series are out of production, I watch whatever is on, rarely going out of my way to catch a "must-see" program.

I saw early ads for a new series on Fox's cutting edge FX network called American Horror Story. It presented a clever concept for an anthology — a core group of performers and a single story per season, with the same group taking on different roles in a different story in subsequent seasons. The initial reception was positive and the show proved popular... no thanks to me, as I never watched. It wasn't until season four that I decided to give it a shot.

May I take this opportunity to acknowledge that I'm in the minority, but, give me my two minutes to bitch.

I settled in on that early October evening in 2014 to see for myself what all the buzz was about. As the opening scenes of American Horror Story: Freak Show began, I waited to be impressed... and to experience the thrill of being scared. A little over an hour later, I was bored, disappointed and a little annoyed. I found that the show relied too much on "looking cool," with its atmospheric shots, grainy filters and stark, creepy-on-purpose sets, and not enough time was devoted to story development. I thought the acting was stilted and not at all compelling. Even multi-award-winning actress Jessica Lange could hold my interest, especially when she delivered a cover of the 1971 Bowie classic "Life on Mars," as the anachronistic episode finale of a story set in 1952. I snapped off the TV and vowed never to watch this mess again.

Well, after skipping an entire season, I decided to give American Horror Story another chance. My son came over and we binge-watched the first two episodes of season six. The series had abandoned its standard TV drama format in favor of the premise of a reality show, complete with in-studio, after-the-fact interviews and reenactments. It was sort of a show within a show within a show with actors playing actors playing real people. I was interested. I found myself enjoying the tale as it unfolded. It was a unique take on the storytelling. I was hooked. Reluctant, but hooked just the same. I watched the next episode in its regular time slot. Three episodes in and I was still enjoying it. My son, however, warned me. He told me that series creator Ryan Murphy has this uncanny knack for losing interest in his shows as they progress. He tends to go in several different directions, never fully resolving all aspects of all storylines.

Sure enough, that observation was spot on

In the following weeks, American Horror Story: Roanoke became a veritable shit show. But I watched. I was committed. I was going to see this fiasco out until the bitter end. Characters were introduced and killed. Characters were introduced and forgotten. And the characters that we got to see on every episode were cartoonish, one-dimensional sketches only serving as a bag full of theatrical blood, ready to explode when the time was right... or not right... or whenever. The series morphed into a shrill, sprawling, mindless, contradicting, aimless mish-mash that I wanted to end. And soon. By episode eight (of a ten episode series), I just wanted it to be done. It became a chore to watch. I counted the minutes until it was over, like I was taking a test in high school. I began recording the episodes, so I could fast-forward through commercials, shortening my time spent watching this shambles. At last, the final episode was broadcast. I watched, emotionless. Numbed. Disinterested. And 41 minutes later, thanks to 4x fast-forward, it was done. I didn't care what happened to any of the characters  — which ones were alive, which were dead, which were in purgatory, which were.... whatever.

This time, I swear, I will never watch that series again.

Now, I'm sure there's a Twilight Zone rerun that needs watching.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

baby come back

I have been collecting autographed photos of "celebrities" for over twenty years. My collection includes some famous names, like Tom Hanks, Charlton Heston and Gene Kelly. But, It mostly consists of mid- to low-level actors who were most famous for a single role on a long-forgotten television program or film. To get these inscribed photos, I have attended numerous collector shows and conventions. You know the type. They are usually themed to one specific interest, like baby boomer, science-fiction, or even as ultra-specific as Star Trek. They are usually held at a large hotel and spread out among several ballrooms and meeting rooms. The rooms are filled with vendors offering everything from T-shirts and DVDs to custom artwork and figurines. Some of the larger conventions encourage attendees to come in costume. But the draw for me is the roster of celebrities that have been contracted to sit behind a table laden with stacks of glossy pictures, a few vintage posters and perhaps even a thin, bound memoir — all waiting to be inscribed and personalized for a paltry sum (a sum that has escalated at a steady rate in twenty years time). 

After a three year absence, I attended the Monster-Mania Con in nearby Cherry Hill, New Jersey. I used to go to this biannual event regularly, despite a steep admission fee that grew steeper with each subsequent show. I was never particularly interested in the items for sale in the vendor rooms, although I would always stroll through the packed aisles to peruse the wares. I was there solely for autographs and to spend a few minutes with someone who I had only seen as image flickering across a movie or TV screen. 

Until Christopher Lloyd ruined it for me. 

Mr. Lloyd, the Emmy Award winning actor equally recognized for his roles as "Reverend Jim Ignatowski" on Taxi, "Judge Doom" in Who Framed Roger Rabbit? and "Doc Brown" in the Back to the Future trilogy, made an appearance at Monster-Mania three years ago, This was a pretty big coup for the promoter of the long-running convention and I was anxious to meet Mr. Lloyd and add his photo to my collection. I lined up at his table behind a dozen or so other fans. When I got close enough, I selected a photo — a close up of Christopher as "Doc Brown" with a large, geometric contraption on his head. A man seated next to the actor informed me that a signed picture would set me back sixty bucks. Holy shit! When I started my collection, pictures with a signature and a bit of quality time with the signer cost ten dollars. (Actually, Butch Patrick, child star of The Munsters, charged a five-spot and Mrs. P and I were the only ones there to see him.) For a long time, the going rate rose to — and then stayed at — twenty dollars. Lately, most celebrities charge thirty, with a select few (with bigger egos, no doubt) asking forty. But, sixty dollars! That was just ridiculous. I flip-flopped on a decision in my mind a few times until I fumed and reluctantly handed over three crumbled twenty dollar bills. When I approached Mr. Lloyd, I smiled and said, "Hi. I'm a big fan. I loved your work in Roger Rabbit and Back to the Future." — gushing like a giddy teenager. He didn't even look up. He just quickly scrawled his name across the lower portion of the photo, smearing the "C" in the process. I thanked him and he still offered no reply. Not a word. I thought, "You son of a bitch! Sixty bucks to write your fucking name and you can't even muster a 'Hi?' What an asshole." I was done with this show. It was expensive. It was crowded. I have to park a mile away because the tiny hotel lot fills up quickly. I just wasn't enjoying myself anymore.

However, I still continued to check the list of guests for upcoming Monster-Manias. When the new guest list was posted for Monster-Mania 34, I decided to put my grudge on hold and go back one more time. But this time, I'd go about it differently. First, I went on a Sunday, the final day of the show. It was also only twenty dollars to get in — ten dollars less than the previous two days. Next, I got to the hotel an hour before the show opened. It was great. I had my choice of parking spaces. Once inside and in the lobby, I watched the hotel staff marvel at the costumed, mohawked and heavily-tattooed attendees milling about. When the not-so-friendly staff dropped the velvet rope and the show officially opened, I headed straight to the autograph room where the "celebrities" were just arriving at their tables, unpacking their Sharpies and setting up their photos. There were no crowds, no hassle and no lines.

I walked right up to Curtis Armstrong, best known as "Booger" in the 1984 college gross-out Revenge of the Nerds and several of its lesser sequels. However, Curtis is also considered one of the world's leading authorities on the music and career of late singer Harry Nilsson (he of "Without You" and "Everybody's Talkin'" fame). Curtis even wrote the liner notes for a series of Nilsson album re-releases. Curtis was casually chatting with a young lady seated next to him at his table. I approached and selected a photo. I then told Curtis of my own fondness for Harry Nilsson's music. He lit up, happy for a conversation that wouldn't include misquoted dialog from the Nerds films. We spoke briefly about the career of the singer, sharing our preferences for individual songs. He inscribed my photo "From one Nilsson fan to another" and capped it with his swashy signature. He graciously posed for a picture with me. I thanked him and headed straight across the still sparsely-populated room.

My target was Adrienne Barbeau. She was the reason I decided to temporarily shelve my boycott of Monster-Mania. I wrote about Ms. Barbeau a few months ago, after Mrs. P and I saw her in a production of the Broadway musical Pippin, so I will try to keep my gushing to a minimum. I have met a lot of celebrities over the years, and while it is always a pleasure (and sometimes a bit of a thrill) to meet someone you've only seen on TV or the movies, there are a few that fall into the category of very cool. Julie Newmar, Shirley Jones, Patty Duke and Karen Valentine come to mind. Adrienne Barbeau now tops that list. I patiently waited for Ms. Barbeau to finish a conversation with two fanboys toting an over-sized poster from the 1982 horror anthology Creepshow. I could not take my eyes off of her. It was one of those surreal moments. Sure, it was pretty cool seeing her as a tiny speck on the distant Academy of Music stage in February, but now here she was, less than two feet away. At 70 (you read that right), she still looks awesome. The fanboys moved on and Adrienne turned to me, greeting me with a big smile and an even bigger "Hello." Trying to gather my thoughts and to not sound like a blithering idiot, I told her that I was a long-time fan and that my wife and I enjoyed her performance in Pippin. Her broad smile broadened. An expression came across her face that said: "Finally! Someone wants to talk about something other than The Fog or Swamp Thing." I gave her a drawing I did of her and Maude co-star and mentor, the late Bea Arthur, along with a couple of Josh Pincus pinback buttons (available HERE.). She was intrigued and asked about the story behind "Josh Pincus." (Oh, there's a story, all right.) She laughed at my little story. I asked if I could get a photo with her and she happily obliged. She got up and came around the table, positioning her small frame close to me. Her assistant snapped off a couple of shots on my cellphone. I thanked her and she thanked me for the buttons and the drawing. 

The room began to fill up and a line began to form for Tara Reid, star of the recent campy phenomenon, Sharknado (and its sequels). I had been here for an hour already and Tara was a no-show. I scanned the room and didn't recognized any of the other "celebrities" offering signed pictures and face-to-face time. I mean I had never heard of any show or movie they "claimed" to be representing. Figuring Tara Reid was not worth my time or another thirty bucks, I started for the exit.

Philadelphia is smack in the middle of a relentless heatwave, with temperatures in the high 90s, coupled with oppressive humidity. So, on my way home, I purchased a 12" oscillating fan for half the price of an autographed picture.

It was a good day all around.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com