sunday will never be the same

My dad liked things a certain way.

Just add sugar

He liked dinner as soon as he came home from work. (It had better be some kind of meat.) He liked a cigarette as soon as he got out of bed in the morning — even before be brushed his teeth or changed out of his pajamas. He liked to watch certain TV shows on certain nights. The FBI was a Sunday night staple. All in the Family (a show that my father viewed as a documentary) and Kojak were loyally tracked down and viewed on the various nights and timeslots in which they were broadcast throughout the lengths of their respective runs. In the morning, my dad liked a bowl of Kellogg's Corn Flakes with the sugar equivalent of six Hershey bars sprinkled liberally on top before the milk was added. (Why didn't he just eat Frosted Flakes? Two reasons. 1. My mom ate Frosted Flakes, therefore — in the mindset of Harold Pincus — it was a woman's cereal. 2. Those pre-sweetened flakes didn't have nearly enough sugar for his liking.) 

My dad was, by no means, an example of physical fitness. As far back as I can remember, his physique was that of someone smuggling a wok under his shirt. He got little to no exercise and smoked like a chimney. Despite this, before bed each and every evening, my dad would sit down at our kitchen table with a giant glass of chocolate milk and a Tastykake Chocolate Junior (two layers of golden cake cemented together with a rich helping of chocolate frosting and blanketed on top with more of the same) from a renowned local commercial bakery and — until recently — only available in the greater Philadelphia area. And he capped this pre-bedtime snack off with a couple more cigarettes to end his day.

Sunday mornings were something special, though. On Sunday mornings, instead of breakfast cereal poured from a box, my mom would cook breakfast. She'd fire up the stove and prepare scrambled eggs or pancakes or — if she was feeling particularly ambitious — French toast. But before my mom would pull a frying pan out of a cabinet, my dad would have to run his little Sunday morning ritual errand. He had to get donuts.

You know. Donuts.

? ? ? ? ?

See that picture at the very top of this blog post? Those — as far as I knew — were "donuts." If you went to the store to get eggs, you came home with a dozen little white things in a molded cardboard container formed to protect their fragile shells. Those were eggs. They could not be mistaken for anything else and they fit into  no other category. If you were tasked to go out and return with a baseball, you better come back bearing a nine-inch round, leather-clad sphere reinforced with 108 red stitches. Anything else would not be a baseball and you would have failed your mission. For young Josh Pincus, "donuts" were a specific thing. They were round, airy cake-like pockets stuffed with an overflowing abundance of viscous sugary jelly (Maybe grape, maybe raspberry. There was no real discernable fruit flavor.) and covered in a dense coating of clumpy powdered sugar, opaque enough to obscure any hint of yellow-gold pastry beneath. The jelly would seep out of a tiny hole at one end. To avoid getting squirted with jelly, you had to strategically place your first bite where that little "fill hole" was. That, my friend — and only that — was a donut. Those round things with a hole in the middle and covered with frosting and sprinkles? I didn't know what those were, but they sure weren't donuts. 

Free,
if you look like a girl.

On Sunday mornings, my dad would venture out to a nearby bakery to buy "donuts" and he would return with a plain white box sealed with several tight wrappings of twine. Once the twine was cut and the lid lifted, there were a dozen of those things I just described and they were donuts. On rare occasions, I would go with my dad to the bakery, where one of the stout Teutonic frauen would smile at me and offer a free cookie from their stock. "Isn't she cute?!?," they'd announce with an inflection reminiscent of Marlene Dietrich. That's right! "She!" My mid-1960s locks often led to being mistaken for a girl. But, I didn't correct them, fearing it would jeopardize this and any future free cookies. Munching my justifiably earned treat, I'd watch my dad point to the donuts in the case and instruct the Germanic abeiterin to fill a box with a dozen of them. I gazed at the other baked goods on display behind the glass-paneled cases. There were strudels, cupcakes and the giant tray of cookies from which my free one was chosen, along with other sugary bounty. Of course, there were those round things with frosting and sprinkles... but I didn't know what they were. I only knew we never brought them home. We came to get "donuts" and they — most definitely — were not donuts.

Admittedly, I was sheltered as a young child. The most influential people I came in contact with were my parents. But, as I got older, I began to notice things. Things I never really noticed before. I noticed that other kids' dads ate pizza. (My dad did not.) I noticed that other kids' dads drank Coca-Cola. (My dad did not.) I noticed that other kids' dads never used the same words my dad used for Asian people and Hispanic people and even that one he regularly used for black people. I eventually learned that those round things with the hole in the middle and covered with frosting and sprinkles were also donuts... just another variety. But they were donuts, just the same.

I learned a lot from my father. Most of what I learned, he didn't teach me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what's new

A couple of weeks ago, I bought a new car to replace a car that served me well for nearly twenty years. While doing a little online research before making my purchase, I discovered that the technology available in cars has advanced greatly in twenty years. When I bought my Toyota RAV4 in 2004, my biggest concern was that it had both a cassette deck and a CD player. I didn't know a thing about anti-lock fuel injection or anything else that went on under the hood — nor did I want to know. As long as I knew which side of the car allowed access to the gas tank for self-serve fill-ups (an activity of which I am not too crazy about performing), I choose to leave the down-and-dirty "car stuff" to the experts.

My Toyota RAV4's entertainment center came equipped with a cool little feature that I found fascinating. (Remember it was 2004!) When a CD was inserted into the player, a press of the "TEXT" button on the console changed the monochrome digital readout to display the name of the song, sometimes scrolling across the panel if the text contained a lot of characters. This was cool, in my easily impressed opinion. (As a frame of reference, I was mesmerized by the first fax machine I witnessed.)

Eclipse.

After several purchases from Toyota, I decided to give Subaru a try. I had been very pleased with Toyota's products. Over the years, my wife and I bought four of them and the local dealership from which we made all of those purchases was great. Nice, no-pressure salesmen. Helpful and respectful service department. They were responsive and accommodating. However, recently, their customer service began to show signs of slipping. My wife had to return a day after some routine maintenance because a technician forgot to tighten something that caused the door to the glove compartment of her 2018 RAV4 to fall off mid-drive. A week later, she noticed her driver's side headlight was out and the dealership was less than accommodating in her efforts to replace it. What turned out to be a five-minute process by a neighborhood mechanic required an all-day appointment with our Toyota dealership.

I had heard good things about Subaru, so I thought I'd give them a shot. I am not a fan of the "haggling over price" part of buying a car and that process is nonexistent at Subaru. There is a price on a sticker affixed to the windshield of every car and that is the price. Of course, they will discount the car further with a trade-in vehicle, but there's no "what if I pay cash" incentive or "what's your best price?" nonsense. The price on the sticker is the price... and if you don't like it, you get a shrug, a smile and a point to the door. My wife and I discussed what we wanted to spend and my internet research led me to the Subaru Crosstrek, a model that was comparable in size to the RAV4 with which I had been so comfortable. A salesman directed me to a 2024 model on their lot. After a brief walk-around introduction, I eased myself behind the wheel, pressed the "START" button (No more ignition keys! When did that happen?) and took a few spins around the dealership's large parking lot. That was all the convincing I needed.  A few minutes later, we were signing paperwork and making arrangements for me to pick up my brand new car on the upcoming Saturday.

When my Saturday appointment came, my wife and I drove my RAV4 on its last journey under Pincus ownership. I relinquished the title to the business officer at the Subaru dealership. After exchanging handshakes and receiving a several "congratulations," I was led to my new car, ready and waiting in the safety and security of the showroom's sparkling-clean garage. (I never understood the "congratulations" from the sales staff when completing the purchase of a new car. It's not like I won the car. I was paying for it. I don't recall getting a "congratulations" from a supermarket cashier on my purchase of Cheerios.)

Before the garage door was lifted and my life as a Subaru owner began, I was introduced to Eric, the "tech guy" in Subaru's service department. Eric, a friendly young man, took a place in the passenger's seat and highlighted the finer points of the newly-redesigned 2024 Subaru Crosstrek's dashboard.

This is a stock photo.
My car will most likely never see mountains.

He ran through the various buttons and levers and mini-joysticks that surrounded the driver's seat. If I didn't know better, I would have thought I was getting my first lesson in piloting a helicopter. Eric helped me link my new car to my cellphone via a Bluetooth connection, technology that did not exist last time I bought a car. (My wife's 2018 vehicle accommodates Bluetooth, but just for phone calls. In six short years, the advancement is mind-boggling for someone of my age group.) He explained all sorts of neat little features that could be accessed by a few touches on the large screen that occupies the center spot of the dashboard. Radio, media player, phone, even air temperature can be controlled from the virtual buttons on the extremely-intuitive and futuristic-looking touchscreen. Eric ran through his little lesson with breakneck speed, pointing and expanding at a rate that I really couldn't keep up with. When he finished, he added that if I had any questions, I could come back and he'd be happy to answer them. As an incentive for a return visit, he offered a $25 gift card to be used at Wawa, the legendary Philadelphia-based convenience store chain that runs circles around your Sheetz and Seven-Elevens. Upon hearing that offer, I happily made an appointment for two weeks from my Saturday pick-up day.

I drove my car for two weeks... mostly — if not exclusively — to work and several supermarkets. Actually, on Day Two, I drove my son and his girlfriend to their respective center city Philadelphia homes, all the while showing off the cool stuff my new car could do. 

I returned for my second "orientation" appointment yesterday. I was greeted by Eric who asked me how I was liking my new car. I told him it was good, much better — and much, much different — than my RAV4. Not being a "car guy," a lot of what Eric explained to me sort of went in one ear and out the other. I do remember being told that the headlights are so advanced that they actually turn toward the direction of a right or left turn to light the way. At least that's what I think I heard. Once inside the car, Eric scrolled through a slew of options available under the category of "Driver Assistance." He explained how to activate each one and described how each one worked. He pointed out three little buttons at the bottom of the rearview mirror that can be programmed to operate a garage door opener. I told him I do not have a garage door opener because I have no use for a garage door opener because I do not have a garage. I also told him that I almost needed his assistance in getting music stored on my phone to play through the speakers in my car. Thanks to YouTube, I was able to watch a video that walked me through the fairly simple procedure.

Gotta hava

Over the course of twenty minutes, Eric gave me lessons in a number of things that I could activate at the touch of a few buttons. I nodded as he explained what each feature did, but honestly, I nodded when my eighth grade math teacher explained integers to me. Finally, he sounded as though he was wrapping his little spiel up. He said if I had any additional questions that I should not hesitate to contact him at the dealership. Then he presented a clipboard and pen before me and requested my signature. After I signed, he handed me a Wawa gift card, as promised — the real reason I made this appointment. As he surrendered the shiny piece of plastic, he told me it could be used for snacks, sandwiches, coffee, anything that Wawa sells. (Dude! I know how a gift card works! I may not understand rack and pinion assisted brakes, but I've been to more Wawas than years you've been on this planet!) "Thank you." I said.

As I pulled away in my brand new car, I turned off two of the options that Eric turned on.

And I headed for Wawa.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

washing dishes with my sweetie

Growing up in the 60s and 70s, I certainly had my share of household chores. I would sometimes receive an allowance for completing my assigned tasks, but mostly my dad would forget. In his (and my mom's) defense, I was rarely denied a little extra spending money if I asked. I knew when I could ask and I knew when I  shouldn't... and that was a little game I played with my parents expendable income.

In the summer, at least once a week (when I wasn't gently reminded), I would fill this relic up with gasoline and push it all over our front and back lawns. This was a job that I inherited from my older brother once he graduated from household chores to employment in the "real" world. I didn't mind this too much. It was outside. It didn't take that long to complete. And sometimes, if the nearby Nabisco factory was in production, the air was filled with the delicious smell of baking cookies. It took my mind off that fact that I was cutting the grass, instead I mentally wandered through a magical world of 24-hour cookie ovens and stacks and stacks of Oreos and Chips Ahoy! (When I visited Walt Disney World for the first time, I was immediately taken back to this childhood scene as I passed the Main Street Bakery. It was only later that I learned that the wonderful "freshly baked cookies" scent was fake and Disney pumps it into the air to entice passers-by. Bastards!)

Every Wednesday evening, after dinner, I would wend my way around our house and empty the trash cans and wastepaper baskets in each room. (We called the trash receptacle in the bathrooms "wastepaper cans," but all the other rooms had "trash cans." I don't know why that was... but that's how The Pincuses lived.) Once that portion of the task was finished, I'd drag the big metal trash cans that rested at the side of our house down to the curb for collection the following morning. When I got home from school on Thursday, I would drag the empty cans back up the driveway to the side yard where they would remain until next Wednesday. (One day, there was an "incident" involving trash collection that you can read about here.)

While I was making my rounds on trash duty, my mom was doing what 1960s moms did. She was cleaning the kitchen. This was what society had deemed as "woman's work." My mom did "woman's work." Not happily. Not unhappily. She just did it. She did the grocery shopping. She did the cooking. She did the serving. And she did the cleaning up after dinner. Looking back, I remember that my mom always ate dinner last, sometimes just sitting down as my father was using a buttered slice of bread to wipe up the last drops of gravy from his plate before lighting an after-dinner cigarette (as opposed to the several "during dinner" cigarettes he enjoyed). My dad, my brother and I would exit the dinner table, leaving my mom to finish her meal alone and eventually clear the table and load the dishwasher alone, as well. (Boy, the Pincus men certainly were little shits!)

Our house did not have a basement or a separate laundry room. We didn't even have a dining room, as sometime in the swingin' 60s, my parents converted the designated dining room to a den, with a sofa, a chair for my father and a TV. That left our tiny 10' x 10' kitchen jammed with a clothes washer and dryer along with our family table and four chairs. Our house did have a dishwasher, though. It was a portable dishwasher with a butcher-block top that my mother put to good use. The dishwasher was on wheels, so during meal preparations, she'd maneuver it near the sink and chop up.... well, whatever it is that moms chop up when they make dinner. After dinner, and once the top was cleaned, my mom would put all the dinner dishes, as well as any pots and utensils used in preparation, into the depths of the dishwasher. With liquid detergent added somewhere inside, she'd extract a large garden hose-looking tube from the back and connect it to the kitchen faucet. For the next hour or so, the kitchen faucet was off limits! You want a glass of water? Get it from a bathroom! You want to wash an apple (like I actually ate apples! Ha!) Too bad! Again, use a bathroom sink or tough it out. My mom loved that dishwasher and, as far as the rest of the family was concerned, it was her dishwasher. After all, no one else in the family knew how to use it. We didn't need to. That was "woman's work" and my mom was the only woman in Chez Pincus.

Somewhere around the time I entered high school, my mom got a job in a women's clothing store. My dad was, at first, not happy about this development. My mom, however, grew to do whatever she wanted to do, regardless of my father's opinion... and my father knew it. Once my mom started working on a regular basis, family dinners became a thing of the past. Our freezer became stocked with TV dinners and other assorted meals of convenience. Pizza was a common dinner. While my brother and I would enjoy the cheese-laden pie my mom brought home from the pizza place next to her store, my dad would frown, grumble and make himself a cold-cut sandwich, smoke a couple of cigarettes and complain about how much he hated pizza, although I never ever saw my father actually eat a slice of pizza. 

Along with "mom-prepared" family dinners, other "mom" services disappeared. No more laundry. You want clean clothes? My mom gave one lesson in how to operate the washing machine and dryer. My brother and I paid close attention and soon we were doing our own laundry. My dad, the "breadwinner" (And breadwinners don't do laundry. They.... they.... win bread!) had no intention of washing his own clothes. He fought in World War II, ferchrissakes! He didn't defeat Hitler for the honor of laundering his own socks! My dad would often persuade my brother or me to add his dirty clothes to our batch. And, of course, we'd oblige. With family dinners a thing of the past, my mom's portable dishwasher was used less and less. It was only when the sink became an overflowing mess of plates and forks and the occasional pan (my brother figured out the secret of making grilled cheese sandwiches), that my mom would run the dishwasher. Still, no one else in the house knew how to load and operate the dishwasher. It was still my mom's thing.

When I got married, I wanted to be as helpful as I could be around our house. I wasn't going to be like my father, sitting back and watching my wife do all the housework while I smoked cigarettes and watched TV. (Well, I don't smoke, but I still had plans of watching TV.) I vacuumed and took the trash out and, briefly mowed the lawn... until we hired a guy to mow the lawn. As a matter of fact, we have also hired someone to clean our house on a regular basis. But there was still laundry! I had remembered the basics of doing laundry from the quick lesson my mom gave when I was a teenager. I made the offer to my new bride and, reluctantly, she let me take a shot at it. Our washing machine was much different that the one at my parent's house and the dryer...? The dryer had more buttons and dials and settings than the control panel of a commercial airplane. So, after I put one of Mrs. Pincus' favorite sweaters into the dryer, shrinking it to a size suitable for a Barbie doll, I was barred from laundry duty 'til death do us part. I wasn't about to ask to use the dishwasher.

Mrs. Pincus and I have been married for 38 years. In those 38 years, I have never loaded, closed, added detergent to, or operated the dishwasher in our kitchen. If someone came in, pointed a gun at me and ordered me to show them how to run our dishwasher, I would just shrug and tell them they might as well pull the trigger right now. I'd sooner be able to show them how to bake a cake... and I don't know how to do that either, but, I'm sure somewhere, there are printed directions. The dishwasher? Well, Mrs. P instinctively knows how to work it, just like she knows all the right questions to ask doctors and repairmen. She just knows. Good thing, too... 'cause I don't have those instincts. So, while I offer my (minimal) assistance in making salads for dinner, carrying packages from the car and carrying laundry (that I don't do) up from the basement, the dishwasher falls into the "appliance" category. As far as I'm concerned, when I was flagged from using the washing machine, I took that to mean all household appliances. 

Recently, an ongoing cacophony of uncharacteristic "clanky" noises coming from our 25-year old dishwasher let us know that we should probably start looking for a replacement before it is totally out of commission. Coincidentally, the ice maker in our equally-as-old refrigerator ceased working and, along with the various broken shelf brackets and cracked drawer guides, a new refrigerator would be a good idea, too. On Memorial Day weekend, Mrs. P and I wandered around the large appliance department at Best Buy and settled on a shiny new dishwasher and a shiny new refrigerator from the good folks at Samsung (makers of the TV in our bedroom and both of our cellphones.) Arrangements for delivery were made and in a few days, the Pincuses entered the 21st century of kitchen convenience. The refrigerator is a French door model with a through-the-door water and ice dispenser and a large drawer that houses a reach-in freezer. It is a far cry from the narrow, avocado green icebox in my parent's kitchen. The dishwasher, with its gleaming, stainless-steel front, has spacious racks and a cool flat shelf at the top for things like lids and spatulas that you don't want flying around during a cycle and smashing into your dishes.

On Day One with the new dishwasher, I don't know what possessed me, but I asked Mrs. Pincus to show me how to use it. I figured: "How difficult could it be? Technology has become simpler as time goes on, so the new dishwasher should be a snap! And sure enough, it was. My wife showed me what pieces she preferred go on the bottom rack and what should be placed in the protective top rack. She showed me where the detergent goes and how much to use. (First, she had to show me where the jug of dishwashing liquid is kept.) She explained the simple, silent, push-button operation. Then, just close the door and — BINGO! — magic occurs. A cool feature we discovered is when the cycle is finished, the door automatically pops open to help in the drying process.  

Mrs. P watched as I loaded the new dishwasher. She observed the way I squeezed the liquid into the little reservoir and snapped the lid of the compartment shut. I pushed two buttons — just two! — on the control panel, shut the door and the dishwasher whirred to life. Actually, it was pretty quiet. Next morning, after turning on the coffee maker, I emptied the dishwasher. I put our dinner dishes back in the proper cabinets, the glasses in their cabinets and the flatware in the correct drawers. There were a few items that, despite living in this house for nearly four decades, I had no idea where in our kitchen cabinets they are stored. I left them on the kitchen counter for Mrs. P to put away when she woke up. But — goddamn! — I acquired a new skill!

Now almost every evening, I fill and start the dishwasher and every morning I empty it and put our dishes and flatware away (except for the things I have no idea where they belong). Once again, I have chores.

Allowance, however, is still iffy.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

learned my lesson well

Well, now you got me started. After my "television" post a few weeks ago, I'm back on course to talk about my favorite household... appliance? ...accessory? ... accoutrement? How about "necessity!" That's right... television! The central part of any home. It's been your main source of information long before you had Alexa, a smartphone or even a computer. It's been an entertainer, a weather forecaster, a news stream... even a baby sitter. And it's been a teacher. You learned a lot from television. Things you know to be inarguable facts Things you would never question or debate or contradict. You learned them from television, so they must be true.

Before the generation that grew up on Sesame Street, we learned from other shows we saw on television. Like sitcoms. And Westerns. And cartoons. These sources were not only entertaining, but informative, offering timeless facts that could be used in everyday life and would form the foundations for a solid education of general knowledge.

For instance...

• Goats eat tin cans.
• You know your house is infested with mice when you find a small arch-shaped hole perfectly cut into your baseboard. Sometimes, there's even a hinged door in the hole.
• If you find yourself sinking in quicksand (and, honestly, who hasn't?), you know not to thrash around, because you will only sink faster.
• All bartenders in the Old West, served all drinks by sliding them down the bar.
• Also in the Old West, bad guys and drunks regularly fell or were tossed into horse troughs.
• The natural enemy of the roadrunner is the coyote
• Rabbits' favorite food is carrots
• Villains are easy to spot by their top hats and handlebar mustaches.
• Men openly tell their problems to bartenders... even ones they just met in a bar they've been in for the first time.
• If you are lost in the desert, you will see a giant pool of water surrounded by scantily-clad harem girls coolly waving feathers on long sticks. This will disappear in a few seconds... around the time you start drinking a handful of sand.
• When you are faced with a difficult decision, small versions of yourself — dressed like a devil and an angel — will appear on your shoulders to advise you.
• Cannibals cooked missionaries in a huge cast iron pot, while they were still alive and fully clothed. They also added sliced vegetables with very little resistance.
• The best remedy for a black eye is a steak. A large one. With a bone in it.
• A toothache is relieved by tying a white cloth around your entire head, securing it with a knot at the top.
• If the toothache persists, the offending tooth can be easily and safely removed by tying a string to it, tying the other end to a doorknob and, then, slamming the door shut.
• Amnesia is caused — and cured — by a blow to the head.
• When a woman faints, she is pregnant. Then she will soon require a steady diet of pickles and ice cream.
• Thinking about the past is always preceded by swirly vision. Thoughts about the past are in black & white.
• Listening through a glass placed against a wall instantly makes a conversation in the next room crystal clear.
• Sprinkling salt on a bird's tail renders it unable to fly.
• Bosses hire, fire and rehire employees on a daily — sometimes hourly — basis.
• Policemen have exaggerated Irish accents.
• If you dig a hole deep enough, you will strike oil. If you continue to dig, you will reach China.
• A far-fetched, implausible, outlandish story is much preferred to the truth.
• If you wear a thin mask with eye holes punched out, no one will recognize you.
• The smartest person who ever lived was Albert Einstein. The worst was Benedict Arnold.
• Mules are stubborn.
• Every house at the end of a block with a broken window and an overgrown lawn is haunted. A kid will invariably hit a baseball into it.
• In every wedding ceremony, the officiant must ask if anyone objects to the couple getting married and encourages them to speak now, as this will be their only opportunity ever. Someone will undoubtedly take them up on the offer.
• People who are drowning go under the water three times... and are kind enough to count each one off for you. If you do save someone from drowning, they can be easily revived by pumping the water out of them. This can be accomplished by pressing on their stomach. The water will spout from the victim's mouth like a fountain. If this doesn't work, the victim's arm can be used as a pump for the same purpose.
• Female teachers are either bitter and mean spinsters or alluring supermodels. There is no in-between.

I'm sure there are many, many more life lessons that came from television. If I've forgotten any, a refresher course is readily available in the form of reruns. I know I'll be watching. There's always room to expand your education.

a hundred million miracles

I love watching old movie musicals. I can sit and watch most of them over and over again... and, for some, I have. I've lost count at around a zillion on viewings of Singing in the Rain. Same goes for Oklahoma! and Annie Get Your Gun (although I still wince at Betty Hutton's shrieking style of singing). If I am going to be honest, I have never been able to stay awake through the entire 153 minutes of West Side Story. 

I used to look forward to the annual Fourth of July showing of Yankee Doodle Dandy on Turner Classic Movies, but I haven't watched it in a while because I have a difficult time with the "blackface" scene. Sure, the TCM host will introduce the film with a solemn, almost apologetic, disclaimer, stating that it is "historical" and "a product of its time." As much as I love the movie, I would prefer that it never see the light of day again (along with Holiday Inn, Babes on Broadway and The Littlest Rebel for the same reason.).

Juanita Hall

Recently, I watched a musical that I had never seen before. It's Flower Drum Song, the 1961 Rogers & Hammerstein take on Asian culture, specifically Chinese traditions. In its initial release, as well as its broadcast on TCM, the film was touted as being the first Hollywood film with a majority Asian cast. Yes, there had been plenty of films with Asian themes, but all of the lead roles were played by white actors in heavy, so-called "yellowface," make-up, including all of the "Charlie Chan" and "Mr. Moto" detective series and the cringe-worthy Dragon Seed, a chronicle of the Second Sino-Japanese war starring (gulp!) Katherine Hepburn, Walter Huston and Agnes Moorehead. Flower Drum Song did, indeed, showcase an Asian cast for its story about a traditional Chinese arranged marriage and the "Americanization" of the culture. However, of its four main leads — James Shigeta, Miyoshi Umeki, Jack Soo and Nancy Kwan — only Kwan is of Chinese ancestry. While an "all Asian cast" was commendable, there was absolutely no regard for which specific Asian nationality the actors represented. The role of wise "Madame Liang," originated on Broadway by African-American actress Juanita Hall, was planned for Chinese-American actress Anna May Wong (possibly to make up for her been passed over for the lead in The Good Earth in favor of white actress Luise Rainer). Wong died suddenly before production began and the part was reprised by Hall. The rest of the supporting cast were Asian, but of a wide variety of Asian races.

Miyoshi Umeki and James Shigeta

The songs in Flower Drum Song are typical Rogers & Hammerstein fare. Where the songs in Oklahoma! focused on using every Western, cowboy and prairie reference the celebrated songwriting pair could muster, the songs in Flower Drum Song were fraught with condescending — and downright racist — lyrics that proliferated stereotypes, presenting its subjects as quaint, little curiosities as though in a circus sideshow. Don't get me wrong. The cast was terrific and the musical numbers — while uncomfortable on the surface — were executed beautifully. Nancy Kwan was stunning in her solo performance of the blatantly sexist and subservient "I Enjoy Being a Girl," although her modest singing voice was dubbed by the white B.J. Baker, who "sang" for "Wilma Flintstone" in The Flintstones. (My wife pointed out how this song seemed eerily similar to "How Lovely to Be a Woman," as sung by Ann-Margret in Bye Bye Birdie.) It was particularly difficult to watch her deliver the self-mocking lyrics of "Grant Avenue." Jack Soo was endlessly endearing as the hot-shot Chinatown club owner. His rendition of "Don't Marry Me" was delightful, despite the song's obligatory racist jabs. Miyoshi Umeki displayed a beautiful singing voice that was sadly hidden in her secondary role as "Mrs Livingston" on the hip 60s sitcom The Courtship of Eddie's Father. And poor, hunky James Shigeta. He was once told by a Hollywood agent that if he wasn't Asian, he would be a huge star.

I watched Flower Drum Song to the very end. It was very uneven. Lively and engaging in spots and monotonous in others. I was glad I finally got to see it, but because of the hurtful and exploitative treatment of its cast, I probably will not watch future showings. (And there will be future showings.) I was sad to learn that the next Hollywood movie featuring an "all Asian cast" was The Joy Luck Club, released 32 years after Flower Drum Song. 

Hollywood still has a lot to learn.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

book I read

Recently, as part of a promotion at the radio station that employs my son, E. was asked to select a few special books from his youth to share with the listening audience. He was at our house, wherein his childhood bedroom remains a veritable shrine, practically undisturbed since that traumatic day he moved into his own house several years ago*. His bookshelf is still stacked with a large library that reflects the progression of reading material collected throughout his formative years. Okay, we sold his bureau, desk and lamp at a yard sale, but still....

When E. was little, bedtime always included a story. I loved to read to him and he loved being read to. The nightly ritual was always the same. After a bath, E. would get into his pajamas and choose a book. Then he'd climb up on his bed, where we were joined by our cat Scarlett — without any sort of prompt or enticement. The two of them would settle in as I read the evening's selection, be it an installment from the "Curious George" series or a dose of Dr. Seuss silliness or any number of off-kilter volumes that Mrs. Pincus and I thought would tickle E.'s developing sense of humor or trigger his budding imagination.

E. browsed the spines of each well-worn (and well-loved) and picked out three books. Three books, I assume, that had special meaning to him and stirred pleasant memories from his youth. The first book was Where The Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, a familiar book, popular since its publication in 1963. The version that E. chose, however, is translated into Hebrew and reads from right to left. (Curiously, the illustrations are mirror images of the original.) The second book was It Happened in Pinsk by Arthur Yorinks. This quirky tale concerns shoe salesman Irv Irving, who wakes up one day without his head. The story unfolds with nary a sense of panic, as Irv's wife fashions a new head for her husband out of a pillowcase stuffed with socks. E. loved this story and the "matter-of-fact" way it was told. I provided different voices for the different characters that Irv met in his pursuit of his missing head — much to E.'s delight. The third book was The Giant Jam Sandwich by John Vernon Lord and Janet Burroway. This implausible yarn — presented in rhyme — addressed a terrible wasp problem in the fictional town of Itching Down. The inhabitants of the town constructed the title assemblage as a way to trap the pesky insects.

Of course, we read a lot of books over the years. We read classics like The Wind in the Willows and A Wrinkle in Time (which I remember being a lot better in my youth). We read a number of Roald Dahl's twisted tales, as well as the first Harry Potter novel, just after its publication. (I found it to be a Roald Dahl rip-off.) And we read a lot of silly stories about pigs and bears and other amusing characters. We enjoyed reading together. I like to think that it had a positive and memorable impact on E.'s development into the adult he has become. 

On occasion, I have called E. — out of the blue — to ask if he looks back and has good memories of his childhood. Once he confirms that I am not dying, he answers "yes," and then realistically adds "for the most part." 

I'm okay with that.

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*Don't bring this up to Mrs. Pincus

I see your true colors shining through

My hometown has been in the news this week for reasons that do not make me proud. Two African-American gentlemen walked into a Philadelphia Starbucks and sat down to wait for a colleague. This apparently made the manager of the Starbucks uneasy. Having two African-American men waiting at a table was more than this particular Starbucks manager could take. He called the police. After a discussion that referenced Starbucks company policy and a disobeyed order to leave the premises, the two gentlemen were placed in police custody, handcuffed just as their friend was entering the Starbucks to make their appointment. A cellphone video, posted to YouTube, shows the friend questioning the nature of the arrest... and receiving no real answer. The men were questioned at police headquarters and eventually released at approximately 2 AM — nearly nine and a half hours after the police were called. In the days following, protesters patroled the area outside the Starbucks at 1801 Spruce Street. Kevin Johnson, CEO of Starbucks for under a year, came to Philadelphia to apologize to the gentlemen in person. Both Philadelphia Police Commissioner Richard Ross and Philadelphia Mayor Jim Kenney apologized to the two gentlemen for the way the incident was handled by the arresting officers. The whole incident was embarrassing and infuriating. I still find it puzzling that such blatant racism still exists in the United States in 2018.

Last October, my wife and I were on a cruise. During the course of our week at sea, we made friends with a variety of folks who were on the Norwegian Breakaway for the same reason we were. One afternoon, early in our trip, Mrs P and I were participating in a rousing game of Pictionary with some of our fellow cruisers. In between rounds, we made small talk with the other players, mostly discussing about the up-coming ports-of-call and where everybody hailed from. My wife struck up a conversation with a multi-generational family who, like us, called Philadelphia home. A friendly older woman revealed that they were  travelling with a church group from Southwest Philadelphia. As Mrs. P and this woman chit-chatted, a young girl sort of clung to the woman, silently taking in the conversation, trying to figure out who this lady was that was talking to — we later discovered — her grandmother. The little girl was about seven or eight and displayed an air of suspicion. She watched with wide eyes and exercised caution, staying behind the protection of her grandmother. Her grandmother, on the other hand, was quite animated and talkative and the conversation soon branched out past "where do you live?" and entered other areas of shared interest.

During the week, we saw this little family at the buffet, near the pool, walking the common areas, at activities, as well at the first of several late-night movies. As the time went on, the little girl became less and less timid. By Day Two, she actually introduced herself as "Anissa," careful to pronounce it "Ah-NEES-a," as though we would only get one chance and we better say it correctly every time we used it. Mrs Pincus, a natural Pied Piper of children, told Anissa that there was a famous child actress with that name who was very popular and she even pronounced it the same way. Anissa smiled and showed signs of warming up. She asked us if we have any children. I answered her by pulling up a picture of our thirty-year old son on my cellphone. Anissa asked us about pets and we told her that we do not have any currently, but we did have cats — on and off — for years. She asked more questions and we answered the ones that we could. We could see that Anissa was becoming more comfortable with these people who talked to her grandmother. By Day Three, Anissa was shrieking "SUSIE!" with delight when she spotted my wife scooping herself a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. Later the same day, we again heard the unmistakable cry of "SUSIE!" as we took our places for an afternoon session of trivia — our favorite shipboard pastime. Anissa even took a spot in a chair next to Mrs. P.

One late afternoon about midway through our trip, Mrs. P and I settled into a couple of overstuffed chairs in the ship's Atrium to watch a documentary about swing dancing on a two-story projection screen. Just before the film started, a young man we had not met before came over to us and asked how we know so much trivia. Evidently, he had witnessed the mind-numbing expertise we exhibit while answering the silly, general knowledge questions that were posed. Mrs. P and I laughed and explained that we watch a lot of television, watch a lot of movies and just have an uncanny knack for remembering useless tidbits of information. He laughed, thanked us for our candor and strolled off. As he did, he passed Anissa who appeared with her family and greeted us (actually just my wife) with a loud, excited "SUSIE!" She stood between us and asked — in all earnest and innocence — if that boy we were talking to was our son. She followed up by asking if we were with her church group.

I must interrupt this story for a brief explanation.

Anissa and her family were African-American. The young man who asked about our knowledge of trivia was African-American. My wife and I are Caucasian. 

Anissa, apparently, saw none of that. She merely saw us speaking with a young man older than she, but young enough to be the son we often mentioned in our conversations. Anissa didn't see skin color. At all. For the entire week. We were so taken by Anissa's "matter-of-fact" untainted outlook. It made me wonder if Anissa couldn't be the teacher from which we all can learn. All of us.

no more pencils, no more books

We got new next-door neighbors a couple years ago. A seemingly nice young couple with a little boy around five years old. Mom and Dad were quiet and cordial. The little boy was animated, imaginative and pretty funny, too. After a week or so of friendly waves while backing out of the driveway or a smile and a nod as I passed their house on my walk from the train station, Mrs. P and I formally introduced ourselves. And, as would be expected, they introduced themselves.

We later discovered that the name they gave as theirs, was not.

Then things got weirder.

We live in, what is colloquially referred to, as a "twin" house. That is a single building comprised of two single-family dwellings sharing a common wall at the center. The individual floor plans of each home are usually mirror images of each other. (In some areas, this type of structure is called "semi-detached" or "duplex," but "duplex" means something entirely different in the Philadelphia area.) Many times we see the boy, Fan, playing outside on his small front lawn. He is usually clothed in some sort of role-playing costume, like a policeman or a construction worker. Fan builds elaborate displays of traffic cones and wooden planks, imagining himself directing traffic around a cordoned-off crime scene or shoring up the foundation of a skyscraper. He chatters to himself and then happily describes his plans to his disinterested father, his zoned-out mother or, frequently, an attentive Mrs. P.

Since our house is connected to our neighbor's house, every so often, we can hear loud noises through the common wall. The clang from a dropped pot in their kitchen, though muffled, is still quite recognizable, as is the stomping of someone angrily descending or ascending the stairs. Sometimes we hear other sounds. Like screaming. And scolding. And hollering. And crying. Considering the age of our home (nearly a century), the walls are pretty thick. The noise has to pretty loud to penetrate such thick walls.

During the final weeks of December, we saw Fan playing in the excessive snow that covered and lingered in the Philadelphia area. When the other children from the neighborhood went back to school after Winter Break, we still saw Fan dragging his little sled through the snow during weekday mornings. One day, Fan's mother, a woman reminiscent of the flower children of the middle 1960s, explained (without provocation) she and Fan's father decided to pull Fan from conventional schooling and further his education at home. She called the program "unschooling." A subsequent Google search identified "unschooling" as a question-based method of teaching, promoting understanding and learning through the natural curiosity of everyday life experiences. I suppose that includes screaming, because the noise levels from "their side of the wall" escalated and became more frequent, sometimes erupting at an hour when a five-year old should be asleep.

On a particular Sunday, I was once again shoveling snow (as I found myself doing many times during this winter) and Mrs. P was clearing off her car. Fan's mom approached us and asked if my wife could explain to Fan what it means to "keep kosher." She knows we are Jewish and that we maintain a kosher home. The always helpful Mrs. P, a former teacher and proponent of early education, was only too happy to oblige. She began to describe the basics of keeping kosher to Fan. Fan, however, was more interested in riding the gentle slope of our snow-covered lawn on his sled. So much for learning through inquisitiveness.

When I came home from work yesterday, Mrs. P and I decided to head out for dinner. As I was putting on my coat, my wife told me that Fan was playing outside all day, climbing trees and riding his bike up and down the sidewalk. We locked the door and made our way to the car. There was Fan. Outside. Climbing a tree. We waved "hello" and he rattled off some details of whatever fantasy game he was making up. Then, he said, "When I used to go to school...." and sort of trailed off — laughing.

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