they call me the seeker

This story appeared on my illustration blog in 2012. It's a pretty funny story so I'll tell it here.

For years, my wife has been in pursuit of the perfect hamburger. While a lot of carnivores share this quest, it should be noted that Mrs. Pincus has kept a strictly kosher diet for over forty years. Eating kosher meat within the privacy of one’s home is a fairly easy task. At one time, a kosher butcher shop was the only outlet for certified kosher meat. As time went on and the number of families seeking kosher products increased, major supermarkets began stocking a variety of commercially-packaged meats along with other mashgiach–supervised groceries. Thus, the preparation of kosher meals at home is not difficult, however finding a decent kosher restaurant in the Philadelphia area is another story. 

In New York, the city that never sleeps, you can swing a tallit over your head and hit six kosher restaurants with no effort. But Philadelphia, the fifth largest city in the country with the sixth largest population of Jews (206,000 of ’em), can’t keep a kosher restaurant in business to save its life. In the thirty years since I began to observe the laws of kashrut, I have seen kosher eateries come and go as quickly and abruptly as the Red Sea swallowed up Pharoah’s army. The problem with the majority of these places is they are either run by people with no business or restaurant experience or they are filthy and unappetizing. One day, my in-laws told us of yet another new kosher restaurant that opened in Northeast Philadelphia and my wife and I decided to give it a try. Perhaps this will be the one that makes Mrs. Pincus’ Hamburger Hall of Fame.

We drove out to the Northeast and pulled into the parking lot of one of the many cookie-cutter strip centers that line Castor Avenue. Squeezed between a credit union and a dry cleaner was a small storefront passing itself off as a restaurant. Once inside, we had our choice of tables, since we were the only customers. (That was not particularly encouraging considering it was the customary dinner hour.) We sat and were greeted and handed laminated menus by a young waitress. I perused the surprisingly numerous offerings. My wife, however, studied the “Hamburger” section of the menu, her eyes not straying to other areas — no matter how enticing. A few minutes later, the waitress returned and we placed our order. I’m sure I ordered something simple and sandwich-y. My wife ordered a hamburger with some cutesy name, but a hamburger no less. The restaurant’s décor left a lot to be desired. So with little distraction, we chit-chatted while we waited for our meals.

Soon, the waitress approached our table with two plates laden with steaming food. My wife’s burger looked delicious — decorated with green lettuce, red tomato and a variety of condiments — and judging from the way she savored every bite, it tasted delicious as well. All through dinner, Mrs. Pincus talked about how much she was enjoying her burger and when we finished and were presented with the check, she expressed her pleasure with the meal to the waitress before even being asked.

When I arrived home from work the next day and inquired about dinner plans, my wife excitedly suggested the restaurant from the previous evening. She said she had thought about the burger from the night before and really wanted another one. So, again, we trekked out to the Northeast for a repeat performance from the chef at the new kosher restaurant. We essentially mimicked our actions from the night before, right down to occupying the same table. On this evening, a different waitress took our order and we chuckled that a place with such sparse business needed more than one server. Of course, Mrs. Pincus ordered the same burger. A short time later, the waitress returned and placed a platter before my wife. It didn’t look remotely like the burger she had enjoyed so much a mere twenty-four hours earlier. It was on a different type of bun. It had different accoutrements and the burger itself was speckled with unidentified bits of red and green that weren’t present in the previous version. My wife beckoned the waitress over to our table and asked, “Is this what I ordered? I’ve gotten this before and it looked… er… different.”

The waitress replied, “I’ll ask.” and she scooped up the plate and walked toward the visible open grill behind the counter not ten feet away from us. The grill was being manned by a burly fellow with a white napkin knotted around his neck. Smoke rose from several meat patties sizzling on the grill, but for whom they were intended I couldn’t say, since again, we were the only patrons. The waitress pointed to us and began to converse with the chef in Hebrew, intending to keep their dialogue confidential.

Luckily, my wife, a graduate of many years of Hebrew studies, speaks fluent Hebrew and she smiled as she whispered the entire translated exchange to me as it unfolded.

“She says it looks different from the last time she got it.,” said the waitress in Hebrew, her finger jabbing the air in our direction.

The chef, not looking up and focusing his attention on his frying burgers, replied in Hebrew, “Just tell her that's how we make them in Israel.”

A frown wrinkled our waitress’s face and she studied my wife for a moment. From afar, she examined her long, straight, dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She scrutinized her dark complexion and analyzed her dark eyes. She then turned back to the chef and, again in Hebrew, reported her conclusion in a tone of trepidation

“I can’t.,” she said, “I think she’s Israeli.”

Needless to say, that was our last visit and the place didn’t last out the month.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the last time

I remember my final day of high school. I remember leaving the school building and thinking to myself, "Well, this is the last time I will ever come to this place." I remember, two weeks after giving my two-weeks notice to an employer, thinking to myself, "Well, this is the last time I'll ever set foot in this godforsaken place." I'm sure you have some of the same memories of school, or terrible jobs or any number of unpleasant (or sometimes pleasant) experiences, knowing it will be the very last time you will have that experience.

There is an author named Jason Pargin. He's a pretty interesting guy. He was, at one time, an executive editor of Cracked.com, the online humor website which has branched out to become more of a catch-all for pop culture and interesting trivia... sort of a Ripley's Believe It or Not meets Jeopardy! by way of Alex Falcone. Jason is also the best-selling author of John Dies at the End. I follow Jason on social media where he regularly posts little clips dealing with things you never noticed in movies or bits of trivia about past world events or, sometimes, just plain old thought-provoking ideas. 

Recently, Jason did a short commentary about traditions. Family traditions, to be specific. In this little piece of internet content, he talked about things that people do all the time, either as part of their everyday rituals or as annual traditions connected to a holiday. He mentioned things like putting a certain special ornament on top of your Christmas tree or your dad walking around the house on Christmas afternoon with a large trash bag to gather up discarded gift wrap or a specific side dish your mother always prepares for Christmas dinner (okay... okay, maybe he recorded this piece around Christmas time.) The point he made was: one day it will be the last time you ever do that particular activity. One day, that special ornament will be misplaced or it will have broken in storage or someone bought a different ornament to top the tree. He pointed out that, due to illness or, possibly death, or some other reason, your dad will not walk around the house with that trash bag this year. He noted that when a particular, regular event or activity is happening, you will have absolutely no idea that it will be the very last time it will happen. Unlike leaving a job or graduation from school  — two events in which you know when the finality occurs  — there are other times that offer no clues that this time will be the last time. He went on to say that things you do all the time  — all the time  — someday, it will be the last time you do them.... and you won't know it.

Many years ago, after my mom decided that she would no longer prepare and host our family Thanksgiving meal, my sister-in-law took over the holiday duties. My sister-in-law invited all the same family members and even prepared a kosher turkey to accommodate my wife and me, despite that fact that my sister-in-law is not Jewish (something my mother never did). For several consecutive years, we gathered at my brother's house for Thanksgiving. In 1993, however, my sister-in-law announced that she would be skipping a year as host for Thanksgiving. She had given birth earlier in the year and was not up to having a houseful of people and tending to a newborn. So, everyone made other plans and we would all plan to reconvene the following year. My father died unexpectedly at the end of that year. We never gathered at my brother's house for Thanksgiving again. However, no one knew that the previous year would be the last time.

One morning in 1967, the cast of Gilligan's Island assembled at Paramount Studios to film the final episode of the show's third season. Production wrapped and the cast members expected to see each other in the fall. However, during the summer, CBS executives decided not to proceed with a proposed fourth season. When John Lennon ate breakfast on December 8, 1980, he didn't know that it would be the last time he would eat breakfast. When two-thousand seven-hundred and fifty-three people went to work on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, they had no idea it would be the last time that would happen. One day, when you were little, your mother picked you up and put you down.... for the very last time.

It's a very daunting concept to grasp. It's a bit sad and a bit eerie. Just a little reminder about the reality of life. Remember the words of Warren Zevon.

Enjoy every sandwich.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

shticks of one and half a dozen of the other

When I was little, I had a bunch of kids from my block over to my house for a birthday party. My mom arranged for a bunch of games for my guests to play, like pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs. For our version of musical chairs, I selected the record that my mom would play and stop during the course of the game. I selected "The Let's All Call Up A.T.&T. and Protest to the President March" from Allan Sherman's second album My Son, The Celebrity. I knew every word to that song. (As a matter of fact, I knew every word to every song on the five Allan Sherman albums that my parents had in their modest record collection.) The kids who came to my party had never heard this song before. You see, in a few years, these kids — the same ones who were jockeying for that last chair in my living room and stuffing themselves with birthday cake — would be made aware of the fact that the Pincus family were Jews and Jews killed Jesus. And, in their naïve eyes, that crime would be pinned squarely on me. But for now, they just listened to the silly song that played on our record player and eyed up the chair that they hoped to snag when the music stopped. The song — as far as they were concerned — was just an upbeat march. They were oblivious to the other tracks on the album. Tracks like "Al n' Yetta," "Harvey and Sheila," "When I Was a Lad" and other titles with a decidedly Jewish slant. None of these kids' parents owned any Allan Sherman albums. Nor would they ever.

My mom introduced me to the songs and humor of Allan Sherman. I thought the songs were funny, even if I didn't get all the references and jokes. I was six years old, for goodness sake! I had no idea who Benjamin Disraeli or Billie Sol Estes were. I had no clue that the tunes to which Allan sang his silly lyrics were actual songs. But, for some reason, these songs — these albums — struck a chord with me. I just loved them.

When  I got a little older, I discovered the Dr. Demento radio show. Along with such novelty classics as "Fish Heads" and "The Cockroach That Ate Cincinnati," Dr. D often played a number of Allan Sherman tunes that I recognized from my youth. I still knew all the words, only now, I was finally getting more of the jokes. I finally was able to appreciate the clever wordplay Allan Sherman put into his parody lyrics. It was like I had unlocked a secret door and I was permitted to enjoy these songs — that were beloved to me anyway — in a whole new light. I was always intrigued by the definite Jewish appeal of Allan Sherman's music. It's kind of like Seinfeld or Mel Brooks movies. You don't have to be Jewish to enjoy and appreciate it, but if you happen to have been born and raised in a Jewish family, there are definitely a bunch of additional jokes you are privy to.

Allan Sherman's debut album was the fastest selling album at the time... and that time was 1962. That means two things. One - I am 64. I am at the tail end of Allan Sherman's first wave of fans. The original buyers of Allan Sherman's albums are dying off and their children, who enjoyed the songs secondhand, are also approaching the twilight of their twilight years. Most people in their 20s, 30s and 40s are not especially familiar with Allan's musical output. And two - Allan's efforts were soon eclipsed by four mop-top youngsters from Liverpool, England, whose infectious songs had far more impact on modern music than that chubby little guy's daffy little ditties. 

A few weeks ago, my son — a DJ on a local radio station — told me of an upcoming Allan Sherman tribute show planned for right here in Philadelphia. Thanks to our combined love of Allan Sherman, my wife and I made sure that our son was well versed in the celebrated satirist's music. The show, entitled Glory Glory Allan Sherman, a play on a play of Allan's Semetic-tinged take on the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" is sort of a preview of a proposed traveling revue with planned performances in other cities. The show would also honor the late music impresario Hal Willner and would be presented in Hal's eclectic and inimitable style. Tickets were secured and we counted the days.

The night of the performance arrived and the audience was just as I had imagined — comprised of collection of folks around my age, some older, not many younger. To be honest, if the event had taken place closer to September, one would have mistaken the entire assembly for Rosh Hashanah services. The roster of scheduled performers were recognizable names from Philadelphia and New York musical circles. After a few brief announcements (hmm... maybe it was Rosh Hashanah services?) the evening kicked off with an uneven and somewhat clunky take on Allan's best known song "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah." Led by NRBQ's Terry Adams on piano, the otherwise silly song about a sad camper's lament was punctuated by an otherworldly interlude by 101-year old avant-garde saxophonist Marshall Allen of the legendary Sun Ra Arkestra. (Allen has made his home in Philadelphia since 1968.) While Allen's contribution was indeed mesmerizing, Terry Adams' out-of-kilter cadence of the lyrics was a bit disorienting and a lot confounding. A few low discontented grumbles made their way through the audience until the song's conclusion.

 

The show was put back on track and went full-speed ahead when Eric Bazilian, founding member of hometown rock heroes The Hooters, took the stage to offer an inspired interpretation of "Seltzer Boy" from Allan's My Son, The Folk Singer, complete with jarring percussion and Bazilian's soaring, plaintive vocals. One by one, Allan Sherman's joy was brought to fresh life by a stable of talented singers and musicians. The audience clapped, and in some cases, sang along to unforgettable bits of comedy like "One Hippopotami," "Sara Jackman," "Harvey and Shelia" and a slew of others.

A dapper Wesley Stace (the former John Wesley Harding), clad in a slick tuxedo, stirred up his British roots with a hilarious reading of "Won't You Come Home, Disraeli." The always unpredictable Rodney Anonymous (of esteemed Philly anarchists The Dead Milkmen) prowled the stage as he offered up a raucous assault with "A Waste of Money." (Rodney told me later that he really wanted to do "Pop Hates The Beatles," as he shares the same "distaste" for a certain Beatle drummer with me.) Low Cut Connie's piano-pounding Adam Weiner rendered an eloquent recitation of "You Need An Analyst" following an hysterical commentary about how half the audience were seeing therapists and the other half are therapists. Eric Bazilian then returned to the stage and strummed out the pseudo-Western "The Streets of Miami" while delivering the tale in a spot-on Old World Yiddish accent. (Perhaps, some day, he'll give us an "All You Zombies" with the same inflection.) The highlight of the evening was the incomparable Robert Smigel stealthily operating the endearing but vicious Triumph the Insult Dog as he "barked out" Allan's familial sing-along "Shake Hands with Your Uncle Max," replete with an endless supply of reappearing cigars. 

The whole cast appeared for the finale, "The Ballad of Harry Lewis," a tale of a brave garment worker would "went down with the ship" and the source of the show's title, followed by a few rousing choruses of "Don't Buy The Liverwurst." Afterwards, the entire cast happily mingled with guests, exchanging stories and anecdotes and precious memories. Everyone was there — whether on the stage or in the seats — to celebrate their shared love of Allan Sherman.

Eric Bazilian, Rodney Anonymous, Adam Weiner, Wesley Stace — all love Allan Sherman

And celebrate they did.

* * * * * * 

BONUS! Here is Wesley Stace, Eric Bazilian and Rodney Anonymous onstage together — something you will never ever see again. Allan Sherman's music is capable of magical things.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

searchin'

This story appeared on my illustration blog twelve years ago, complete with a drawing of my father. It's a funny story that wasn't too funny while it was actually happening.

I'm pretty sure my dad's intentions were good, but he had his own quirky method of making them known.

My father followed an old-time, though slightly skewed, set of ethics. He was a hard worker and blindly devoted to the company he worked for — no matter how little that company gave a shit about him. He tried to instill his work ethic into my brother and me and he somewhat succeeded, as we are both hard workers. However, the Pincus boys just never bought into the "blind loyalty" part, as we came to know after years of working for various employers, that most employers feel that their employees are expendable and easily replaced.

My father loved his family and his way of showing love was to keep constant tabs on their schedules and their whereabouts. As my brother and I came into our teens, that task proved increasingly difficult for my father. Where are you going? How long are you staying there? When will you be home? Who will you be with? these were all part of the regular barrage of questions my brother and I were riddled with when we made a motion toward the front door during our adolescent years. My older brother's teenage antics made a wreck of my father's sense of family order and when I reached "driver's license" age I was no better.

In the summer of 1980, when I was 19, I ran a sidewalk produce stand for my cousin at 16th and Spring Garden Street in downtown Philadelphia. My cousin awakened in the wee hours of the morning and would spend several hours purchasing stock for the stand at the massive Food Distribution Center in South Philadelphia. He'd load his van with crates of fresh fruit and vegetables and I'd meet him at the stand around 8 a.m. to help unload the van and set up for the day. I did this every weekday for the entire summer and, even though I would sometimes stay out fairly late on weekday evenings, I was never on that corner later that 8 a.m. the next day. No matter what. Never.

At the beginning of that summer, I went on my first vacation without my parents. I went to Florida with three of my friends. When I returned home, my cousin recruited me to hawk plums and lettuce and I was just getting into the daily routine that the job required. I had also just met a girl at a local record store and we made plans for a date. Late one afternoon, I came home tired from a full morning of weighing out cherries, bagging bananas and persuading passers-by to pick up some tasty spuds for their family's dinner. After a shower and a change of clothes, I was ready to take this new girl out to a restaurant and who-knows-what-else. I met my father on the front lawn as I was leaving the house and he was arriving home from work. Right on schedule, the questions began.

He opened with his old favorite — "Where are you going?"

"I have a date."

"When will you be home?"

"I don't know. Later, I guess."

"You know, you have work tomorrow.," he informed me, as though I would not have otherwise been aware of my employment.

"I know.," I answered as I opened the driver's door of my mom's car and slid behind the wheel. My father stood on the lawn, arms folded across his chest, and watched me drive off. It was apparent that he was not pleased with my limited answers to his inquiries.

I arrived at Jill's house and offered her the passenger's seat in my mom's tank-like Ford Galaxie. We chatted as we drove and at one point I glanced in her direction as she nonchalantly popped a Quaalude into her mouth. We pulled into the parking lot of the Inn Flight Steakhouse on Street Road and I helped Jill through the entrance doors as her self-medication affected her navigational ability on the short walk from my car. At dinner we talked and joked and exchanged other typical "first date" pleasantries. Before we knew it, we had spent several extended hours at that table, although I'm sure I was more aware of the time than she was. (Under the circumstances, I sure I was more aware of a lot of things than she was.) She invited me back to her house, explaining that her parents were away for a few days (hint, hint). We drove to her house and, once inside,  she motioned to the basement, telling me she join me in a few minutes.

Meanwhile, my father was manning his usual post at the front door. He stood and stared out through the screen with an omnipresent cigarette in one hand, checking his watch approximately every eight seconds.

"Where the hell is he?," he questioned my mother.

"He's on a date. He told you. You saw him when you came home from work.," she replied, as she had countless times before.

"He has to go to work early tomorrow morning. Doesn't he have a watch? Doesn't he know what time it is?" My father was convinced that if he personally didn't inform you of the current time, you couldn't possibly know. He fancied himself humanity's "Official Timekeeper". He would have made a great town crier.

My mother — that poor exasperated, sleep-deprived woman — tried to reason with my father. "He'll be home. He knows he has to work. He's responsible. You know  he's responsible."

Suddenly, he grabbed his coat and scanned the living room for his car keys. "What are you doing?," my mother asked, suspiciously.

"I'm gonna go look for him. Maybe he has a flat tire.," he said, trying to sound concerned, but my mom was not convinced.

"You don't even know where he is. You don't know where the girl lives. You don't even know her name! Where are you going to look?" My mother knew he was up to something. No one could get anything  past my mother. Especially my father.

"Then, I'll drive around and look for him." Ignoring her words, my dad got into his car, backed down the driveway and sped off to a planned destination. He had no intention off driving around. He knew exactly where he was going. Somewhere around the time that Jill was descending her parent's basement steps wearing little more than a blanket and a smile, my dad was bursting through the doors of a police station several blocks from our home.

"My son is missing.," my frantic father shouted at the policeman on duty, "I don't know where he is!"

The unfazed officer grabbed a pen and, with it poised above a notepad, asked my father, "When did you see him last?"

"About seven hours ago," my dad replied, "when he left for a date."

The policeman dropped the pen, cocked one eyebrow and stared blankly at my father. "He's probably still on the date, sir." He instructed my dad to go home, assuring him that I'd probably be home any minute. Annoyed and dejected, my father shuffled back to his car and drove home. A few minutes after he pulled into the driveway, I steered my mom's car along the curb in front of my house. As I walked up the front lawn, searching for my house key, the front door opened and the shape of my father was silhouetted by the living room lamp. My mother was lurking several feet behind him.

"What are you still doing up?," I asked.

"Where the hell were you?," my father yelled, "I just came from the police station looking for you."

With this information coming to light for the first time, my mother and I simultaneously emitted a loud, angry and incredulous 'WHAT?'

"You went WHERE?,"  I screamed, "You knew I was on a date! Are you INSANE?"  I glanced down at my watch (contrary to my father's beliefs, I did own one and I referred to it often). "I don't have time to talk about this. I have to wake up in a couple of hours to go to work." I echoed my father's ingrained work ethic and looked him square in the face. "And so do you.," I finished.

With that, I stomped upstairs, flopped down on my bed and drifted off to sleep to the muffled tones of my mother's reprimanding voice coming from my parent's bedroom below.

I know my father's main concern was my safety and well-being and his intentions were honorable, but he desperately needed to take a course in Parental Behavior. Lucky for him, I think my mom taught those classes.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

do you know where you're going to

It's June. I graduated from high school in June. Not this June, of course. A different one. One that was forty-four years ago.

I don't have fond memories of high school. I dreaded every day. I didn't like going there or being there. Despite the Jewish population of the student body tallying nearly 85%, I was subjected to my share of anti-Semitism. I wasn't an especially good student. I didn't bring home good grades. I experienced the ache of unrequited love and, conversely, avoided some female classmates who came on a little too strong for my liking. However, I met some people who, for four years, grew to be inseparable friends, but whose camaraderie waned post-graduation... only to re-connect decades later via the magic of social media. I even re-connected with some classmates with whom I wasn't particularly close. But, time is the great equalizer and once you breach your 60th year on Earth, you begin to understand what was meant by the old adage "life is short" and you finally see just how short it is.

A classmate
wearing the winning button.

Recently, a few silly "snapshots" from my high school days popped into my head. I recall in my sophomore year, an open solicitation to design the "official" Class of '79 button was announced. The winning button design would be mass produced and distributed among our class, where it could proudly (proudly?) be displayed on a shirt, jacket or other piece of clothing. Even back in my teenage years, my budding art career was beginning to emerge. Art classes were the only ones I attended with any interest. In other non-art classes, I found myself doodling in the margins of American History tests or lengthy algebra equations. I was somewhat excited at the thought of having my design grace the "official" button representing my class, having all 1100-plus of my classmates sporting a 3" metal circle of my original artwork. I made a bunch of sketches and after rejecting several preliminary ideas, I settled on a mystical-looking wizard waving his hand above a glowing crystal ball, with the phrase "Class of '79 - We Make It Happen" floating in a semi-circle above his pointed blue, star-spangled cap. I'm not one to brag, but it was pretty good for a 16 year-old. Unfortunately, the rest of my class did not agree. In lieu of my design, they selected a strange depiction of two silhouetted figures standing on a royal blue hill before a bright yellow sun (our school colors) along with the sentiment "Class of '79 Walks Tomorrow's Paths Today" in a swirly, hand-written font. I don't like to knock other artists' work, but there were other designs — that weren't mine — that were waaaaay better than the one that was chosen. I would have been okay with not having my submission chosen. Just not this one. In my opinion, it was poorly executed and the slogan didn't exactly roll off the tongue... and that's not just sour grapes. Although, I retained some keepsakes from my tumultuous high school years, my button currently rests at the bottom of the man-made lake beneath the roller coaster at Great Adventure amusement park in Jackson, New Jersey. Great Adventure was the destination of my year-end Sophomore Class Trip. A friend picked the button off my shirt and flung it skyward with the gusto of an Olympic discus thrower. I wasn't terribly upset.

A classmate
wearing the winning shirt.

My Junior year in high school brought about a similar art-related project. This time, the task was designing the Class T-shirt. This was a big deal. Everyone's wardrobe was comprised almost exclusively of t-shirts. Concert commemoratives, sports teams, "peace" signs held over from the 60s — t-shirts and jeans were the accepted "uniform of the day" throughout the 70s. Even those students whose wardrobe was influenced by the burgeoning disco trend could sometimes be spotted in a t-shirt emblazoned with a glittery iron-on decal. Once again, I repurposed my "also-ran" button design of the wizard. I embellished my original design with more stars, brighter colors and a more detailed main figure. Again, my design lost out to a reworked take on the cover of Steve Miller's Book of Dreams album. Done in the school colors, the shirt featured a near-identical to the album depiction of Pegasus surrounded by stars, beneath the words "Flying High" in capital block letters. I will admit, it was a good design. It certainly was good enough for Steve Miller. It just wasn't an original design. However, the school "powers that be" including the principal, several administrators and an English teacher who served as our "class sponsor," debated the insinuated "drug" overtones of the slogan and mulled over the message that it conveyed. After many heated "back-and-forth" squabbles, a compromise was reached. The slogan would be changed to "Class of Dreams" before the shirts went into production. I believe the designer played dumb regarding any potential drug reference in the original design, only to create a custom-made short run of the original design for him and his pot-head friends. He wasn't fooling anyone.

The next item on the class agenda was choosing a song as our Senior Prom theme. Traditionally, the "prom theme" is a ballad that accommodates slow dancing. A number of songs were nominated with Billy Joel's "I've Loved These Days" declared the winner. A track from Joel's 1977 album Turnstiles, "I've Loved These Days" expresses the heartfelt feelings of a man reflecting on his life's accomplishments — a fitting narration for the end of high school and, of course, an opportunity to hold your prom date close... however awkward. But.... just a few weeks prior to the prom, the same committee that forced the alteration of the class t-shirt, got around to actually reading the lyrics to "I've Loved These Days." Four verses into the unfeigned sentimentality, someone discovered the line "we soothed our souls with fine cocaine." Frightened that this single line would turn the innocent prom into a deranged orgy abundant with narcotics, a meeting was held. Then another. Until another compromise with the incorrigible Class of '79 was reached. Billy Joel's composition on reminisces would be replaced with Diana Ross's 1975 hit "Theme from Mahogany" — a song priggishly subtitled "Do You Know Where You're Going To." I believe the school administration was making a backhanded assessment of my class's actions up to that point. A day or so before my senior prom, there was an afternoon luncheon where speeches were made, awards were presented and yearbooks were distributed. A few of the more musically-inclined students performed for their classmates. One young lady brazenly treated us to a rendition of "I've Loved These Days" — waving her acoustic guitar in the air at its completion in sort-of last ditch exhibition of her middle finger.

In June 1979, my years-long stretch in public school came to a close. My rambunctious class caused its share of controversy through music selections and  t-shirt designs. We thought we were tough little rebels, going toe-to-toe with "the man" and doing our best to "stand our ground." Over the course of four years, there was a certain amount of shoving and name-calling and maybe even a physical scuffle or two. But no one brought a loaded gun to school and I never hid in a closet, huddled with classmates, silently fearing I would never see my parents again.

Maybe my time in high school wasn't as bad as I remember.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

pretzel logic

Recently, I was talking to a friend about our respective jobs. I noted that — after forty years — I finally have the job I was looking for. One that allows me to earn a living and not give it a second thought once I leave for the day. No pressure. No meetings. No bosses with nothing to do all day leaning over my shoulder. No unnecessary or unrealistic goals. No disruptive co-workers. Is it the best job I've ever had? (and I have had a lot!) No. That would be the first job I ever had.

After I had outgrown setting up a Kool-Aid stand on the cement apron of the driveway of my parent's house, I was recruited by my brother Max's friend Gerb to join the ranks of a little business enterprise he had started and was trying to grow. Gerb (that's pronounced with a hard "G") was a tall, lanky jovial guy with a giant shock of curly hair and a keen entrepreneurial mindset. Max told me that Gerb had a crew of kids about my age (that would be 14) set up in various, carefully selected locations throughout Northeast Philadelphia, selling soft pretzels. Soft pretzels are a staple food in Philadelphia, so they would — no doubt — sell like hotcakes! (Is that what they call a "mixed metaphor?") To this day, I still describe Philadelphia soft pretzels as "my kryptonite." Many people in the City of Brotherly Love feel the same.

Without even asking, Max volunteered me to join up with this little venture. Honestly, I didn't object. School was out for the summer and, at 14, I certainly could use a little extra money. After all, comic books and pizza didn't buy themselves. So, it was settled and I was officially among the gainfully employed. This was also my opportunity to help my brother out. He had been friends with Gerb for some time, but he didn't know his actual name. Everyone just called him "Gerb." Coincidentally, I went to school with Gerb's younger brother, who was also called "Gerb," but I knew that his real name was "Howard." I could only assume that the elder Gerb had a real name as well.

Early one summer Saturday, Gerb pulled up in front of my house in his tan Camaro. He honked the horn a couple of times and I bounded out of the house, ready for my first day of selling pretzels. I brought a big insulated jug of my mom's "world famous" iced tea to keep a potential mid-day thirst at bay. I also brought a peanut butter sandwich — in a bag stuffed in my pocket — that was in the process of being violently disfigured as I took a seat in the passenger's side of Gerb's car. Gerb — with a big grin on his friendly face — drummed on the steering wheel as he drove me out to my chosen spot. He explained the simple procedure of selling pretzels and how much to charge. "When someone asks the price," he began, "tell them 'four for fifty.' That way you have a better chance of selling four pretzels at one time." Always thinking, this guy Gerb! He gave me a stack of brown paper bags, the kind my mom would pack my school lunch in and the kind I was involuntarily mangling in my pocket at this very moment. I was instructed to fill a dozen or so bags with four pretzels each and have them ready to go for customers, the majority of whom I'd be doing business with through their driver's side window. You see, my little retail outlet was a card table set up on an eight-foot-wide median strip of a rather busy neighborhood thoroughfare.

Gerb pulled up to said median and set his four-way hazard flashers on. He hopped out of the car and I did the same, grabbing the flattened card table from the back seat. He popped open his trunk and removed a large plank of discarded faux wood paneling upon which rested a pile of soft pretzels, connected in the baking process in long rows, stacked on top of one another. I quickly extended the legs of the table and Gerb plopped the plank of pretzels on its surface with a thud. He jammed his hands in his pockets and extracted a fistful of change. "Here," he said, "this should get you started." He jumped back into his car and, as he drove off, he said, "I'll be back around three to pick you up. Good luck." And off he went.

And there I was.

I immediately started bagging four pretzels at a time, as I was instructed. Cars zoomed by me on both sides and it was a little jarring at first. Within a minute or two, a car pulled up and the driver barked, "How much?" in my direction. Startled, I meekly replied, "Um...four for.... um... fifty." I struggled as I tried to remember all of the simple directions Gerb imparted to me. "Gimme four," the driver said and he waved a dollar in my direction. I handed him a bag, took his dollar and fished two quarters out of my pocket from the supply of coins Gerb gave me. The whole exchange took about 60 seconds. Shit! This was gonna be easy!

And to be honest, it was.

In Philadelphia, pretzels practically sell themselves. Everyone in this city grew up eating them. For goodness sake, I loved them! They are delicious, convenient, easy to handle and available all over the place. And buying them from some kid standing on a median strip in the middle of Bustleton Avenue wasn't the least bit odd in 1975. That summer was great. Gerb picked me up every morning at my house and came by around three in the afternoon the collect me, the table and the empty hunk of paneling... because I always sold out. Always. The days were filled with an interesting assortment of characters, including my current Social Studies teacher (who, at first, scared me, but became a daily customer) and a driver from a nearby funeral home who stopped to inquire the price of my salt-and dough wares while transporting a casket in the back of his vehicle... with a long procession of funeral attendees behind him. I witnessed accidents, police chases, terrible drivers and even a fist fight. It was more excitement than a 14-year old could take.... and I loved every minute of it.

Before the summer ended, Gerb decided to move on to bigger and better pastures. He sold his business to Jeff, another one of Max's friends. I wasn't too keen on this new guy. He seemed to only be interested in the money, as the first thing he did was raise the prices a full quarter. This cut down on business and angered those regular customers who had been paying less just a day before. One morning when he picked me up, I told Jeff that this would be my last day.

After that, I worked in a slew of jobs in retail stores for bosses who were assholes. After attending art school, I worked in a slew of jobs in my chosen field for bosses who were also assholes.

I still love pretzels though and, every winter, I wear this scarf to remind me how much I do.

Available from your pals at South Fellini.

By the way, Gerb's name was Rob.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

misty watercolor memories

One of the first things I did when I finally broke down and joined the wonderful world of Facebook, was join some groups. I joined a few that appeared to show appreciation for several TV shows from my youth, specifically The Munsters and the original Batman series from 1966. The Batman group went south real fast, as it was hacked and overtaken by a fierce political faction that bombarded the defenseless group with vicious, unrelated-to-Batman posts. The Munsters group just got boring after I saw the fifth consecutive photo of Al Lewis sneering at the camera in full "Grandpa" makeup. I have since left both groups.

I also joined an "Adrienne Barbeau Appreciation" group, if only to post my tale of my meeting with the actress to see what sorts of feedback it elicited. The response was mostly positive, until it turned into a free-for-all with unwelcome, sexist comments that crossed the line of decorum several times. After repetitive doctored photos of  Ms. Barbeau were posted in this group, I left.

I also joined a group devoted to my elementary school. This one was initially joyful. I was reminded of incidents and people I hadn't thought about in decades. I saw class pictures that instantly brought back vivid memories — some good, some not so good. The more I read, the wider my smile grew. I saw references to long-forgotten teachers made by equally unrecalled classmates. The conversations were cheerful, misty-eyed chronicles of times gone by. It was very sweet and sentimental and — as much as you might not believe it — I can be a pretty sentimental guy. Yes, I can!

One particular comment thread that I followed exuded endless and unwavering praise for a particular sixth grade teacher named Mr. Waggoner. "He was my favorite!," was the general consensus, with others offering more personal details. 

"He was an inspiration!"

"He was so cool!"

"He taught me so much!"

...and on and on and on. Mr. Waggoner was a big, barrel-chested he-man with coiffed hair, thick sideburns and a flashy wardrobe right out of Hollywood. He sported huge-knotted neckties to complement his fashionable wide-lapeled sport jackets. His pearly-white smile melted the hearts of his female students and their moms alike. The boys appreciated (and were maybe a bit envious of) his rough-and-tumble persona and rugged appearance. Needless to say, the guy was well-loved and made quite a long-lasting impression.

I, however, did not have Mr. Waggoner for a teacher. My teacher, that year, was a first-year, unsure, awkward young lady who looked as though she had stepped off the set of To Sir with Love. But, I often saw Mr. Waggoner walking the halls, his chest puffed out and a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses perched on his head for easy accessibly in case his services were required for schoolyard duty in the bright sunshine.

As I read the comments and endless accolades for Mr. Waggoner, I scowled to myself. I had a different impression of the beloved teacher. My memory was formed years after I had left elementary school. My memory was just as vivid as those cherished by a bunch of nearly sixty year-olds, now frequenting Facebook for a chance to relive their youth.

I graduated from high school in 1979. During my high school years, I made friends with some people who attended my elementary school, but I did not know them then. Sure, I maintained relationships with those that I had known since first grade, but the more "open" atmosphere allowed for more outreaching friendships. My best friend in high school was Alan. Alan and I were nearly inseparable for four years. Alan was a student at my elementary school, but our friendship didn't meld until high school. 

The day after graduation, Alan and I thought it would be fun to visit our elementary school. Despite nursing mild hangovers, Alan and I gathered up our newly-acquired yearbooks and headed to a school whose hallways we had not darkened in years. We effortlessly entered the school, as it was 1979 — years before rampant school shootings and terrorist attacks required prison-like security measures. Nobody gave us a second look as we roamed the hallways — hallways that appeared much smaller and compact than they did in our collective memories. We looked through the narrow glass window of each classroom door until we spotted a teacher we recognized. Finally, at the end of a top-floor hallway, we saw Mr. Waggoner at the front of his classroom. We brazenly knocked on the door. He opened the door with a grin and invited us into his classroom. Mr. Waggoner looked nearly the same as we had remembered, except for a few gray hairs now mingling with the jet black ones at his temples. He was still wearing up-to-the-minute fashions and he still had a brilliant smile. Mr. Waggoner introduced us to his classroom as two former students, although neither Alan nor I had him for a teacher. I remember being taken aback by how little sixth-graders were. We thought we were "hot shit" in sixth grade and now we stood before a roomful of veritable babies!

Mr. Waggoner offered "congratulations" as he took a yearbook from one of us and began thumbing through the hefty volume. He was perusing the glossy pages when he suddenly stopped on a large, candid photograph of a particularly attractive female classmate. Mr. Waggoner pointed to her ample breasts and made an extremely — and I mean EXTREMELY — inappropriate remark in a low voice that only Alan and I could hear. Here he was, in front of a classroom filled with 11 year-olds, speaking to two 18 year-old former students and yet, still felt compelled to make a macho locker-room comment of an overtly sexual nature. 

This incident happened 41 years ago and I still think about it as though it happened yesterday. 

So, I as a new member of my elementary school's group, I related my story in direct contrast to popular opinion. Yeah, I knew it was probably a mistake as soon as I clicked the "post" button, but I never claimed to be a genius. Within a minute, I got a reply telling me that my post was inappropriate. I understand that the group was made up of an overwhelming majority of folks who have only the fondest memories of Mr. Waggoner and can't possibly face the fact that he is not the sainted figure they remember... that someone else may have a different opinion. Soon, the chastising replies directed at me came thick and fast. I deleted my original post and possibly learned my lesson. Although I still comment here and there in this group, I have not participated in any further conversation regarding Mr. Waggoner.

Just this week, a member of my elementary school's Facebook group announced that Mr. Waggoner had passed away at the age of 88. The outpouring of grief and love was astounding, with dozens of people offering memories of a beloved figure, so influential in their lives.

No. I did not comment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that's me in the spotlight

I know some famous people. Some are local celebrities whose fame — whether or not they acknowledge it — only reaches to the very real boundaries of the Delaware Valley*. Others have achieved widespread nationwide success — even worldwide in a few well-deserved cases. These people fall into many categories. Some are singers. Some are actors. Some are media personalities. However, I will not divulge the names of any of them. I don't want to brag. I don't wish to use my acquaintance with a famous person in an attempt to impress you. (Some of them, I will admit, are far from impressive.) I won't do this, because it was done to me many years ago. And I was not impressed.

When I was in elementary school, I was pretty close friends with a boy named Mitchell Rosencrantz‡. Mitchell was a nice kid. He was somewhat awkward and quirky and not one of the "cool" kids. Well, neither was I, but I was able to ingratiate myself among that clique-y, elitist group without much backlash. Mitchell, however, was not so savvy. He experienced his share of bullying. He was the unfortunate target of schoolyard epithets on a fairly regular basis. It was sad, but I was his friend because I thought he was a nice guy, not because I felt sorry for him.

Mitchell and I hung out at recess with a few other kids who didn't fit in with the top tier of the popular hierarchy either. But that was okay. We had just as much fun. We discussed our favorite television shows, often debating the logistics of actually kissing Marcia Brady. We traded baseball cards that we collected, although none of us was really that interested in the actual sport of baseball. Mostly, we ran around and did "kid on the playground" stuff until the bell rang and we filed back into our classrooms. Every once in a while, on a weekend, I would go to Mitchell's house or he would come to mine. (To be honest, he would rarely come to my house, because that would've required my mother to straighten things up and possibly vacuum... and she wanted no parts of that.) At Mitchell's house, we'd do almost the same things that we did in the schoolyard except it was just the two of us.  (I remember that Mitchell had a little brother who was the spitting image of Mitchell. He also had a little sister who looked like Mitchell with pigtails.) After a few hours, my mom would pull up to Mitchell's house in her giant station wagon. I'd say "goodbye" and "thank you" to Mitchell and my mom would nudge me until I remembered to thank Mrs. Rosencrantz as well.

There was one thing that Mitchell did in an concerted effort to be accepted. He bragged about knowing a celebrity. He would find an opening in the conversation to remind everyone that his father was the manager of a celebrity. Now, we all knew that short, balding Mr. Rosencrantz was a lawyer. With his pen-filled plastic pocket protector, he looked nothing like any of the managers we saw on TV, like the guys in sequined-covered suits who escorted hulking professional wrestlers into the ring or the often-harried but coolly-coiffed Reuben Kincaid who called the financial shots for The Partridge Family. Granted, the celebrity that Mitchell talked about wasn't Adam West or Bobby Sherman or Karen Valentine. Hell, it wasn't anyone we even heard of. But he swore up and down of his celebrity status, so who were we to argue. We weren't worldly and we knew it. Mitchell insisted that his father represented the one and only Eddie Holman in all things show business.

That's right. Eddie Holman.

Gold.

New York-born Eddie Holman moved to Philadelphia with his family as a teen ager. At 16, he recorded his first song. It was heavily influenced by the so-called "Philly Soul" sound. He continued to record eventually hitting big in 1970 with "Hey There Lonely Girl," which was a reworked cover of a song originally released by Ruby and the Romantics in 1963. The tune hit Number Two on the prestigious Billboard Hot 100 chart. It sold over a million copies, however, Eddie Holman never had another hit.

Mitchell talked about Eddie Holman as though his popularity and recognition rivaled The Beatles. Mitchell's friends would nod politely as he expounded on the vast reaches of Eddie Holman's fame. He got misty-eyed as he spoke of Eddie Holman's talent and renown. Honestly, in 1970, I was 9 years old. I don't remember hearing "Hey There Lonely Girl" on the radio. Granted, the AM pop stations that I listened to were unjustly segregated and featured predominantly white artists. I don't recall seeing Eddie Holman perform on the ubiquitous Ed Sullivan Show, the barometer by which true fame was measured — at least in my young mind. If Ed Sullivan welcomed you to the stage, you were somebody... even if you were somebody I never heard of. I don't believe Eddie Holman ever graced the stage at 1697 Broadway in the Big Apple. But, as far as Mitchell Rosencrantz was concerned, Eddie Holman was celebrity enough to impress his friends.

As the years passed, I still remained friends with Mitchell Rosencrantz. We moved on to a new school after elementary school and the name "Eddie Holman" rarely breached conversations anymore. 

Soon, many of my classmates were anxious and excited about upcoming Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. Invitations were sent and the buzz was constant about how elaborate plans would be†. Sometime in the autumn of 1974, I attended Mitchell Rosencrantz's Bar Mitzvah.

The day began early in the morning, as I fidgeted in my seat at a synagogue in Northeast Philadelphia. I tugged at the necktie that my dad so expertly knotted around my skinny neck and thumbed through the Hebrew-printed pages of the prayer book some bent-over old man with three teeth in his head shoved into my hand as I entered the sanctuary. I adjusted the complementary satin yarmulke on my head (I think the old man plopped that on the back of my skull as well) and whispered to my seatmates that I recognized from school. I'm sure I also ogled the young female guests, marveling how they all looked well beyond their thirteen years, some wearing make-up for the first time and appearing waaaaay prettier than they did in any math class. Mitchell was barely visible at the lectern, peering over the top of those big wooden disks that kept the sacred Torah scrolls properly corralled. We could hear Mitchell's voice stammering out some tuneless chant. We giggled covertly each time his maturing vocal chords hit an unintentional sour note. When the grueling marathon service was over, we adjourned to a banquet room in the synagogue building that was decorated for an adults' version of a children's party. There were people who, though strangers, resembled members of my own extended family. There were two multi-tiered fountains, situated on a table — side-by-side — surrounded by large platters of unidentifiable hors d'oeuvres. One fountain dispensed wine, the other a tamer grape juice. Of course, my friends and I tried to sneak the wine, only to be scolded by a stern-looking older woman in a beaded dress, her mass of hair all done up for the occasion. Some of us danced with unwieldy moves to the typical hired band — a four-piece combo comprised of two accountants, a department store salesman and a guy who sometime, somewhere was passed over for his shot at stardom. Some of Mitchell's friends even mustered up enough nerve to ask one of the girls to dance.

Famous.

Once Mitchell's friends were finally seated at the long table reserved for the younger set (and far removed from the rest of the tables at which more important guests were seated), Mr. Rosencrantz hijacked the microphone from the tuxedoed band leader. He delivered a solemn double-shot of HaMotzi and Kiddush over a hefty loaf of challah and a full goblet of wine. Then, he cleared his throat, waved his hand and, through a wide smile, announced a "very special guest" of the afternoon. The double doors at the rear of the room opened and a tall, handsome African-American man appeared — impeccably dressed in a maroon velvet tuxedo, his barrel chest festooned with contrasting powder-blue ruffles. He smiled and waved to the guests as he made his way to the microphone offered by Mr. Rosencrantz. The man accepted the mic and, after warmly embracing Mitchell's dad, began to sing in a smooth tenor. His selection? Why, that 1970 near-chart topper "Hey There Lonely Girl." As he serenaded, whispers carried through the room. "That's Eddie Holman!," was the general consensus. 

Mitchell sat at the center of the long table with his arms crossed and a satisfied smirk on his lips. He was surrounded on both sides by his school friends and he beamed! I mean visibly beamed! Finally, he must have thought, everyone will see that I really know Eddie Holman. It really didn't matter that his friends still didn't know who he was. By the thunderous applause at the song's conclusion, Mitchell was fully convinced that he knew a celebrity. 

And that was all that mattered.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*A colloquial term for the area surrounding Philadelphia, Southern New Jersey and the tip of Northern Delaware.

‡ This is a fictitious name. Don't bother trying to figure out who it is.

† I did not have a formal, traditional Bar Mitzvah. The explanation for that can be found here. 

you and your cousins

My wife's cousin passed away unexpectedly this week, just ten days before her 66th birthday. Yesterday, we — along with many family members, friends, co-workers and other acquaintances — attended a memorial service in her honor.

I didn't know my wife's cousin very well. I had only seen her a handful of times in the 38 years I have known Mrs. Pincus. Our paths crossed mostly at large family gatherings — weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals and those sorts of events. When I was still new to the family, I'm sure I was introduced and reintroduced to my wife's cousin a few times. I remember that our brief conversations were pleasant, although I cannot remember exactly what we spoke about.

The memorial service began around 11 AM on a Sunday morning, once the attending crowd was coaxed into their seats after a period of mingling and reminiscing. A rabbi spoke and then chanted a few prayers. Then, the rabbi introduced a number of my wife's cousin's family and friends to share their thoughts and memories of a loved one. One by one, a brother, a life-long friend, a neighbor, a nephew and another friend approached the lectern. Each one delivered a short, but heartfelt, tale of kindness, warmth, devotion, loyalty and love. Some of the related anecdotes evoked laughter from the attendees — and rightfully so. These were sweet and humorous glimpses into relationships that my wife's cousin shared with those with whom she was close. Her brother told of long talks at her house when he should have been working on a needed home repair. A friend talked about teaching my wife's cousin how to ski. A neighbor smiled as she spoke about my wife's cousin dropping off freshly baked cakes at her house for no reason at all. Another friend revealed a long tradition of gathering for each other's birthday — with this year's soiree having my wife's cousin's daughter taking her mother's place.

Although I did not know my wife's cousin very well, I was touched by the consistent emotion of each little speech. Everyone spoke of her kindness, her consideration, her ability to listen and comfort, her advocacy for other's ideas and plans. She was a genuinely nice person, something that is rare today. 

I have attended several funerals and memorial services — more than I would have liked. I am not a believer in "just because someone dies, all of their bad qualities are automatically erased." I understand that a funeral is not the time to bring up someone's terrible disposition when they were alive (although I have seen it happen). Eulogies are reserved for extolling the niceties someone exhibited during their time on Earth, not to rehash old grudges or to expose an all-around jerk for what they were. Sometimes, I have listened to a eulogy and wondered if I was at the right funeral. But hearing one story about my wife's cousin after another, made me realize that I had never — and I mean never — heard anyone utter a negative word about her. Never!

It is probably unlikely, but that is the way we would all like to be remembered.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let's forget about the stars

I must be a glutton for punishment. I continue to watch awards shows. I have watched the Emmys, although most of my preferred television viewing consists of shows that were produced in the 70s and most of the regular core cast members are long dead. I watch the Grammys, knowing full well that I will be unfamiliar with the names of performers and their songs and will be baffled by the hordes of adoring fans. I watch the Tonys.... well, I actually haven't watched the Tonys in years, since I am positive that I will have heard of none of the Broadway shows that will be showcased. Of course, I watch the Oscars.

Last night, I watched the three-and-a-half hour marathon that was the 92nd Annual Academy Awards... despite having seen only three films that garnered nominations. I will note that the three films were all animated films and one I had just watched a few hours prior to the evening's telecast. Two of the entries — Toy Story 4 and Frozen II — were both nominated for best song. I loved Frozen II while I was watching it, but, for the life of me, I can't remember a single song from it. None of them were nearly as catchy as "Let It Go," "In Summer," "Do You Want to Build a Snowman?" (Jeez! I could name them all!) Toy Story 4 was also nominated for Best Animated Feature. Yes, I enjoyed it. Yes, the animation was stellar, but it didn't live up to the tear-jerking, gut-wrenching level of Toy Story 3, my favorite of the trilogy-plus-one... just my opinion. The third nominated film I saw this year was Hair Love, which was six minutes of pure joy that — goddammit! — brought me to tears. Aside from those, the rest of the nominees were totally unfamiliar to me. So, why do I watch? I watch these lengthy broadcasts for a four-minute segment that is shoved in just before the night's biggest award is presented —The "In Memoriam." Year after year, on awards show after awards show, this segment causes more anger and controversy than when a confused Warren Beatty proclaimed La La Land the winner of the "Best Picture" Oscar in 2016. 

As you might know, I love all aspects of celebrity deaths. I write about them on my illustration blog. I visit cemeteries where celebrities are buried. I report the death of a celebrity as soon as possible to my followers on Twitter and Facebook. At the end of each year, I even compile a list of celebrities that I don't think will be around to watch the ball drop on Times Square the next New Years Eve. So, I sit through each of these grueling tests of celebratory endurance just to keep the various Academies honest. I take these things pretty seriously. (Eh... who am I kidding? I don't take anything seriously!) I brazenly call out the glaring omissions on social media within minutes of the segment's end. And there are always omissions. I do this primarily for my own amusement. But, apparently, I am not alone. At 11:07 PM, Eastern time, I tweeted a brief list of stars that were left out of the 2020 "In Memoriam" montage. At the time of this writing, that post has 128 "likes" and 40 "retweets"... plus a number of comments. I even left some names out of my "left out" list for lack of space. And it looked like this....

 

These seventeen actors and actress passed away between the time of the last Oscar broadcast (which was actually later in February 2019) and the one last night. Each one was carefully considered (by me) for their celebrity status, career length and industry impact (also determined by me). I even left out a few deserving (but relatively unknown and unsung) names, including Joan Staley, Richard Erdman, Larry Cohen, June Harding, Jessie Lawrence Ferguson, John Wesley, Rob Garrison, Josip Elic, Natalie Trundy, Alan Harris and Kevin Conway. (Feel free to Google any of these names.) The seventeen I chose to list were (again, my opinion) the ones who I felt deserved (by the unofficial standards of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences) to be included in the presentation. Some had lengthy careers. Others had short or unnoticed careers, but appeared in some pretty significant and iconic films.

Almost immediately, my tweet generated some reaction. Even before I tweeted, I saw this from a follower who knows me all too well...

The "In Memoriam" segment is a tricky thing for all awards shows. The folks who assemble these photo montages have under five minutes to please everyone. In an attempt to be fair to both fans and industry types, the segment has to include a cross-section of all parts of the business — on-screen, behind the scenes and really behind the scenes. They have to include a sampling of actors, directors, producers as well as publicists, marketers, set decorators, key grips, best boys, make-up experts, hair stylists, matte painters and a bunch of other positions I didn't know existed until I saw it printed in small, italic text under someone's smiling unfamiliar face that I couldn't identify. It's not all grand names from the Golden Age of Hollywood or that too-young shocker that blind-sided us last summer, prompting a "Wow! That was this year?!" reaction while shoving a fistful of popcorn into one's mouth. This year's tribute featured such notable passings as Doris Day, Peter Fonda, Robert Evans and Kirk Douglas, who died just four days prior to the Oscar broadcast, most likely throwing a monkey wrench into a completed presentation and causing a few last-minute edits. I'm sure a sound editor and a cinematographer were removed to make room for the Spartacus star and still keep it under five minutes. It is obviously a very tough job and someone — somewhere — will not be happy.

Are you playing my advocate?

As it turned out, a lot of "someones" were not happy. The Twitterverse, as they say, exploded. I saw likes and retweets well into the night and the next morning. There was furious commentary, as well. Some was directed at the Academy. Some, curiously, was directed at me. Some folks questioned the AMPAS omitting Carroll Spinney (the puppeteer responsible for "Big Bird" and "Oscar the Grouch"), Robert Conrad (the star of TV's Wild Wild West) and Peggy Lipton (from TV's Mod Squad). I replied to these people that Spinney, Conrad and Lipton were primarily television performers and the Academy focuses first on an individuals contribution to film. A few people noted that young Cameron Boyce was unceremoniously "snubbed." I will admit, as a 58-year old, I was unfamiliar with Cameron's body of work when his death was announced in July 2019 at the age of 20. It seems the budding actor was a staple on Disney TV, appearing in three made-for-television films, a teen-centric sitcom and providing voice-work the the title character in the animated Jake and the Never Land Pirates. He was featured in small roles in just a few theatrically-released films, including two Adam Sandler movies and his debut in the horror film Mirrors. I explained to someone whose Twitter handle is "Geri.Aspergers | Cameron 💙" that Boyce was primarily a television actor and that is probably why he was not part of the 2020 montage. "Geri.Aspergers | Cameron 💙" was not satisfied with my reply. He countered me with "Please do your research on Cameron. He did so much in his 20 years of life than someone can do in a lifetime. He wasn't just credited for 2 movies so please do your research. It isn't fair. I know Kobe Bryant deserves it but he isn't even an actor and he was still included. Cameron was only 20 when he died and he did so much in his life." This person did not fully read my reply. (I hate that.) I didn't say that he was only credited with 2 movies at all. Then, I noticed that his Twitter profile picture was a photo of Cameron Boyce. This was going to take some "tough love." After doing my best to be as "matter-of-fact" as possible, I bluntly stated: "The Academy hates two things: Adam Sandler and horror movies. That covered Cameron's film credits and automatically eliminated Cameron from inclusion. Kobe Bryant was an Oscar recipient in 2018. Maybe I'm not the only one who should do research." I have not heard a response from this Twitter user. Perhaps he's in gym class or doing his algebra homework.

One of the most surprising omissions was Luke Perry, who co-starred in Quentin Tarantino's Once Upon A Time... in Hollywood, which received a whopping ten Oscar nominations this year. Luke died in March 2019 and the role in the retro comedy-drama was his last. 

Michael J. Pollard was passed over, despite an Oscar nomination in 1968 for Best Supporting Actor in the beloved Bonnie and Clyde. He also appeared in the popular films The Russians are Coming, The Russians are Coming, Dick Tracy and Melvin and Howard.

Billy Drago didn't make the cut either. He was one of those character actors that Hollywood loves. A menacing heavy, Drago played "Frank Nitti" in Brian DePalma's The Untouchables and a Western deputy in Clint Eastwood's Pale Rider. Just the association with two of the film world's heavy hitters should have been enough to have his name listed among the memorials.

Denise Nickerson's omission was also surprising. Sure, she was only in a couple of movies, but her portrayal of smarmy, gum-chewing "Violet Beauregard" in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory was iconic and her appeal was multi-generational. Her July 2019 death shocked fans of the film, even forcing reflection on their lives and their youth.

The so-called "Awards Season" has come to a close with the Oscars. The Tony Awards are scheduled to be presented in June, so there is still a few months for famous people to die and still a few months for regular people to get mad. And next year's Academy Awards "In Memoriam" segment will forget to include Orson Bean (who appeared in Being John Malkovich and Anatomy of a Murder) and Paula Kelly (featured in The Andromeda Strain and Soylent Green).

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