the masterplan

Laurie Jacobson started following me on Instagram a few years ago. Just out of nowhere, based on our common interests in old Hollywood, dead celebrities, pop culture, she started following me... dumb, ol' Josh Pincus. This struck me as odd, because I'm just a nobody in the vast world of social media. Laurie, on the other hand, is a celebrated author who has appeared on CNN, Entertainment Tonight and The History Channel. She has produced high-profile television programs like Mary Tyler Moore's Twentieth Anniversary Special. She is a noted and respected authority on Hollywood history. If that isn't enough, she was enrolled in a comedy workshop taught by Harvey Lembeck. Among her classmates were John Ritter and Robin Williams. Oh yeah, and she's married to Jon Provost, the star of over 250 episodes of Lassie. And me? I'm just some yutz who draws pictures of dead celebrities and posts pictures of things that make me laugh. But, Laurie likes my sense of humor and we've enjoyed lively on-line exchanges centered around our shared passion for Hollywood trivia. However, we have never met.

But I had a plan.

Laurie and Jon make appearances at various fan conventions all over the country. Laurie talks about her books, the latest of which is an exclusive, behind-the-scenes look at the Beatles iconic performance at Shea Stadium in 1965. Jon signs photos and cheerfully greets fans who grew up watching his adventures with the world's most famous dog (no, not Scooby-Doo!) Because Laurie and I are "Facebook Friends," I saw that the couple were going to be at the Lehigh Valley Heritage Museum on Memorial Day weekend, as part of the society's celebration of America's 250th anniversary. Situated just an hour outside the birthplace of America (Philadelphia, for those of you who flunked history), the Lehigh Valley Heritage Museum presents a sort of mish-mash of history. Its permanent displays highlight people and events that impacted the germination and growth of our country. Some are specific to Allentown, Pennsylvania (the actual location of the museum). Most, however, are not. It's as though someone from the Lehigh Valley Historic Society visited the museums in Philadelphia and said to themselves: "Fuck this! We'll start our own museum!" Their hearts are in the right place. It's just their actual history isn't. (In their defense, in September 1777, the Liberty Bell was hidden in a church in Allentown for nine months to prevent the advancing British soldiers from melting it down for weapons. Oh, and Billy Joel sang a pretty disparaging song about Allentown.) 

I presented the idea of driving up to Allentown to Mrs. Pincus. My wife, who is also a Facebook connection of Laurie Jacobson's, is always up for any sort of long car trip. I also decided not to tell Laurie that we were coming. Again, we have never met and the pending surprise would be... um.... surprising!

My day started early. I had an appointment to have my car inspected. So there I was, in the waiting room of a Subaru dealer, scrolling through Facebook while I waited for my friendly Subaru  service representative to let me know my car was ready. On Facebook, I saw pictures of a smiling Laurie and Jon buckled into their airplane seats, along with the caption: "On our way to Allentown." This sort of excitement, of course, is the sentiment of folks who have never been to Allentown. 

With my car all serviced, I drove home. Mrs. P was getting ready for our little adventure. She gathered together a few small Philadelphia-centric items from her Ebay store stock to give to Laurie and Jon as a memento of their friends in the City of Brotherly Love. I grabbed a few "Josh Pincus"-branded pins and keyrings as a reminder of the evils of the internet. I loaded the address into the trusty Waze navigation app on my phone and we were off. We followed Route 309 North, which is a straight shot to Allentown from our house. As we got closer to our destination, Waze led us through a few small, congested neighborhoods dotted with shopping centers and housing developments — hardly the place one would expect to find a museum... speaking as a spoiled Philadelphian who is used to museums being sprawling architectural marvels placed along side other architectural marvels. But, as we turned a narrow corner, there it stood — the Lehigh Valley Heritage Museum — just like it looked on its website. We found a convenient parking spot right on the street out front. I gathered up a little gift bag with the goodies we planned to present to Laurie and Jon and we headed in.

A fair amount of folks had gathered and queued up in the facility's auditorium to have a quick chat with Laurie and Jon, as well as getting some memorabilia signed. I purchased Laurie's TV Dinners book and joined Mrs. Pincus in line. Ahead of us, Laurie and Jon were seated at a long table. They were chatting and laughing and posing for pictures with a crowd comprised of people mostly around my age. There were a few youngsters (around eight or nine) who seemed bored with being dragged along on grandma and grandpa's little jaunt. The line crept along at a pretty steady pace until we found ourselves in the coveted "next" position. As Laurie was speaking with the woman in front of me, she shot me a glance and, I could tell that she did not recognize me from any picture I may have posted on Facebook. I interjected a smart-ass comment into their conversation and Laurie smiled. Then it was my turn.

I stepped up to the table and said to Laurie: "I just wanted to make sure that you've been getting my holiday cards.*"  Laurie looked at me with a half-smile and a puzzled expression. Then I spilled it. "I'm Josh Pincus," I announced and I dropped a handful of JPiC buttons and stuff  — all emblazoned with my 5-yerar old redheaded visage — on the tabletop in front of her. Laurie lit up! She jumped from her chair and exclaimed: "JOSH PINCUS! You're Josh Pincus!"... and she threw her arms around me. I introduced her to Mrs. Pincus and she gave my wife's hand a warm embrace. Mrs. P offered her Philly souvenirs and Laurie smiled and beamed with appreciation. It was so humbling to see Laurie express such excitement to meet dumb ol' me... but it was very sweet. Laurie signed my book. She told me that I keep her laughing all day with my Facebook posts. I thanked her several times and Mrs. P and I took seat at the back of the auditorium for Laurie's and Jon's presentations.

After some brief introductions, Laurie delighted the room with stories of Hollywood acquaintances. She revealed secrets of what it took to stage the Beatles show at Shea Stadium at a time when rock concerts at a ballpark was just not a thing.  She talked about meeting and marrying Jon and then spooked the crowd with an eerie tale of the last days of Marilyn Monroe. Laurie was followed by Jon Provost's account of life as a working child actor in the 1950s. His compelling stories were both informative and amusing, as he spoke of working with the likes of Jane Wyman (his mother's idol), Natalie Wood and Robert Redford. He offered heartfelt memories of the late June Lockhart and humorous anecdotes concerning Kurt Russell. At the conclusion of the presentation, my wife and I made our way down to the front to say our "goodbyes." before leaving for home.

Laurie was cornered by three women who were gabbing non-stop about classic television. They weren't having a conversation as much as they were droning pointlessly. They peppered their dissertation with memories of long-forgotten stars of black-and-white series, some of whose names slipped their minds. But, they weren't headed towards any apparent conclusion. Mrs. P and I politely hung back, waiting for these ladies to wind down their time. But, they showed no sign of stopping. Laurie smiled politely and offered me a wink and silent plea of "help!" Finally, she courteously attempted to bring their filibuster to a halt by saying she had to say goodbye to some friends. The women would not relent, so Laurie just stepped past them to greet Mrs P and me. We said our farewells and Laurie posed for a quick picture before reiterating how happy she was to finally meet us in person. It was truly sweet. We waved to Jon, who was busy with a couple of fans. He smiled and gave us a wave back.

My plan was successful. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com.

* A few years ago, Laurie asked for holiday cards to cheer up her friend, actor Jay North (of Dennis the Menace fame). Jay was ill and she thought some cards from fans would brighten his spirits. I sent one and also sent a separate card specifically for Laurie and Jon. Sadly, Jay passed away in 2025.

moon over parma

I love television. I love watching television. I love reading about television. I love talking about television. and, if you are a regular reader of this blog, you know I love writing about television.

I grew up in the 1960s and 70s watching television. Those were some interesting years. The airwaves were filled with Westerns and police shows and anthology series and situation comedies. A lot of the current crop of independent "retro" TV channels have rerun some of the more popular programs from "back in the day." Of course, Nick at Nite revolutionized the "kitschy rerun format" that so many other networks have copied. I was a big fan of Nick At Nite in its early days. I relished the simplicity of The Donna Reed Show, the stupidity of Mr. Ed and the "shoot the bad guy and learn a lesson" repetitiveness of The Rifleman. Nevertheless, there I was, front and center, happily consuming everything Nick At Nite had to offer.

Ten years after its cable television debut, Nick at Nite teased at having Welcome Back Kotter join its evening line-up in the spring of 1995. I was very excited by this news. I remember being a big fan of the Gabe Kaplan-led sitcom in its initial run in 1975 (when I was 14). I distinctly remember being in hysterics from the outlandish behavior of the "Sweathogs" — a group of unknown young actors whose antics were the centerpiece of each episode. Welcome Back Kotter enjoyed phenomenal ratings in its first two seasons and it made stars out of its cast — specifically John Travolta. During its run, Travolta launched his successful film career, garnering an Oscar nomination for his turn as a Brooklyn disco enthusiast in Saturday Night Fever. Mrs. Pincus and I anxiously looked forward to the return of Welcome Back Kotter and to reliving fond memories of our youth.

On Monday, May 29, 1995, we excitedly tuned in... and OH MY GOD!

Just after the conclusion of the familiar theme song (a Number 1 record for former Lovin' Spoonful front man John Sebastian), the veritable shit hit the fan. The show was nothing like we remembered. It was awful. It was painful. The writing was terrible! The acting was amateurish. The premise was stupid. The jokes were not funny. Mrs. P and I shot each other helpless looks. "Could this be the same show we loved?" we collectively thought. "What were we thinking?" Sympathetically, we watched another episode or two during Nick at Nite's "Big Premiere." Finally, we changed the channel to something — anything! — else.

At the end of the summer of 1995, standup comic Drew Carey premiered his self-titled sitcom on ABC. The show featured Drew and his pals hanging out in a Cleveland bar, dealing with all life has dealt them in their working class life. Drew's character worked at large department store and the daily situations lent themselves to Drew's often funny, often off-the-wall humor. The show lasted nine seasons and was pretty popular, even through cast changes. Drew and his co-stars were consistently funny and, from what I recall, remained funny through its finale — despite lagging ratings. Curiously, after its first run, syndication of the show was sparse. A few local stations briefly showed episodes and several "retro networks" sporadically put the series in its lineup. Star Drew Carey was named the new host of stalwart game show The Price is Right. Drew's costar's found gigs in other series, films and on comedy club stages. I like watching Drew Carey on The Price is Right. He appears to be having a better time that the contestants and often delivers self-deprecating jabs to the bewilderment of the studio audience.

While scanning the wide assortment of entertainment that I pay Comcast to pump into my house, I came upon a listing on Antenna TV. The Drew Carey Show was added to their Sunday evening lineup. My interest was piqued. Should I watch? Will I be disappointed? After all, I hadn't seen an episode of The Drew Carey Show for years. These thoughts ran through my head as I toyed with the remote control. As the 8 o'clock start time approached, I clicked over to Antenna TV... almost expecting to be disappointed ala Welcome Back Kotter.

So, Mrs. Pincus and I watched through very, very discerning eyes.

It was surprisingly funny! It held up, aside from a couple of dated references to John F. Kennedy, Jr, the jokes made us laugh and the situations were genuinely ...well ... funny! The cast was funny. The writing was funny. The show was funny. When the four back-to-back episodes were over, we changed the channel at the opening notes of the theme to the absolutely dated sitcom Family Ties.

There are some shows from my youth that I can watch and there are some I cannot — all for different reasons. I'm glad I found out that The Drew Carey Show is one I can still watch.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

if I'm not feeling any less sour

(Note: This post was written in July 2019. - JPiC)

From the moment I heard that Gilbert O'Sullivan was making a stop in Philadelphia on his current concert tour, I had to secure tickets. I don't know why. I certainly wasn't a huge Gilbert O'Sullivan fan.

Wait. Did I hear you ask "who?" If you did, then you must be under 50 years old.

Gilbert O'Sullivan was a British singer-songwriter in a long line of British singer-songwriters. Heavily influenced by his fellow countrymen, The Beatles, Gilbert O'Sullivan enjoyed much success in his native United Kingdom and a fraction of that success here in the United States. His biggest hit, "Alone Again (Naturally)," an ode to depression, spent six non-consecutive weeks at Number One in America in 1972. The follow-up, "Clair," a lovely yet borderline creepy ditty about Gilbert's young niece, peaked at Number 2 in 1973. A few months later, the upbeat "Get Down" hit Number 3. His next two singles charted in the low twenties and interest in all things Gilbert O'Sullivan sort of tanked by 1975. I had two of those singles and they occupied a proud place in may vast collection of 45s. But so did a lot of others.

So why was I so excited at the thought of seeing Gilbert O'Sullivan live in concert? I honestly don't know. A few of my Twitter pals – some of whom share the same nostalgic love for music from our youth – insisted I go see Gilbert O'Sullivan, touting his songwriting efforts as on par with Paul McCartney. (Full disclosure: National Lampoon, the great humor magazine, once asked in a faux Beatles trivia quiz: "When did Paul McCartney write Silly Love Songs?" The answer, of course, was "Between 1962 and 1985.") I obtained a pair of tickets and, to be honest, my wife was far less excited than I was. Far far less. "I know like two songs by him." she protested. "It'll be fun." I said with only the slightest hint of enticement in my voice. 

Last night was the show. And we went.

The venue, the beautiful World Cafe Live, my favorite venue in the city, was not packed. There were a number of folks in attendance, but I once saw The Pretenders in this same room and that show was packed! Jam packed! This night.... not so much. But I did notice that everyone there was easily 50 years of age and above. The stage was bare save for an electric keyboard, three guitars in racks and two chairs. As showtime approached more people filed in, including singer-songwriter John Wesley Harding (who now goes by his real name Wesley Stace and is currently a Philadelphia resident). 

Soon the house lights began to dim, a man walked across the stage from the backstage area. He sat down, picked up one of the guitars and began to strum. He was soon followed by a tall, lanky fellow with a huge mane of frizzy hair that would have been more suited to a much younger man. This was Gilbert O'Sullivan, looking considerably older that the boyish chap on the cover of his first few album releases. He took a seat at the keyboard and began to tap out a little tune tune that sounded like "Alone Again (Naturally)." As a matter of fact, for the next two hours over two sets and a twenty-minute intermission, every song sounded like "Alone Again (Naturally)." Was it good? Well, it wasn't bad. Was is boring? You bet. He capped off the first set with "Clair," but not before introducing every song with "This next song is interesting..." Gilbert sat on the stage and addressed the audience as though every song was a beloved masterpiece, loved the world over. In reality, I never heard of most of the songs that were played that evening. I have been to many concerts where I was not familiar with the bulk of a band's catalog, but these songs all sounded identical. There were either mid-tempo tunes like "Alone Again (Naturally)" or they were upbeat, pseudo-rockers like "Get Down." And, it appears that Gilbert O'Sullivan's body of work doesn't stray far from those two categories. 

However....

My wife and I were in the overwhelming minority (once again). I have noted for some time that every band is someone's favorite band. And we were surrounded by Gilbert's entire Philadelphia fan base. There were loud sing-alongs coming from all sides. There were numerous folks mouthing the lyrics to each and every song that was played. Some even erupted in jubilant applause at the opening bars of songs that sounded to me like the opening bars of the previous ten songs. He told stories that evoked sporadic laughter and then played a familiar-sounding song. He ended the night with his signature song and then encored with "Get Down." Coincidentally, Mrs. P and I just heard "Get Down" on the Sirius XM "70s" channel and we simultaneously said "Oh, now I know three songs by Gilbert O'Sullivan."

In 2008, I saw Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds. I was not familiar with most of the band's songs, but it was one of the best concerts I ever experienced even as a veteran of many, many concerts. I still (11 years later) talk about that show. Will I be talking about the Gilbert O'Sullivan show 11 years from now? Hmmm.... probably not even 11 hours from now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

seen the doctor

I have suffered from a condition for over forty years. but I was finally able to get an appointment to see the doctor. 

One Sunday evening, just before I started high school, I discovered something unusual while listening to the radio. As a fourteen-year old, well versed and totally immersed in the world of Top 40 Radio, I stumbled upon some strange sounds emanating from a station just a little up the FM dial from WIFI-92, a Philadelphia Top 40 station masquerading as a cool FM station. It was on 94 WYSP, an album-oriented rock station my older brother listened to, that I heard the quirky DJ with the even quirkier voice, introduce "Transfusion" by one Nervous Norvus. This tune, one I had never heard before (I would later find out it was originally released in 1956, five years before I was born.), was an echo-y, sinister-sounding recitation with vague musical accompaniment, filled with the gut-wrenching sounds of a car crash and lyrics coolly describing the aftermath of reckless driving habits with rhymes like "Pour the crimson in me, Jimson." It was awesome. Next was another gem of weirdness called "Fish Heads," a nonsensical ditty chock-full of non-sequiturs, performed by Barnes and Barnes (Brothers Art and Artie, later revealed to be songwriter Robert Haimer and actor/singer Bill Mumy, best known as "Will Robinson" on TVs "Lost in Space"). For two hours, I sat transfixed as the DJ — Dr. Demento, as he called himself — assaulted the airwaves with the likes of "I Want My Baby Back" by Jimmie Cross, "The Battle of Kookamonga" by Homer and Jethro and "Leader of the Laundromat" by The Detergents (another group fronted by prolific vocalist Ron Dante, the voice of The Archies, The Cuff Links and producer of the first nine Barry Manilow albums). He even played "Monster Mash" and it wan't anywhere near Halloween. Later in the program, I heard Spike Jones and his City Slickers, a band with whom I was familiar from a stack of thick 78s my mom used to play. Much to my amazement. Dr. Demento also spun tunes by Allan Sherman, a singer of song parodies I also knew from my parents' record collection. 

I was dizzy with excitement, hopeful that this was not just a one-time broadcast. When the show concluded (with a Top Ten countdown that crowned "They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haa!" by Napoleon XIV [the stage name of Philadelphia singer/songwriter/producer Jerry Samuels] as this week's "Number One Most Demented Song"), the good Doctor invited listeners to tune in each and every week for more demented songs. As I listened to the crackly tones of "Cheerio, Cherry Lips, Cheerio," the closing theme originally recorded in 1929, I knew I'd be in the exact same spot the following week — and for many, many weeks to come. 

Eventually, WYSP stopped carrying the syndicated broadcasts of the "Dr. Demento Show." It was around the time my musical tastes began to expand. However, I still kept a soft spot for novelty records. I was a big fan of They Might Be Giants, who — let's face it — are just a good old-fashioned novelty act with wide appeal. I bought early albums by Barenaked Ladies, a group of Canadian popsters who mixed songs like "Be My Yoko Ono" among their dreamy ballads and upbeat rockers. And, of course, I loved Weird Al Yankovic, himself a Dr. Demento discovery.

When my son was growing up, we listened — as a family — to a call-in show for kids on Philadelphia public radio station WXPN. The host, a jovial and endearing woman named Kathy O'Connell, carried the Dr. Demento torch as she peppered her show with tracks by Weird Al, Allan Sherman and her personal favorite, TV pioneer Soupy Sales — introducing a new generation to these timeless "classics" of a bygone era. I was so excited to hear these songs again to share them with my young son, telling him about Dr. Demento as we listened. My son got a kick out of the novelty songs, too.

The Doctor will see you now.
(photo by Patti with an EYE)

Which brings us up to the present. My son, now 30, works at WXPN. In addition to his own on-air shifts, he serves as the engineer for Kathy O'Connell's show, which, three decades later, is still going strong. Just this week, I got word that the actual, real-life Dr. Demento would be paying a visit to Philadelphia to speak with Kathy as part of Kindie Comm, an annual event focusing on the independent kids' music industry. The good Doctor is also promoting the release of a 2 CD, thirty-track tribute to the beloved songs made popular on his show — all performed in a punk rock style by noted bands of the genre. My son, now a certified radio "insider," was good enough to slip me in during Kathy's Q & A session with Dr. D and John Cafiero, his cohort and collaborator (conspirator?) on the compilation. Dr. Demento was positively fascinating. He is a gentle, soft-spoken, if somewhat befuddled, man — now in his late 70s — with an encyclopedic knowledge of names, dates and participants in the music and radio industry going back to the first time Guglielmo Marconi stuck two wires together. The audience — made up in part by singers and songwriters who were heavily influenced by the songs they heard on Dr. Demento's show — were held spellbound by tales of Benny Bell and Freddy Martin (AKA Felix Figueroa) that Dr. Demento spun. Afterwards, a lengthy queue of devoted fans aching to meet their musical hero formed in the venue's lobby. I numbered myself among them.

I came prepared with a drawing I did of the good Doctor for the good Doctor — two copies; one for him and one for me. When it was my turn (I was second in line), I shook the Doctor's hand and presented him with my drawing. He smiled and asked If I drew it. I modestly answered in the affirmative and he told me that the cover of his first compilation album (released in 1975 - he released 17 more since) was drawn by a fan of the show. Then he scrawled his signature across the bottom of my drawing and graciously posed for a photograph. When I posted the photo on social media, my connections came out of the woodwork to tell me how jealous they were that I got to meet Dr. Demento,

I felt like fourteen-year old me who was hearing Dr. Demento for the first time.

seasons come, seasons go

In 1988, Jim Morrison (no, not that Jim Morrison), a life-long Christmas enthusiast, purchased a multi-piece display called "Tudor Towne" from the Christiana Mall in Delaware. Filled with lifelike, anthropomorphic animals, all decked out in Victorian era winter garb, the animated tableau takes viewers into a whimsical storybook world where chapters of the story unfold along a winding, faux cobblestone pathway. Christiana Mall was updating its holiday decor and Morrison was pleased to acquire the exhibit. He added it to his already massive Christmas collection.

Well, of course, this is the owner.

Morrison purchased a 20,000 square foot facility in the fittingly-named Paradise, in the heart of Pennsylvania's rural Lancaster County. Wedged between Bird-In-Hand and Intercourse, Paradise is a sparsely populated town of just over eleven hundred residents. Morrison filled the maze-like structure with the multitude of nostalgic, Christmas-themed items in his collection and began offering tours to the public in 1998. 

While scanning the news feed on her Facebook page, Mrs. Pincus came across a post highlighting the National Christmas Center. The brief description was intriguing and, seeing how, once again, I found myself with a surplus of unused vacation days at the end of the calendar year, my wife and I planned a road trip to Amish country on the Tuesday afternoon before Christmas. Paradise is just a bit over an hour from Philadelphia. With Mrs. P in her natural surroundings — behind the wheel of her car — we headed out, not quite knowing what to expect.

We passed a number of large farms as we snaked up Route 30. There were small pockets of commerce — strip centers with a large supermarket anchoring smaller businesses like auto parts dealers and feed stores. But mostly there was farmland. Some were made up of bare fields while others were dotted with small herds of cows, grazing in bare fields. Our GPS announced that our destination was ahead on the right and, sure enough, the friendly facade of the National Christmas center loomed large just over the crest of a hilly section of blacktop highway. We parked and noticed that for a weekday, the lot was fairly crowded. We joined several folks in a queue to purchase admission ($12.50 for adults and five dollars for kids) and soon we entered for our self-guided tour.

The National Christmas Center is a heartwarming trip through the history of Christmas, beautifully displayed, beautifully assembled, although not chronologically presented. The fifteen individual galleries are loosely themed to various aspects of Christmas. The first display is a full-scale, minutely-detailed living room, straight out of the 1950s, replete with period board games and toys, furnishings and a large tree, dripping with tinsel and appointed with fragile (fragilly?) glass ornaments and authentic bubblelights. A night-shirted adult figure stands by the fireplace while a sad-faced boy in a pink bunny costume (reminiscent of "Ralphie" from the film A Christmas Story) stares longingly at a shiny red two-wheeler. Just past this scene is a long hallway outfitted with glass-front display cases that house hundreds and hundreds of figurines - Santa Clauses, elves, angels, nymphs, snowmen — crafted from a wide variety of materials from wood and plastic to papier-mâché. A doorway opens to a splendorous depiction of Christmas around the world, including vignettes of traditions from several European and Scandinavian countries. Figures are clad in clothing and accessories  alongside unusual trees and decorations. Another room is a full-size reproduction of a Woolworth's circa 1940. Shelves are tightly stocked with wares and signage from days long in the past. Tables overflow with trinkets and displays of sewing notions, greeting cards, kitchen gadgets, glassware, toys — all frozen in time and as pristine as the day they arrived at the store. The National Christmas Center continues on with room after glorious room. There's Santa's workshop, a full-scale street of vintage shops, a three-dimensional representation of Haddon Sundblom's famous Coca-Cola Christmas advertisement. A multi-level model train set-up — positioned beneath a giant Christmas tree — delights and mesmerizes guests with its tunnels and bridges and multiple locomotives. The collection culminates in a retelling of the birth of Jesus (after all, I've been told that "he's the reason for the season") and a stroll through a realistic Bethlehem of a thousand years ago.

We were surprised by the sheer amount of stuff assembled inside this nondescript building. We were also surprised by the meticulous attention to detail each and every display boasted. This was not some thrown-together roadside tourist trap. This was a lovingly conceived and presented collection, professionally executed and very well maintained. We were among the youngest visitors that day, with the average tourist having nearly twenty years on us. We were also unique for most likely being the only ones taking the tour who never celebrated Christmas and have no fond childhood memories of anything among the Center's contents.

 

But, alas, this may well be the final Christmas for the National Christmas Center. The owners, Mr. Morrison and his business partner Dave Murtagh, are in their 70s and 80s respectively. They recently announced that, unless they find a buyer, the facility will close its doors forever in January 2018. Murtagh and Morrison want to sell the entire contents of the National Christmas Center to someone who will continue their passion for all things Christmas. They cringe at the prospect of closing, but shudder even more at the thought of the collection being dismantled and auctioned off piece by piece. The National Christmas Center has never made a profit, despite its steep entrance fee and droves of visitors. Murtagh suggested that the next owner could apply for non-profit status. Quite an enticement to a prospective buyer.

I'm glad I got to tour the National Christmas Center. I would recommended it to all nostalgia lovers for a fun, interesting and educational day — even if you don't celebrate Christmas. But, hurry, because time is running out.

Unless, of course, you'd like to buy it.

* * * *  UPDATE * * * *  

The National Christmas Center has closed its doors forever on January 7, 2018.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

say something, say something... anything

Once again, Mrs. Pincus and I attended the annual Mid-Atlantic Nostalgia Convention in Cockeysville, Maryland, the three day gathering of vendors, speakers, authors, celebrities and various other purveyors of pop culture from days past. We have taken the two hour drive south on I-95 many times over the past few years to this show. But this year's show has the potential to be our last.

I like to go to this show to add to my ever-expanding collection of autographed celebrity photographs. Mrs. P, on the other hand, dislikes the ritual of lining up and fawning over an actor who hasn't had an on-screen credit in over forty years. She prefers to scour the vendor area, searching for that elusive treasure on which she can turn a quick profit on eBay. Every once in a while, this show touts an appearance from a celebrity that sparks a warm and pleasant memory from our past, making our anticipation a bit more antsy.

Months ago, The Mid-Atlantic Nostalgia Convention. or MANC, as it is known to regulars, has grown exponentially since the first one we attended. It has noticeably gotten more crowded, probably due to the fact that show promoter and organizer Martin Grams Jr., has worked diligently to book celebrities that charge no more than $30 for an autographed photo. That is quite an accomplishment in the current trend set by such convention big-wigs as ComicCon and Chiller Theater, who have come to dictate the outrageous going rate of such memorabilia. Martin once told me that Adam West, TVs 1960s Batman, refused to budge on his $60 asking price and, therefore, would not commit to an appearance. Because MANC offers a more informal and personal atmosphere, as opposed to the rigid, cattle-chute, "get-em-in-and-get-em-out" procedure of other shows, its popularity has grown. It has also suffered somewhat.

Last year, Martin managed to book Lee Majors and Richard Anderson from The Six Million Dollar Man and Lindsay Wagner from The Bionic Woman. This was a major coup and the trio drew a lot more guests that would have normally attended the show. However, they also charged $40 each per autograph. Martin explained that he wrestled with breaking his own policy and regretfully consented because it was a "once-in-a-life" assemblage for fans. he promised to stick to his rules in future years. Mrs. P and I reluctantly shelled out $40 to Lee Majors, as my wife was a devoted fan of the show as a teenager. We did the same for Lindsay Wagner, who, disappointingly, came off as a stuck-up jerk.

This year's celebrity roster was announced several months ago and featured some enticing actors from beloved films and television shows from our youth. I was most interested in meeting Kathy Garver, best remembered as Buffy and Jody's big sister "Cissy" on the sentimental 60s sitcom Family Affair. I love Family Affair. There I said it! Also included in this year's group was Britt Ekland, the sultry Swedish bombshell and one-time Bond Girl (in The Man with The Golden Gun, reteaming her with her Wicker Man co-star, the late great Christopher Lee). Also included was movie and TV tough guy Robert Conrad, John Amos, star of Roots, Good Times and Coming to America, Debra Paget, the pretty diminutive actress from The Ten Commandments and Dabney Coleman, known for War Games, 9 to 5 and HBO's Boardwalk Empire. The real draw for Mrs. Pincus was Robert Fuller, rugged star of TV Westerns Laramie and Wagon Train. But to Mrs. P,  Fuller will always be cool Dr. Kelly Brackett on Emergency!, the original "Doctor Dreamy," nearly three decades before the moniker attached itself to Patrick Dempsey on Grey's Anatomy. (I was just informed that the character's name was "Doctor McDreamy." I never watched either show, so I apologize to anyone I may have offended.)

In the early afternoon, we parked in the Hunt Valley Wyndham Hotel's parking lot and followed the paved and landscaped walkway to the entrance. After handing over our pre-purchased admission tickets, we were unceremoniously informed that Dabney Coleman, John Amos and Debra Paget had all canceled. We were instantly disappointed, but still, we made our way though the aisles of vendors offering their pieces of the past. Mrs. P's interest was piqued by a few items, but nothing worth a full on negotiation. We descended a rickety escalator to the hotel's lower floor, where more vendors and the room housing the celebrities awaited.

I spotted an attractive, but heavily made-up older woman who I soon identified as Britt Ekland, seated along a row of tables. She was entertaining a group of fans, so I decided to press on and come back to Miss Elkand at a later time. At the end of the row was our old pal Geri Reischl, best known as replacing the uninterested Eve Plumb in the short-lived Brady Bunch Hour, a poorly-conceived variety show featuring America's favorite blended family. We have encountered Geri at enough shows that we have forged a budding friendship... an easy task, as Geri is a sweetheart. Seated next to Geri was Kathy Garver. She was surrounded by glossy photos highlighting scenes from Family Affair, as well as stills from her brief, uncredited appearance as a slave child in The Ten Commandments, guest roles in Adam-12 and Dr. Kildare, and shots of Firestar, the superhero character she voiced on Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends in the 80s. Of course, we chatted briefly with Miss Garver about Family Affair, purchased a signed photo and snapped a photo of her holding our traveling buddy Pudge. 

Mrs. P was looking at some potential purchases as I made my way back to Britt Ekland, who, by this time, was sitting idly at her table, sipping a cup of coffee. I approached and offered a friendly "Hi Britt." She lit up, a smile stretching wide across her face. I told her how much I loved The Wicker Man and The Night They Raided Minsky's, two early entries in her six-decade career. I could have talked and questioned her at length about her interesting and illustrious life, including her four-year marriage to Peter Sellers, a longer union with Stray Cats' drummer Slim Jim Phantom and her notorious tryst with rocker Rod Stewart, which inspired him to write his hit Tonight's the Night in 1977. After signing a picture for me, she — not me — suggested I pose for a photo with her, directing me around the table for an intimate shot. As Britt was maneuvering her slight frame close to me, I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Pincus ten feet away, mouthing, "What do you think you're doing?" in faux jealousy. Britt laughed and purposely snuggled in closer. Once the picture was snapped by her assistant, she insisted I check it to make sure it met my satisfaction — something no other celebrity has ever done.

Out in a hallway, lines were forming for a chance to meet Robert Conrad and Robert Fuller. A group of show staff were furiously working to corral eager guests in an orderly fashion. We asked a staff member to point out the end of the line, but were informed that the line was now closed. Once again, we were disappointed, but now our disappointment was accompanied by anger. Our questions, "Will Mr. Conrad and Mr. Fuller be returning later in day?," were were met with shrugs. We headed back to the vendor room, determined to check back later for a shorter line. After an hour of perusal and few purchases, we returned to the Conrad/Fuller lines, only to be told that they were, again, closed and no more guests would be accommodated. Mrs. P fumed. "I'm done with this goddamn show!," she proclaimed angrily. We went to say our "goodbyes" to Geri Reischl and were delayed as Mrs. P vented her dismay to Geri's sympathetic ear. 

As we started for the exit, I pointed out show organizer Martin Grams to my wife. Mrs. P walked right over to him and laid in. She expressed her disappointment and frustration over three cancellations and continued with her further disappointment over how the lines for Robert Fuller and Robert Conrad were being maintained. Suddenly, Martin interrupted my wife's tirade with a gentle "I'll get you in. No problem." He silently led us to the outdoor waiting area and requested the staff member-on-duty place us at the end of the line. The harried woman attempted to argue, saying she had firm instruction to not allow anyone else to join the queue. Martin flatly repeated, "Let them in the line. This is my show." Without another word, we took our place as the anchor of the snaking line.

We waited nearly two hours, biding our time with conversations with other fans, until we were granted access to Mr. Fuller, a tall lanky fellow sporting a large black cowboy hat. Mrs. Pincus gushed as she confessed her love for Emergency! and his character on the show. I offered Mr. Fuller a print of this drawing I did of the Emergency! cast. He marveled at the sketch and complimented me. Mrs. Pincus selected a photo for him to inscribe, then  he waved me off as I withdrew a $20 bill from my wallet and attempted to pay him. "I'm gonna get a frame for that drawing. You're a hell of an artist." he said. He rose to pose for a photo with us, still cutting a handsome and imposing figure at 83 years old, although he has trimmed back those awesome sideburns quite a bit. After a few shots were snapped off, he shook my hand and planted a long-overdue kiss on Mrs. Pincus's cheek. She was in heaven.

Robert Conrad, the dashing star of Wild, Wild West, Black Sheep Squadron and the one-time cocky and competitive leader of Battle of the Network Stars, has, unfortunately, been rendered partly paralyzed by a car accident in 2003. Once a righty, he now has to scrawl his shaky signature with his left hand with unsteady accuracy. He has not, however, lost his snide wit. He cracked sarcastic jokes and off-color innuendo to the delight of the fans awaiting a personal audience with the actor, At 81, he is thin and weathered, but his brash personality has not lost its edge. His endearing arrogance has not been tarnished by time or disability. He stayed until every fan was treated to the short tête-à-tête they had hoped for. I understood he did the same thing on the previous day.

Before we left, Mrs. Pincus and I stopped off at our respective restrooms in anticipation of the long drive home. As I reached out to push the men's room door open, I was met by Robert Fuller about to push the door as well. We each laughed and I respectfully allowed the venerable actor to enter first. I followed him into the empty bathroom and we each selected urinals on opposite ends of the far wall. And this paragraph is officially over.

Mrs. Pincus and I tracked down and thanked Martin once again for his thoughtfulness and for accommodating us above and beyond. We sheepishly admitted to expecting an angry confrontation, but we were grateful for the unexpected result. We told him we would be back again next year.

Maybe.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

if I wanted someone to clean me up I'd find myself a maid

My love for old television shows is no secret. Every morning, before I go to work, I pour myself a cup of coffee and stretch out on the sofa for a short visit to the black and white world of McHale's Navy or I Love Lucy* or The Donna Reed Show. I love the nostalgia of times past. I love the novelty of the far-fetched situations. I love seeing famous actors in bit parts early in their careers. (I've spotted a pre-Oscar-winning Cloris Leachman seeking advice from wise neighbor Donna Stone on The Donna Reed Show, Estelle Parsons, another Oscar winner, as a prospective customer for vacuum cleaner salesgirl Patty Duke and Jack Nicholson as the frantic father of a missing boy on The Andy Griffith Show.) I love the uncomplicated mawkishness of Mary having two dates for the same night or the panic over Uncle Tonoose dropping in for an extended weekend stay. (Cue spit take!)

There is one show, however, I do not get. I watch it, mind you, I just don't know why. I don't enjoy it. I can't, for the life of me figure out its appeal or who its target audience was in its initial run from its premiere in 1961 to its swan song in 1966. With each episode (and there are five seasons worth!), it gets increasingly frustrating.

Of course, I'm talking about Hazel.

At one time, Shirley Booth was a popular, versatile and well-respected actress. She made her debut on the Broadway stage in 1925 and went on to win an impressive three Tony Awards including Best Actress in the gut-wrenching drama Come Back Little Sheba. Shirley reprised the role of "Lola Delaney" in the film version of the play and won an Academy Award for her effort. She also received high praise for her role as "Dolly Levi" in Thornton Wilder's The Matchmaker, the non-musical source for Hello Dolly. Although she only made five films in her career, she was a staple in live theater, originating the roles in The Desk Set and Summertime that Katherine Hepburn eventually played in the films. She was the wise-cracking "Miss Duffy" on radio's Duffy's Tavern and she auditioned for, but lost, the lead role in Our Miss Brooks to Eve Arden.

Mr. B and Missy

In 1961, Shirley Booth was tapped for the live-action portrayal of Ted Key's cartoon maid Hazel, a popular character frequently appearing in single-panel strips in the Saturday Evening Post. The half-hour sitcom co-starred Don Defore as George "Mr. B" Baxter, Hazel's irascible employer, Whitney Blake as his ever-patient wife and little Bobby Buntrock as their son Harold. The show chronicled Hazel's weekly exercise in meddling, interfering, insubordination and arrogance. She was a smug, sneaky, obnoxious, condescending, self-righteous troublemaker. She regularly second-guessed and undermined both Mr B's business dealings and home life, despite bragging to the other maids that she worked for a "prominent attorney who practically runs the city for the mayor." She repeatedly interrupted client meetings with inane crusades for a new flower garden in the park or a new jungle gym for the playground. She often talked back — or worse — talked over her boss. Sure, she made impossibly flaky and delicious dinner rolls, but that's hardly an argument for putting up with all that other nonsense.

Still, I can't figure out who the hell was watching and enjoying this infuriating bullshit? Who was relating to this? I grew up in a middle class family in the 1960s. We didn't have a live-in maid. I didn't know anyone who had a maid, live-in or otherwise. Yet, everyone in the Baxter's neighborhood has a maid — and Hazel is friends with all of them. (And by "friends," I mean she's sticking her bulbous nose into their business as well.)

Meet the new boss.
Same as the old boss.

I can't understand why the ever-exasperated Mr. Baxter didn't fire Hazel's ass the first time she talked back to him or fucked up some important family plan or business venture because "she had a better idea." Hazel criticizes Mr. B's weight, clothing, golf game, business decisions and friends. She barges into personal husband-wife discussions (May I point out that the lovely Whitney Blake is way out of Mr. B's league!) and dispenses un-asked-for advice to impressionable young Harold (who thinks Hazel is "the greatest!"). When Defore and Blake were unceremoniously canned in favor of a more youthful couple, Ray Fulmer and Lynne Borden were introduced as George's brother and sister-in-law. Hazel went to work for them, inexplicably taking Harold along with her. But for some reason, Hazel was an instant hit and a ratings monster. It ranked in the Top 25 shows for most of its five seasons, including the Number 4 spot during its first. I know there weren't as many television choices as there are today, but — jeez! — I think I would have watched almost anything besides this irritating depiction of suburban life.

So, why do I watch it now? Because, in comparison, I would rather suffer through Hazel disrespecting poor Mr. B than be subjected to the reality shit storm that The Today Show has become.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* It should be noted that I like everyone in I Love Lucy, except for Lucy. The ensemble cast — William Frawley, Vivian Vance and Desi Arnaz — are funny. Lucille Ball, however, is annoying, overbearing and not at all funny. Maybe they should have called the show "I Love Everyone Except Lucy." But, I watch it just the same.

from a park you can hear the happy sounds from a carousel

Early on Sunday morning, Mrs. P and I hopped in the car and headed up the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Somewhere along the way, we must have driven through a time portal. That was our conclusion when we pulled into the expansive, grass-covered parking lot of Knoebels.

Does your theme park have a giant cake?

Tucked away in a pastoral wooded area known as "Peggy's Valley" when it first opened its gates in 1926, Knoebels is something of an anachronistic anomaly. It hearkens back to a time when families would pack a wicker picnic basket filled with sandwiches, potato salad and big jug of lemonade for an al fresco meal in a tree-lined grove. When little kids would get excited to ride on a beautifully carved and painted wooden horse to the soundtrack of the calliope, breathlessly churning out an "oompah oompah" rhythm. When older boys and girls would race to grab the coveted first car of the roller coaster, then dare each other to loosen their grip on the safety bar as they "wooshed" down the rickety hills and thrilling curves. Well, that still exists at Knoebels, despite the advancement in amusement ride technology and engineering and the sprawl of modern theme parks.

Does Disney
know about this?

However, Knoebels very existence is a real head-scratcher. Parking at Knoebels is free and there is no admission charge to pass through the entrance. The park still uses paper tickets for rides and each ride is individually priced. The roller coasters and similar thrill rides cost a mere three dollars to ride. A spin through the award-winning* Haunted Mansion will set you back two dollars and the kiddie rides (a lot of 'em and they all looked looked like a whole lotta fun!) are just a buck! From the sounds of squeals and screams, riders seemed to be having the time of their lives.

As we strolled through the oddly-configured walkways, we saw smiles everywhere. Smiling parents. Smiling teens. Smiling children. This is a notable contrast to the anger-filled Dad berating his crying children at the entrance to Disney's Magic Kingdom. ("Do you know how much this goddamn trip is costing me? Stop that goddamn crying RIGHT NOW! You're gonna have a good time if I have to beat one out of you!" Happiest Place on Earth, indeed.)

Penny candy? What year is this?

We saw a couple of free shows — a hokey ventriloquist telling lame jokes, and later, a delightful improv fairy tale, featuring costumed narrators and enthusiastic audience participation. We watched kids ride on kiddie rides that we rode on as children. An arcade attendant set us up with a few free games of Fascination, an old-time arcade game with rubber balls and flashing lights, sort of like Bingo. We won a pair of licorice whips and a plastic dinosaur. I bought a soft pretzel and my wife bought a handful of penny candy from a huge display, the likes of which we had not seen since we were kids. The posted prices for food were so incredibly cheap, I thought they may have been misprints. We were quite content to meander along the winding paths that transverse the self-proclaimed "America's largest free admission amusement park," and I decided that this place was for people who have never heard of Walt Disney World. And, unlike that famous Florida theme park, we spent a grand total of four dollars over the course of our five-hour visit. (We opted not to go on any rides.)

This actually defies explanation.

In these days of bigger and better, theme parks plan and devise ways to outdo their competition. With 3D simulators whose seats vibrate to triple-looping roller coasters to ultra-themed attractions that immerse the rider into the middle of their favorite movie, TV show or comic strip, industry heavyweights like Disney, Universal and Six Flags constantly vie for increased attendance and increased income.

So, is there still room in this world for a place like Knoebels?

Well, the abundant smiles and laughter told me: "yes."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com



*It has been named a favorite for over 10 years by Dark Ride and Funhouse Enthusiasts. There's an organization for everyone!

I could while away the hours

I first saw The Wizard of Oz as a child in the mid-1960s, when (beginning in 1958) it was broadcast annually on network television. I watched it with my Mom, my Dad and older brother, the four of us gathered around the 19-inch black and white Zenith that was the centerpiece of our den AKA "the television room." I enjoyed the movie immensely, but it wasn't until my family got its first color television that I realized why Dorothy gasped when she opened the door to Oz and how much it indeed differed from Kansas.

Every year, my brother would tease me, convincing me that this year, the Wicked Witch was going make a surprise move to her left when Dorothy threw the fateful bucket of water. He told me as though The Wizard of Oz was a live event, like a boxing match. But every year, I'd fall for it, anticipating the trick move that would enable the Witch to nab those ruby slippers once and for all. (After all, technically, they were her birthright!)

From the time I was a kid, through the birth of my own son and later, I have seen The Wizard of Oz countless times. I continued to watch the annual network broadcasts and I watched nearly every showing since its exclusive move to cable in 2000. I also own a DVD copy, even following the Internet's instructions for syncing it up to Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" when the so-called "Dark Side of the Rainbow" craze was popular.

The Wizard of Oz became one of my favorite films. Not so much that it is a great movie, but more for the nostalgic memories that it stirs up. I still will watch it if I spot it in the TV listings. I know a load of trivia associated with the film. But, because its original release was 22 years before I was born, I never had the opportunity to see it as it was meant to be seen — on the big screen.

Until now.

This week, the good folks at Turner Classic Movies, the greatest cable channel of them all, presented a limited theater run of  the 1939 classic. Last night, Mrs. Pincus and I (and a couple of friends) attended one of only four showings at the same theater where we saw Big Eyes this past Christmas. We purchased our admission online, ($12.50 per ticket, a twelve dollar and twenty-five cent increase from its initial run) securing seats early, because we could not gauge the appeal that this limited engagement would have. 

When we arrived at the theater, our "crowd size" questions were answered. The darkened auditorium was sparsely populated with no more than two dozen patrons. Actually, closer to 20. We grabbed our usual spot — last row, just under the projection booth — and waited for the movie to start. After a brief recorded introduction by TCM host Robert Osbourne, the center of the modern wide screen flickered with the familiar image of the MGM lion. I was immediately surprised, then remembered that Panavision, CinemaScope and other wide-screen technology didn't exist in 1939. The film, for you movie buffs, was shot in 1:37 aspect ratio, which is basically, a little square. The title card, accompanied by the orchestrated strains of "Over the Rainbow," flashed across the screen in glorious sharp sepia-tone. 

My wife had preconceived plans to make this event a second coming of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, complete with reciting dialogue before the on-screen actors, and singing along with the beloved songs. No one seemed to mind when we questioned aloud with the Emerald City guard, "The Witch's Dorothy?"  And we definitely were not alone when we collectively answered the Scarecrow's directional query "To Oz?" with an emphatic "To Oz!" While a lot of the audience was quiet, it was a foregone conclusion that nobody was seeing The Wizard of Oz for the first time tonight. Or the second time. Or the twentieth time.

Yeah, we were all there for the same reason.

(By the way, the newly "brained" Scarecrow's statement: "The sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side" — is not true of any type of triangle.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com