some things are classic, some things are just old

The opinions expressed here are solely those of the author. Your results may vary.

I love old movies. Of course, I have my favorites — those that I have watched over and over again. I think its funny when watching an old movie — one that I have seen dozens of times — and I catch myself staring as though its the first time I have ever seen it. That is a true sign of how much I like a particular movie. 

Cable network TCM shows old movies and they have some in their vast library that they broadcast way more than others. Among them, there are some that — surprisingly — I have never seen. Each August, TCM highlights a different actor and shows a collection of their movies for an entire day. The selections are a mixed bag of popular and well-known titles from the performer's resume, along with some lesser films in which the actor was featured in a tiny role. This past Friday spotlighted the versatile Jack Lemmon. Along with fan (and TCM) favorites like The Fortune Cookie, The Apartment, Days of Wine and Roses and the all-time TCM staple Some Like It Hot (a movie that I will sheepishly admit I do not like), the 8 o'clock time slot was filled with the 1970 Neil Simon comedy The Out-of-Towners — which I have never seen. So, with nothing else to my liking on any of the other seven zillion channels offered by my cable provider, I watched.

Host Ben Mankiewicz introduced the film with a proper build-up, citing Neil Simon's comedic prowess, Jack Lemmon's adeptness at playing the "frustrated everyman" and a host of supporting actors in small roles long before they became notable figures in their own right. I was sold. A quick scan of the movie's IMDB page told me to be on the lookout for the likes of Billy Dee Williams, Anne Meara, Richard Libertini, Ron Carey, Robert Walden, Graham Jarvis, Anne Prentiss, Dolph Sweet, Phil Bruns, Johnny Brown and Paul Dooley. (These folks went on to lucrative careers as in-demand character actors and their names are very meaningful to those of us that fancy themselves aficionados in Hollywood trivia.) Jack Lemmon's co-star for this 101 minute ride was Oscar-winner Sandy Dennis, an actress who I never quite got. Nevertheless, under the capable direction of Arthur Hiller, a one-time television director who went on to helm The In-Laws, Plaza Suite and several collaborations with Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor, I figured I'd be in for some great laughs.

I wasn't.

Considering The Out-of-Towners was lauded as a comedy, I didn't laugh once. I have seen plenty of "the nightmare that doesn't end" movies... and there have been a lot. Films like Martin Scorsese's After Hours, Adventures in Babysitting, Being John Malkovich (I'm sure there are others), where the main character is trapped in a seemingly never-ending circumstances where things just keep getting increasingly worse. Nothing goes right. Everything  goes wrong and there is no relief in sight. Except in those movies, the situations were just ridiculously implausible and outrageous. In After Hours, Griffin Dunne's beleaguered "Paul Hackett" encountered a succession of surreal characters who live exclusively in a nocturnal New York City. They were cartoonish and weird for the sake of being weird. In Adventures in Babysitting, Elisabeth Shue and her brood suffer a flat tire that - though a series of preposterous events — escalates into a run-in with organized crime and eventually Thor, the god of thunder.

In The Out-of-Towners, Lemmon and Dennis just fall hapless victims to a long-running series of bad luck... sometimes as a result of Lemmon's own arrogance. Nothing really outrageous or comically bizarre. Just plain bad luck. The story starts with Ohio suburbanites The Kellermans (Lemmon and Dennis) leaving their little provincial cocoon to fly to big bad New York City so Mr. Kellerman can apply for a prestigious corporate position. The interview is to take place at 9 AM sharp the next morning, so the Kellermans wisely plan to arrive the night before, have a lovely, leisurely dinner at an expensive restaurant, retire to a pre-arranged suite at the illustrious Waldorf Astoria, awaken to breakfast in bed, after which Mr. Kellerman — properly refreshed — will make his interview on the dot of 9 and "wow" his prospective new employers. This is hardly the script for a comedy, but, in the hands of comedy master Neil Simon, it had the potential of being uproarious. 

It was not.

The Kellermans (especially Jack Lemmon's over-zealous "George") can't seem to get out of their own way. He has an angry chip on his shoulder and spends the entire movie scribbling the names of everyone who has wronged him on an ever-growing list that he threatens to present to his attorney for promised lawsuits. However, the hardships that the Kellermans experience are totally plausible. There's bad weather that forced their flight to be diverted. There's confusion as to which train to board (Kellerman's fault). The dining car on the train runs out of food. It begins to rain as they walk to the hotel. New York is in the middle of a cab strike, a sanitation strike and a subway strike. The hotel doesn't hold their reservation. They get robbed. (again, Kellerman's fault). The bad luck just goes on and on and on. It's not funny. It's frustrating, irritating and infuriating, but not funny. Jack Lemmon is annoying. He is irrational, relentless and — at the same time — wishy-washy. He is curt with those trying to help him and especially snippy with his loyal wife. After a while, I just wanted someone to push him into the East River. The more understandably irate he became, the more unfunny the movie became.

As the story grew to a sentimental close, it took an abrupt turn and fell back into frustration for an unsatisfying and perfectly lazy ending.

In its initial release, The Out-of-Towners was outperformed at the box office by Beneath the Planet of the Apes. It received fair reviews and was remade almost twenty years later with Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn in a story slightly adjusted for the times.

The highlight of the movie was the parade of supporting actors, all showing the germination of bigger and better roles to come. However, those are 101 minutes I could have spent elsewhere.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

famous in a small town

I was a big fan of the Andy Griffith Show. I still am. I have seen the original 249 episodes so many times that it's gotten to the point where I can identify a particular episode within the first minute. (Sadly, I watch so much "classic" television, I can employ this same ability with many shows. Kind of like a trained monkey.) 

Nothing compares to you

The "Andy Taylor" character was introduced on a 1960 episode of The Danny Thomas Show as a back-door pilot. General Foods, the show's sponsor, immediately signed to back the new series and The Andy Griffith Show debuted later the same year. At first, Andy Griffith's character was a scheming, backwoods "good ol' boy," presiding as sheriff over the fictional North Carolina hamlet of Mayberry. But as the show went on, Andy became more of a family man and the voice of reason, gently guiding the citizens of Mayberry in often heartwarming tales. Sure there was an amount of humor — mostly provided by the stalwart supporting cast of Don Knotts, Frances Bavier and Howard McNear — but the stories that involved Andy's relationship with his son Opie proved to be the most memorable. The series placed in the top ten in ratings for its entire eight-season run. Originally, Andy Griffith signed on for — and was only interested in — five seasons. As Season Five drew to a close, popular co-star (and multiple Emmy Award winner) Don Knotts, expecting to soon be unemployed, negotiated a five picture deal with Universal Studios. Meanwhile, CBS threw a ton of money at Andy Griffith and he reluctantly committed to three more seasons. As a result, Knotts left the show, the series began filming in garish color and things took a turn. Although, it remained popular, The Andy Griffith Show — beginning with Season Six — morphed into a surrealistic clone of shows like The Beverly Hillbillies and Green Acres. Andy became the sole normal person in a town filled with unrealistic lunatics. Looking like a forerunner to David Lynch's Twin Peaks, Andy became less of a sheriff and more of a stranger in a strange land. The citizens of Mayberry became one-dimensional cartoonish weirdos instead of the outré but friendly folks of the show's early days. Characters like Emmett the pompous fix-it man, Goober the bumpkin grease monkey and stuffy pseudo-intellectual county clerk Howard Sprague became more prominent and the situations became more slapstick. Eventually Andy Griffith had had enough. As the final season came to an end, genial Ken Berry was introduced as a gentleman farmer, all set to become the focus of the town's subsequent adventures in Mayberry RFD. Berry's "Sam Jones" was a level-headed, even-keeled fellow, cast from the same mold as Sheriff Andy Taylor. Except, Ken Berry was no Andy Griffith. He was close, but he lacked Griffith's large, authoritative demeanor. Andy was funny and frequently sarcastic, especially when it came to ribbing his deputy played by Knotts. "Sam Jones" was very laid back and vaguely humorless.

I'll give you two seasons. 

Mayberry RFD premiered on September 23, 1968 with Sheriff Andy Taylor and school teacher Helen Crump getting married. Don Knotts as "Deputy Barney Fife," as well as Andy Griffith Show regulars Ron Howard and Frances Bavier were also on hand as familiar faces to boost series' rating and appeal. As Mayberry RFD found its footing and its audience, Andy and his family moved to Raleigh and were never seen in Mayberry again. Sam, his son Mike and the goofy citizens of Mayberry were on their own to carry the show. Inexplicably, "Aunt Bee" (played by befuddled Frances Bavier) stayed on as Sam's housekeeper, despite being Andy Taylor's aunt.

I watched Mayberry RFD, but I would not classify myself as a "fan." You have to remember, back in the days of "classic television," we only had three networks from which to choose entertainment. We often watched TV shows just because "they were on." If you didn't watch television, you were forced to do something constructive or perhaps even interact with your family. So, folks would slog through poorly written garbage like My Mother the Car rather than help their kids with homework or fix that broken screen door. Not that Mayberry RFD was on par with My Mother the Car, but its production and writing certainly wasn't up to the standards of — say — The Dick Van Dyke Show... or even The Andy Griffith Show. Mayberry RFD just continued the silly sitcom-y writing of late seasons of The Andy Griffith Show that brought the series to a sad demise.

The Three Shumuck-skateers

First of all, no matter how nice a guy Sam Jones was, there was no way — no way in hell! — that he'd be friends with Goober, Howard and Emmett. I understand that Mayberry was a small town and the pickin's were slim, but Goober was an uncouth, loutish moron who wasn't remotely aware of the limits of his limited knowledge. Sure he could change an oil filter, but when it came to participating in a conversation, he'd quickly expose his lack of social relevance by quoting Captain Whammo, his favorite comic book hero. Emmett Clark was no better. As proprietor of the fix-it shop, this conceited idiot would treat every out-of-commission item brought to him in the manner — he'd smack it with a ball-peen hammer. Despite his reputation as a "fix-it" man, Emmett couldn't pour water out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the sole, yet he had the Mayberry market cornered in the fix-it business. Howard Sprague, the self-assured, self-proclaimed intellectual, goes out of his way to phrase the most common expressions in a haughty collective of obscure synonyms for the sole purpose of appearing smart (and being an asshole). When know-it-all Emmett mixed the paint color to the wrong shade while graciously painting Sam's house, Howard explained that the "pigmentation was of the incorrect hue." Oh, fuck you and your pigmentation, Howard.

Hutchins? Swanson?

Sam's love interest is clearly the most attractive woman in Mayberry — Millie Swanson, the cheery counter girl at the bakery, as played by the adorably quirky Arlene Golonka. She is so out of Sam's league, but since she is stuck in Mayberry, she has to make due. Curiously, when Millie was a character in the late seasons of The Andy Griffith Show (and her last name was "Hutchins") she came this close to marrying Howard Sprague. That story line was never acknowledged once Millie and Sam became an item. It should be noted that just prior to the series premiere of Mayberry RFD, Arlene Golonka played a feisty prostitute in the Clint Eastwood Western Hang 'Em High. I don't believe that occupation existed in Mayberry, so Millie was relegated to the closest approximation  — working in a bakery. In several episodes, I swear I caught Goober, Howard and even the married Emmett ogling Millie when she popped in to Sam's county office in her little pink bakery dress.

Jodie's bro

Mike, Sam Jones' typically average sitcom son, was played by Buddy Foster.... and he was no Ron Howard. Buddy, whose unsure raspy vocals gave voice to both the little boy in the iconic "How Many Licks?" Tootsie Roll commercial and the "Count's Son" in the Ringo Starr-narrated, Harry Nilsson-scored animated fable The Point, learned nothing from his Academy Award-winning sister Jodie. His on-camera performances were less than memorable and painfully uninspired. He lacked Ron Howard's charm, comic timing and acting capability. Buddy delivered his lines as though he was just handed the day's shooting script and he just learned how to read.

Know your Alices

In the second season of Mayberry RFD, Aunt Bee was replaced by Sam's ex-Army sergeant cousin "Alice Cooper," played by sitcom staple Alice Ghostley. That's right — Alice Cooper. In 1970, the boundary-pushing shock rocker was still a couple of years away from superstardom. The band (at that time, "Alice Cooper" was the name of the band) had released two albums to mostly negative reviews, but they were slowly gaining attention for their outrageous live performance. However, Mayberry RFD's target demographic was far removed from the burgeoning rock & roll scene. The coincidental character name would only be funny for future viewers of the show's reruns. Alice brought her signature bewildered character to the Jones' household — awkwardly fitting into her new surroundings and, once, even impulsively purchasing an antique harp. (Hilarity ensued.)

Mayberry RFD often resorted to recycling old premises from other TV series, including the Andy Griffith Show. I suppose they hoped that in the pre-VCR, pre-digital recording, pre-streaming services era, no one would notice. But now... oh, I noticed. There's an episode when Mike is coerced by his shitty friends into driving a car. When the underage Mike gives in to peer-pressure and crashes said car, his friends take off posthaste, leaving Mike to take the full brunt of his easy-going dad's wrath. This scenario is straight from the Leave It To Beaver playbook. Another episode puts Millie, eager to break out of the bakery game, in a secretarial position. The ultra-naïve Millie is unaware that her employers are bookies. This is a direct lift of a Season Six installment of the Andy Griffith Show in which Aunt Bee innocently takes a job working for counterfeiters. As the series progressed, more episodes focused on one of the many supporting characters, giving each a full 22 minutes in the spotlight.

Purge

At the end of the 1971 television season, despite wide-reaching popularity and high ratings, CBS president Robert Woods pressured Head of Programming Michael Dunn to cancel all of CBS's so-called "rural" shows. This included The Beverly Hillbillies, Green Acres, Petticoat Junction, Hee Haw and The Red Skelton Show, a variety series with a decidedly older, Midwestern appeal. Dunn personally hated these shows, but was hesitant to cancel them because they still garnered high ratings... and high ratings equaled sponsorship dollars. A frustrated Robert Woods fired Michael Dunn, bringing in Fred Silverman, who had no problem dropping the proverbial ax, thus implementing the notorious "rural purge." (Green Acres star, the venerable Pat Buttram noted: "CBS canceled everything with a tree in it — including Lassie.) Silverman ushered in a new, ground-breaking and influential era of television with shows like The Mary Tyler Moore Show, All in the Family, Cannon, Kojak and The Sonny and Cher Show, a variety show that was way hipper than Red Skelton's folksy revue. Mayberry RFD was also a victim of the rural purge. Its final episode, a confounding tale of Emmett's invention being of interest to an aerospace company, was broadcast in March 1971. 

Not for Buddy

In the aftermath, Ken Berry landed a show more suited to his talents as a song-and-dance man. The Ken Berry Wow Show showcased up-and-coming performers like Teri Garr, Cheryl Ladd and a budding young comedian named Steve Martin. Goober and Emmett (George Lindsey and Paul Hartman) showed up on The New Andy Griffith Show, a short-lived attempt at rekindling the Mayberry spirit. Although Andy was a different character, Goober and Emmett were the same two lunkheads from Mayberry. That show lasted 13 weeks. Lindsey took his "Goober" persona over to the syndicated version of Hee Haw, which in spite of its cancelation by CBS, went on to a successful 23 more seasons. Paul Hartman, however, passed away in 1973. Alice Ghostley, Jack Dodson (who played "Howard Sprague") and Arlene Golonka all enjoyed continued success, showing up in various film and television roles over the next several decades. Buddy Foster....? I suppose his sister invites him over for Thanksgiving dinner. He'll come... as long as she hides her Oscars.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i can tell that we are gonna be friends

Please. Can someone please explain to me why it is so important to some people that I like what they like? Can't I have my own opinions on things? I don't mind if you like something different than what I like. It doesn't bother me in the least. We can still talk. We can still be friends.

Why do some people do their very best to try to convince me to like what they like? Why is it so important? Is everything a contest? Is everything a debate? 

Years ago, my brother-in-law (who, by the way is the king of "you must like what I like") made some sort of stew with ingredients selected specifically to impress everyone who would ask: "Hey, what's in this?" After a long session of cajoling that was borderline intimidation, I sampled a small spoonful of his concoction. First of all, it had an aroma that was very unappetizing to me. Despite that immediate turn-off, I tasted it anyway... just to be polite. I didn't like it. I told him I didn't like it. He got furious. I mean raving, seething, face-turning-beet-red furious! He threw the spoon down and began berating and insulting me — waving his hands and cursing like a longshoreman. (Side note: I never have to worry about this scenario ever repeating because I no longer speak to my brother-in-law.)

I like music. My musical tastes lean towards the eclectic. But, boy oh boy! do people get downright defensive about the music they like. Some people are very quick to declare that  a certain band sucks if you express the slightest affinity towards something that they don't like. Conversely, those same people will label you as an idiot if you do not like their favorite band. I have started to say "I don't care for that" if I am asked my opinion on a song or band I do not care for. I have come to the conclusion that there is no bad music. Every band is someone's favorite band. It's just some bands appeal to me more than others... and those bands may be different from the ones you like.

I was reading the reviews for different movies on the invaluable Internet Movie Database (IMBD). On one particular movie, someone had posted a very thoughtful — although decidedly negative — review, complete with in-depth commentary, analysis, and comparisons to similar films within the same genre. The first comment on this amateur reviewer's post read: "If you didn't like this movie, your mother sucks, asshole!" 

I watch a lot of movies and I happily admit that I have specific likes and dislikes. I don't like superhero movies. I don't like science fiction movies. I like horror movies, but I don't like the current trend of so-called "body horror," which I feel is more of an endurance test than entertainment. I prefer comedy to drama, but I do like a well-written, well-acted story. That said, I have gotten recommendations from friends, acquaintances and others with whom I come into contact. Mostly, these suggestions are "You'll love this because I loved it!" Honestly, that means nothing and it's hardly a valid reason to get me to watch a movie. I have been told — told! — to watch superhero movies, despite the reminder that I do not care for that genre. "No! No!," the referrer insists, "You'll like this one!" Others have told me to watch a particular Jim Carrey movie, even after expressing my dislike like for the Jim Carrey films I have seen. "No! No!," come the protests, "This one is different! He's different in this one." Of course, he's not.

I just watched a recent movie, one that shall go nameless but recently broke the record for the most Oscar nominations is history. I watched this particular film. In my opinion, it was okay. I thought it was beautifully shot. The cast was great. The acting was top-notch. The story was very, very compelling... until it wasn't. In my opinion (and I keep stressing that), it fell apart at its climax. Author Jason Pargin (John Dies At the End and former editor of Cracked.com) offered a very good assessment of the movie in question. He said that the first half was a great story, with stellar character development and an intriguing set-up. The first part of the movie was so well done that there was a feeling of disappointment when  — SPOILER ALERT!!! — the monsters show up. It was as though the monsters interrupted a story that I wanted to follow and see to a conclusion. I felt cheated. That is exactly how I felt... and I expressed my opinion briefly on social media, grabbing my phone as the credits of the movie were rolling. Almost immediately, I was chastised, rebuked and castigated by a contingency of folk to whom I am connected. I was berated for not getting the "true meaning" of the movie. Oh... I got the "true meaning." I fully understand symbolism. I have been watching symbolism in books and movies for years. I know that George Orwell's Animal Farm is not really about talking pigs. I understood the symbolism in A Face in The Crowd and Get Out. It's just this particular movie didn't do it for me. I don't need a refresher course in Film Making 101. I don't wish to be schooled. I watched the movie for entertainment... to take my mind off of bills I have to pay and assholes I have to deal with at work. As a distraction from bad drivers and unexpected car repairs. The movie was just okay. In my opinion (and I can't stress those three words enough), it was another case of great acting of a run-of-the-mill script. I see a lot of that. There are movies I like and movies I don't like. Just like you.

If you liked that movie... if you thought it was a meaningful, groundbreaking, important tour-de-force — well, good for you. I'm happy that you enjoyed it. Why is it so important that I feel the same about it?  And why do I need to be convinced that I cannot dislike a particular movie?

You have your opinion. I have mine. Let's still be friends.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

la vie en rose

This post appeared in a slightly different form on my illustration blog on October 11, 2024.

I remember watching baseball with my mom and dad, both pretty avid baseball fans. It was a Philadelphia Phillies game and they were playing the Cincinnati Reds, who, at the time, were the powerhouse known as “The Big Red Machine.” When Pete Rose stepped up to the plate for the Reds, my mom — never one to mince words — said, “I hate that arrogant son of a bitch. I wish he was on our team.” A few years later, my mom got her wish. Pete Rose became a member of the Philadelphia Phillies and  helped them win their first World Series.

There is no denying Pete Rose’s contribution and impact on baseball. He was a great player. If he drew a walk at an at-bat, he would run — run! — to first base. He wouldn’t let anything — or anyone — block his attempt to score a run. Oakland A’s catcher Ray Fosse could certainly attest to that. He holds the all-time career hits record with 4,256. That’s nearly two thousand more hits than Dodgers’ Freddie Freeman, who has the record among active players. Freeman has been playing in the majors for 15 years, so Pete’s record will, most likely, never be broken. In addition to his hit record, Pete also hold the record for games played, at-bats and singles. He was a 17-time All-Star, won three batting titles, three World Series championships, one Most Valuable Player Award, two Gold Glove Awards and was named Rookie of the Year in 1963. 

But, Pete Rose was an asshole. 

As manager of the Cincinnati Reds, investigations revealed that Pete had placed illegal bets on various sports, including baseball — specifically Cincinnati Reds games. On August 24, 1989, Pete voluntarily accepted a permanent place on baseball’s ineligible list. He accepted that there was a factual reason for the ban. In return, Major League Baseball agreed to make no formal finding with regard to the gambling allegations. Over the years, Pete has campaigned and tried to appeal for reinstatement, but Major League Baseball has stood firm on their decision. A fixture at baseball autograph shows, Pete would inscribe a baseball with anything fans asked for a price. In later years, he took to writing "I'm sorry I bet on baseball" along with his signature.

While married to his first wife, Pete, the father of two children, fathered another child as the result of an extra-marital affair. In 2016, allegations of a mid-1970s relationship Pete had with a minor came to light. Pete, then in his 30s, was accused of statutory rape. An upcoming ceremony in Philadelphia, honoring his accomplishments during his time on the Phillies, was canceled in the aftermath. The case was settled out-of-court.

In 2022, Pete was given the opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of Phillies fans. Well, some Phillies fans anyway. Most followers of baseball — particularly those from Cincinnati and Philadelphia — readily look past Pete's off-the-field antics. The focus is mainly on Pete's accomplishments with a bat, a ball and his physicality. 

Pete was invited to Philadelphia’s Citizens Bank Park in 2022 to help commemorate the Phils’ 1980 World Series win. Pete — in true “Pete” fashion — made inappropriate and dismissive comments to a female reporter, referring to her as "babe" in the process. Later in the day, he was invited into the Phillies’ broadcast booth, where he graphically discussed former Phillie-turned-announcer John Kruk's well-publicized battle with testicular cancer and further elaborated by comparing the sizes of the genitals of various members of the animal kingdom. He also said "shit" on the air. Oh, by the way, there was a baseball game going on.

 

In September 2024, Pete Rose unexpectedly passed away at the age of 83. His death brought about a rehashing of the "Should Pete Rose be in the Baseball Hall of Fame" debate. On any number of online baseball platforms, folks wrongly stated that since he was dead, his "lifetime" ban from baseball should end and he should be voted in. In reality, Pete's ban was a "permanent" ban, not "lifetime." Permanent overrides lifetime. However, just this week, current baseball commissioner Rob Manfred lifted Pete's ban, thus making him eligible for induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame, at long last. Because of the way the voting process is set up, Pete's inclusion hinges on the Veterans Committee. Without getting into a long and boring explanation of how the Veterans Committee decisions are made, Pete will be eligible for consideration in 2027. Until then, the discussion of Pete’s perceived “right of inclusion” in the Baseball Hall of Fame will be discussed countless times by sportswriters, announcers and guys in bars.

Where does Josh Pincus — a long-time baseball fan who resides in Philadelphia — stand on this? I don't care. I really do not care. While I have been to the Baseball Hall of Fame a number of times to experience the history, lore and romanticism of the game, I feel the actual Hall of Fame gallery is bullshit. Like all Halls of Fame (and let's lump in awards shows like the Oscars and Grammys, while we're at it), inclusion is based on opinion. And opinions are meaningless. They are rarely based on fact. They are mostly based on popularity, sentimentality, guilt and other non-facts. Someone on some committee somewhere could be holding a longtime grudge against a particular player, brushing his accomplishments aside because he once didn't hold a door open for him. By the same token, the same guy on the same committee could have a soft spot for a particular player because he once gave his grandson a baseball. Who knows? Look, there is no denying Pete Rose's on-field statistics. There is also no denying Pete Rose's off-field demeanor.

Pete Rose was a great baseball player. Pete Rose was also a great asshole.

And he's dead. So really.... what does it matter?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

listen to the countdown, they're playing our song again

At the end of last year, my favorite radio station, Philadelphia's WXPN, interrupted their regular programming to present the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Culled from an online poll of loyal listeners, the countdown (played back in reverse order) offered a wide variety of songs from a wide variety of artists. The content was comprised mostly of WXPN's so-called "core artists," the ones who receive regular play on the station and are beloved by listeners for their musical output, their longevity, and because WXPN says they are beloved or some combination of  the above. So, of course the countdown featured 18 songs by Radiohead (a band I do not care for), 11 songs by Hozier (a singer I am indifferent towards), 9 songs by Bruce Springsteen (a singer I am sick of hearing, especially his 21st century releases) and slew of non-descript singer/songwriters who — honestly — all seem to blend together. The countdown included 8 songs by Kendrick Lamar, rapper and recent Super Bowl halftime showman. WXPN rarely plays Kendrick Lamar in their day-to-day playlist. As a matter of fact, the station receives a number of complaints from its predominantly white, predominantly older audience when ever a rap artist interrupts their Dawes and The War on Drugs listening time. (Yes, WXPN is my favorite radio station. Imagine what I would say if it wasn't my favorite!)

People love to rank things. They love to make lists of pretty much everything in their lives in the order of how much they are loved. They love to tell other people how they have ranked things and try to convince those people to rank these things in the same order, often leading to heated arguments, insults and animosity. That's just human nature, I suppose. In 2020, I reiterated how much I dislike... no, make that hate countdowns. Countdowns and lists and rankings are based on opinions. And — boy! — do people have opinions. Opinions are meaningless in the big scheme of things. If you insist on things being ranked and rated, it should be based on measurable facts, not on how much you like or don't like something. Everyone has different likes and dislikes, yet people want everyone to share their opinion. And they get very, very defensive when their opinions are not shared. Very defensive.

Every year, the Oscars, the Emmys, The Grammys, the Tonys and countless other awards are given out based on the opinions of a specific group of people. Record sales, box office receipts and other factual, measurable criteria are tossed aside in favor of arbitrary opinions based on likability, personalities and politically motivated feeling. That's why Glenn Close or Alfred Hitchcock never received an Oscar. That's why Paul Newman was finally given an Oscar for a 1987 performance in a less-than-stellar sequel to the movie for which he should have won an Oscar. Paul Newman skipped that Oscar ceremony in 1987, later stating: "It's like chasing a beautiful woman for 80 years." Paul knew bullshit when he saw it. 

The same goes for various Halls of Fame. The Baseball Hall of Fame is chock full of statistics, but, when it comes to selection for induction into the coveted Hall, players are chosen based on the opinions of a committee. They know what statistics are and what they represent, yet they choose to ignore statistics when it really counts. Induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has been a "bone in the throat" for a lot of die-hard rock and roll fans. Each year, when nominees are announced (by the same opiniated group that will eventually vote on who gets in), tempers flare and voices raise in protest. "Why hasn't (insert your favorite snubbed rock & roller here) gotten in?" is the frequent gripe. The word "deserves" is brought up a lot, mostly by people who don't fully understand what "deserves" means. Non-rock and rollers like Dolly Parton have been given the honor of induction, while Bad Company, Boston, Warren Zevon and Iron Maiden look on from the sidelines. Again, record sales, concert receipts and radio (and now streaming) airplay are not considered for induction. Only opinion. According to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame's website, "the Nominating Committee's selections are based on a number of criteria, including the impact and influence of the artist on music history, as well as their popularity, longevity, and musical innovations." That just another, more complicated way of saying "opinion."

So, because I do not like countdowns and I do not subscribe to the importance that is placed on countdowns and ratings and rankings, I avoided the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." I listened to the radio before the countdown began, but I was already at my desk at work by the time it started and each subsequent day when it picked up where it left off the previous day. I avoided it for its entire ten day (or so) run. When it was all over, I casually glanced at the results that were posted on the WXPN website — just out of curiosity.

And there was a glaring omission.

Sparks 21st Century albums

The parameters for inclusion in this countdown was songs released between January 1, 2000 and right up until the day the countdown voting closed. That encompasses 25 years. The list of 885 songs was totally devoid of a single entry by Ron and Russel Mael, the brothers who have been performing for the past 54 years (in one capacity or another) under the name Sparks. Since their debut in 1971, Sparks has flown just under the mainstream radar of the music industry. As a band, they are hard to define. They have dabbled in many musical genres including pop, rock, new wave, dance and electronica. Along the way, they have poked playful fun at they genres they so expertly mimicked. Although their humor is quite prevalent in their songs, they are not a novelty act, like Weird Al Yankovic (who, by the way, has five Grammys). Sparks are a legitimate band. Yes, they have popped their heads up here and there, scoring with a few minor hits in the 80s, but mostly they are one of the cultiest of cult bands. They get very little airplay despite their musical output of 41 albums (including 2 soundtrack albums, a live album and 12 compilation albums) and 79 singles. They have appeared and performed on network television (including briefly on an episode of Gilmore Girls). They were featured in the 1977 thriller Rollercoaster and more recently, they were the subject of and acclaimed documentary by edgy filmmaker Edgar Wright.

Sparks met the criteria for inclusion in the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Beginning in 2000, Sparks released 11 albums. Eleven! including the two soundtracks and a collaboration with Scottish band Franz Ferdinand (whose "Take Me Out" ranked at Number 93 according to someone's opinion). Within the past 25 years, several Sparks songs were played on WXPN for a brief period of time, mostly just after a new album release or when the documentary came out. After that, the new Sparks songs disappeared from the airwaves and 1983's "Cool Places" would pop up on the station's 80's themed specialty show.

However, not a single Sparks song made it to the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Not a one. The alt-metal band Incubus had a song come in at Number 859. Pop punkers Jimmy Eat World were included at Number 689. Even Taylor Swift took the 133 spot with "Shake It Off" — a song that is rarely if ever played on WXPN. But no Sparks.

Is the  "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century" really an accurate assessment of the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century?" Before you answer, understand that it's just your opinion.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Footnote: I went an entire post about music without a single shot at Ringo or The Dave Matthews Band.

when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie

I love pizza. My father used to joke (although I don't really think he was joking) that all I ate was pizza. Three meals a day. Breakfast, lunch and dinner — pizza! He wasn't that far off, to be totally honest. I have eaten a lot of pizza in my life.

I am not — nor do I claim to be — a pizza connoisseur. I firmly believe that all pizza is good pizza. Before you start criticizing that statement or attempt to guide or educate me, please read that sentence again. I said "I firmly believe that all pizza is good pizza." "I" believe. Not you. I'm writing this. If you feel differently about pizza, go write your own blog. Are we clear? I truly believe that it is pretty difficult to screw up pizza. I have had good pizza. I have had very good pizza and I have had bad pizza. And guess what? Bad pizza is still good pizza.

When I was a kid, there was a large discount market near my house. It had a number of individual businesses under one roof. It wasn't exactly a mall or a shopping center. They called themselves a "mart" and it was more along the lines of a farmer's market. There was a selection of food counters at the mart, including my first exposure to pizza. The concession was owned and operated by two women who, in hindsight, didn't know the first thing about making pizza. But, in my memory, that pizza was good. Cheese. Sauce. Crust. What else did one need?

I recall at my elementary school, those angry women in the hairnets would concoct their version of the Italian staple on hamburger rolls left over from the day-before's lunch menu... the one where they thought they were giving McDonald's a run for their money. The surplus rolls were placed crust-side-down on a large tray. They each got a dollop of red sauce straight from an industrial size can and topped with a half slice of American cheese. Then the tray was set under the giant broiler until just before the burning point... usually. For 35 cents, you got two "burger bun" pizza, a scoop of limp string beans and a cup of Jello — the last two items, of course, never to be eaten. I even liked that pizza. Even the ones that passed the burning threshold.

As my life experiences expanded beyond my little Northeast Philadelphia cocoon, I encountered actual pizza. Pizza made by actual trained pizza chefs. Burly guys in athletic shirts, a red cloth tied tightly around their necks, expertly tossing a huge circle of pizza dough in the air like those jugglers I saw on the Ed Sullivan Show. They'd shove prepared pies into a hot narrow oven and extract the same a few moments later on a large wooden paddle — all in a choreographed ballet. They had names like "Piasano's" and "Luigi's" and "Frank's" (short for "Francesco") and the slices they served were as big as your head. And they were good. Of course, they were good. When I was in high school, I frequented Philadelphia's famed South Street nearly every weekend. It was the epicenter of "what was happening" among my peers. Whether you went to see a weekly midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, or just came to hang out, South Street was hopping with activity. And where there was teenage activity, there was pizza. When my friends and I would descend upon South Street, our first stop was the aforementioned Franks, a small pizzeria next to a cool little stationery store. Frank, who I don't believe spoke a word of English, made great pizza. It was hot and cheesy and spicy and the slices, once lifted off the flimsy, grease-coated paper plate, needed to be supported by both hands. And — boy! — was it good!

I've had pizza all over Philadelphia. I've had pizza in other states — near and far. I've had pizza in the few other countries I've been to. I've even had pizza in the wee hours of the morning aboard several different cruise ships. And they were all good. All of them.

I reiterate. It is pretty hard to screw up pizza. You may have your particular favorite pizza place. A place that is your "go-to" place. A pizzeria to which you are loyal. One that you insist — insist! — is the best pizza in the world and where you bring friends in an effort to convince them to share your affection. You may engage in hours-long debates about who has the best pizza you've ever eaten, during which you reveal a little known hole-in-the-wall in an unexplored alley with no street address that is run by the great-great-great-great-grandnephew of the actual guy who invented pizza. You may turn your nose up at places like Pizza Hut or Little Caesars. You might cringe at the very idea of Ellio's or DiGiorno. Please. Argue among yourselves because I don't do any of that.

I just love pizza. And all pizza is good pizza.

www.joshpicusiscrying.com

swinging school

In 1965, Bobby Rydell sang about some mythical institute of higher learning where "the chicks are kicks and the cats are cool." I had this 45 and I played it often. I knew Bobby was a fellow Philadelphian, but I wasn't quite sure which school he was singing about. There certainly weren't any "kicky chicks" or "cool cats" at any school under the jurisdiction of the Philadelphia School District that I attended. School was awful, filled with bratty classmates, rigid, humorless teachers and a curriculum that never got any better or any easier as I struggled my way through twelfth grade. And "swinging?" Ugh! You gotta be kidding me!

I did what I could to get out of going to school as often as possible. I played on my mother's sympathies, milking every little sniffle into the onslaught of the bubonic plague. I suddenly became a devout student of the Talmud when I overheard some of my classmates discussing some obscure Jewish holiday that I needed to observe at home, taking precedent over a typical day at school (preferably a day when a book report was due). My mom (as I later discovered) wasn't as gullible as I had thought. She knew I was full of shit with each and every excuse I employed. But, my mom didn't press me for good marks or perfect attendance. She knew the limits of my academic abilities. She also knew that a day off here and there wasn't going to cause any permanent damage to the person I would become. She picked her battles and putting up a fuss when I wanted to stay home from school wasn't high on her list. My dad, by the way, couldn't have told you what grade I was currently enrolled in at any given time. He left that stuff to my mom. My dad did the important things. He went to work. He came home. He smoked cigarettes and he watched television. Mostly sports.

My dad — and my brother, for that matter — watched a lot of sports on television. A lot of sports. If it involved a ball, a bat, a stick, a racquet, a club, some sort of padding and a final score, my dad was watching it. I was not. I had no interest. Zero. Zilch. Nada. I didn't know a field goal from a lay-up. I couldn't tell you the difference between an inside pitch and an inside straight. But, my dad could. He watched baseball in the summer, football in the winter and basketball and hockey in the spring (although, he did complain that hockey moved "too goddamn fast," but he watched it anyway). 

When I was a kid, Philadelphia sports teams were notoriously bad. The Phillies were bad. The Eagles were bad. The 76ers were above average when they had Wilt Chamberlain in the early 70s, but stunk again until they acquired Julius "Dr. J." Erving (I looked that up). The Philadelphia Flyers, though — that hockey team that moved "too goddamn fast" for my father — were pretty good. And in 1974, the whole city — hockey fans or not — cheered them on as they became the Stanley Cup Champions that season. Of course, the city celebrated by throwing the team a victory parade. It was held on Monday, May 20, 1974 — the day after the Broad Street Bullies defeated the Boston Bruins to take Game 6 and the series.  And it was a school day.

I'm in there somewhere.

Reports on the news determined the Flyers Stanley Cup Victory Parade had a bigger celebratory turnout in Philadelphia  than the announcement of the end of World War II. An estimated two million people lined Broad Street and stood in a shower of ticker-tape as their tough-and-toothless heroes smiled and waved as they rode past the crowds on the open backs of city fire engines. A series of speeches and presentations were offered at JFK Stadium, the venerable venue in South Philadelphia (now gone, with the state-of-the-art Wells Fargo Center in its place). All were welcome and the stadium was a madhouse. I should know. I was there. Yep. On a day that should have been taken up by another installment of seventh grade, I was screaming and yelling and cheering a bunch of guys who played a sport that I didn't watch. My mom gave me permission to skip school and accompany my brother and his sports-following friends to the parade.  Miraculously, he agreed to let me in his car. From the looks of things, a lot of kids didn't go to school that day. An awful lot.

On Tuesday, I went to school.

My first class was math. I hated math. I have always hated math. I still hate math. And, to be honest, math isn't too fond of me either. My teacher was Mrs. Goetz, a nasty, cranky old martinet who looked like my paternal grandmother — a woman I could not stand. (Your grandmother? Josh! That's terrible! Oh yeah? Here's why...) When ever I mentioned this teacher's name, my mother would sing: "Whatever Missus wants.... Missus gets!" It wasn't until years later that I got this reference. As students filed into her classroom, Mrs. Goetz eyed each boy and girl with contempt, leaning forward and following with her gaze as each student took their assigned seat. She squinted and wrung her hands, like Margaret Hamilton in The Wizard of Oz trying to figure out how to get those ruby slippers off of Judy Garland's feet. Before a single integer was reversed or sine was cosined, Mrs. Goetz announced her displeasure with the amount of students who were missing from her class the previous day. She continued her tirade by insisting that everyone who was absent better have a good and valid excuse.... adding that "going to a parade for a hockey team" would not be considered a valid excuse. She spoke the phrase "going to a parade for a hockey team" as though Satan were whispering instructions in her ear. Still putting any mathematical information on hold, Mrs. Goetz ran down the class list — one by one — asking for reasons of absence. A majority of students — boys and girls — explained that they had attended a classmate's out-of-town Bar Mitzvah on Sunday and arrived home very, very late in the evening. They were much too tired and in no shape to attend school on Monday. Mrs. Goetz seemed to accept this lame-ass excuse, I suppose on the fear of repercussions from possible "religious persecution." She nodded to each student who offered the "Bar Mitzvah" reason. "I'll allow that," she muttered, as she made some marking with her pencil on the roll sheet. When she got to me, I was angry. I had already delivered the required note from my mother to my homeroom teacher. School policy didn't require that every teacher be given a separate note for each absence. This ornery old fuck was just being difficult for her own amusement. "Well," I thought to myself, "Fuck her! I'm telling her the truth!"

"Pincus!," she announced, "Why weren't you here yesterday?"

"I was at the Flyers parade." I said

Mrs. Goetz exhaled angrily. "That is no excuse! You get a 'zero' for the day!" Teachers have been using that "zero for the day" threat for years! It means nothing. Absolutely nothing. It doesn't follow you for the rest of your life. It doesn't play into job interviews or loan applications. It's just a stupid, manipulative device that teachers wield to make them appear to have some life-altering control over the course of your existence. Spoiler Alert! They don't. 

I hated math. I hated Mrs. Goetz. Mrs. Goetz taught math. (I can't believe I'm going to use this joke....) You do the math.

A few hours from now, the Philadelphia Eagles are going to play the Kansas City Chiefs in Super Bowl LVII. There has been a lot of fervor over the Eagles for the entire season. Philadelphia is a sports town, specifically a rabid football town. Football always takes the forefront, no matter how good or bad the city's other sports teams are doing. I have heard the notorious "E-A-G-L-E-S" chant break out at a Phillies playoff game. Recently, Mrs. Pincus and I inexplicably found ourselves at a Flyers game. The Eagles were playing right next door. Midway through the Flyers game, "The Chant" erupted as word spread of another Eagles win. As the Eagles' regular season wound down, it became apparent that they had a shot at the whole ball of wax. The city was approaching a collective frenzy, as "The Birds" defeated every team they faced in the playoffs, securing themselves a spot in "The Big Game" — The Super Bowl.

There is a one-week gap between the last football playoff game and the date of The Super Bowl. In that time, several surrounding school districts have announced two-hour delays for the opening of schools on the day after The Super Bowl. Just a few days ago, the School District of Philadelphia followed suit and confirmed that its 217 schools will be opening two hours later than normal opening time on Monday, February 13. I'm pretty sure I heard all 124,111 students cheer from my home, just outside the city limits. While this decision does not affect me in the least, I am confounded by it. I cannot remember anything like this occurring in the history of the School District of Philadelphia. When I was an elementary school student, schools closed for Thanksgiving and Memorial Day. There was a ten-day break at the end of the calendar year that encompassed Christmas and New Years Day... and, if we were lucky, Chanukah fell within that time. If it didn't, well... tough. A one-week break covering Easter closed schools in the spring. Because of the unpredictability of Passover, Jewish students were on their own. A little parental convincing allowed for the first two and last two days of Passover to be taken off, while we ate peanut butter on matzoh during the days between. (If I told you that peanut butter is traditionally not eaten during Passover, you'd get that joke.) Sometimes we got Washington's Birthday (later combined with Lincoln's birthday to form the super holiday Presidents Day!) as a day off. Sometimes we got Columbus Day, too. Oh, and Veterans Day... we got Veterans Day off, prompting my father to lament: "I fought in the goddamn war and I have to go to work!"

But a football game? Really? What sort of example does this set for impressionable (and already entitled) children? I think the school boards are making a mistake with this one. Students' education has already been impacted by a worldwide pandemic. Do they really need to interrupt their school day because of a football game. Do they expect every student will be watching the game? Is it required to watch the game? If, by chance, the Eagles win (and they are the favorite), will schools be closed again for the obligatory celebration parade? Again, this decision has absolutely no bearing on me, my family or my life, but... seriously. Philadelphia has had other winning teams before. Jesus, the Eagles won the Super Bowl in 2017 and Philadelphia public schools opened at the same time they always did... providing there wasn't two inches of snow on the ground. I just think this is wrong. Very wrong.

Mrs. Goetz is probably spinning in her grave... assuming she is dead.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my prerogative

Recently, my outlook has changed. When I was an avid baseball fan, I would often hear other fans scream things like "Yankees suck!" Well, based on fact, that is incorrect. The Yankees have won more World Series titles (way more!) that any other team in the history of American professional baseball. Coming from a city whose baseball team holds the dubious record (based on factual statistics and years of record keeping) of the most losses in professional sports history, not just baseball, I know a thing or two about "what sucks" and what does not.

I love music. I have listened to music since I was a little kid, starting with nursery rhyme records played on my little Close & Play record player. As a pre-teen, I bought 45 RPM singles (with my own money), then full albums and, of course, I recorded hits off the radio with my little cassette recorder. I made mix tapes (and later mix CDs) and went to dozens and dozens of concerts. I have always been open to all types of music, all genres and a wide variety of musicians and singers. I can honestly say I have favorites in many different styles of music. Music does not suck. Music cannot suck. Unlike baseball, where detailed records are kept, music appeal is purely subjective. Its greatness or "terribleness" cannot even be based on record sales or concert revenue, because not all music appeals to all people. Like or dislike of music is purely and solely personal opinion. O-PIN-ION! However, most people get very, very offended if you don't like a band or singer that they like. They take it personally, as if they have some sort of vested interest in a particular singer's career. (They don't.) They act as self-appointed publicists for bands that don't know they exist. It's just music. It's not a contest. There's no right or wrong answer. You can like who you wish. It's just opinion and opinions are meaningless (like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame). So, instead of saying "That band sucks!" I will say, "I don't care for them." Obviously, there is music that I like that someone else does not like and vice-versa. And that doesn't bother me. I won't try to convince you to see things my way. You are entitled to your opinion and I am entitled to mine.

While I like a lot of music, I also dislike a lot of music. There are bands and singers I simply don't care for, but I will listen to their music if it comes on the radio. It's funny, the music I really dislike is from five specific artists. They are popular artists, very popular, as a matter of fact. Individually, they have sold millions of records. They all have rabid fans who have loved and followed their careers for decades. They have all been honored with industry awards and four of the five have been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (as if that means anything). The three artists that are still with us continue to sell out shows. The two that have passed on regularly appear at the top of those "If Only I Could See Them Perform" lists that frequently pop up on social media sites.

But I don't like any of them. While I certainly understand the appeal of four of the five, they just don't do it for me. I can appreciate their impact on music in general, their songwriting ability, their musical innovation, their influence. Four out of five, that is. But, in most cases, I will instantly change the radio station within the first few notes of  hearing a song by these five particular artists.

I sure hope you read and understood the big red "WARNING" at the top of this blog post, because I am about to name names. I'm pretty sure someone will be offended.

5. Jimi Hendrix. In the immortal words of Lina Lamont: "I caaaaan't stan' 'im!" I do understand his appeal and his reverence among guitar players. But, I find Jimi Hendrix's songs to be repetitive and uninspired. Often, they come across as just a five minute session of tuning up. Sure, perhaps I would feel differently if I, myself, was a guitar player. I have seen Jimi interviewed on old TV shows and he seemed like a nice, personable, humble guy... even a little shy. But his songs are maddening to me. Aimless improvisational exercises in "Look at what I can make my guitar do!" The Jimi Hendrix Experience was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1992. His Rock and Roll Hall of Fame biography says "Jimi was arguably the greatest instrumentalist in the history of rock music." I'd argue.

4. Janis Joplin. A staple among the disciples of "classic rock," Janis Joplin was been given the same ethereal status as James Dean or Marilyn Monroe. She died young and she will forever be young and vibrant. But, Janis Joplin's voice just gets under my skin. She screams. No... she shrieks, as though in pain. Perhaps, that is part of her musical expression. Maybe it's the pain of a hard life coming out through her music. But, to me, she sounds like she hit her thumb with a hammer. Play a few seconds of "Piece of My Heart" and I will gladly confess to killing the Lindbergh baby. Again, I understand her appeal to her fans. She's the rock and roll equivalent of Billie Holliday... right? No. She's not. Billie Holiday could sing. Although I was not consulted, Janis was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1995.

3. Bob Dylan. Oh my God! Did I just say I don't like Bob Dylan? Bob Dylan? Are you kidding me? Yes, yes and no, I assure you, I am not kidding. Bob Dylan wrote some great songs, I will admit. Iconic songs. Americana standards like "Blowin' in the Wind" and "Mr. Tambourine Man." But — Jesus! — what did he do with the money? What "money," you ask? The money he was given for singing lessons. I do not own a single Bob Dylan album. I do not enjoy hearing his kvetching off-key vocals coming from a radio speaker. I do not care to hear how great he is from Bob Dylan fans. And if I never hear "All Along the Watchtower" ever again in my life, I would be pretty happy. I'm okay with (most) Dylan songs sung by (most) other people. But, when I hear that nasal-y, tuneless whine and sporadic blasts from his harmonica... well I can't reach for the radio dial fast enough. In March 2020, at the beginning of a worldwide pandemic and lockdown, Dylan released a seventeen-minute ramble called "Murder Most Foul." My favorite Philadelphia radio station put the song into immediate rotation, because... hey! it was Dylan. I think I would have rather contracted COVID. Bob was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1988... no thanks to me.

2. Joni Mitchell. That's right. I can't stand Joni Mitchell. I can't stand her voice. I can't stand her tuneless, meandering delivery of her songs. I can't stand the blind allegiance of her fans singing her praises as though she had the same societal impact as Mother Teresa. Once again, I like Joni Mitchell songs by other singers. (Tim Curry's take on "Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire" is a particular favorite.) She sounds like she is singing a different song than what the music is playing. Seriously, Joni... pick a melody and jump in any time. For years, I have been asking die-hard Joni Mitchell fans to whistle a Joni Mitchell song. Any one. Doesn't matter. I have been met with scowls, jeers and good old fashioned "fuck you"s. But, dammit, if anyone could actually come up with a whistle-able tune. I recently revealed my dislike for Joni Mitchell to my classic rock-loving older brother. He shook his head dismissively and said, "Oh, I  disagree." I replied, "You disagree that I don't like Joni Mitchell?" Joni has been a recluse for a number of years. That's just fine with me. Despite what I think, Joni was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1997.

1. Dave Matthews. This guy is the one. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why anyone — anyone — likes Dave Matthews. Even among jam bands, his music is incredibly bland, safe and average. There is nothing original or imaginative about his music. No thought, no spirit. Just sounds from instruments... and not even good sounds. And his voice! Eeek! It's like ragged fingernails dragging slowly down a dirty blackboard. Remember that Seinfeld episode where Mary Hart's voice would send Kramer into a seizure? That's how I feel when I hear Dave Matthews' gritty yet grating growl of a voice. I cringe! I literally cringe from the sound. When I hear that someone likes Dave Matthews or even paid actual money to see a Dave Matthews concert, I wonder "Was the Grateful Dead too intense and scary for you?" or "Did you graduate from the safe, average blandness of Bon Jovi and you thought this would be cooler?" (Surprise! It is not.) And Dave Matthews singing "All Along the Watchtower?" Oh my God! Kill me now! Just kill me now. By the way, Dave Matthews was not included in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame's 2022 induction nominees despite previously topping the fan ballot. Hmm... maybe I should rethink the validity of that Rock and Roll Hall of Fame thing.

May I once again direct your attention to the warning at the top of this post. Please re-read it and remember... opinions are like assholes. Only assholes have them.

Or something like that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com