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.

the bump

Before Disneyland and Disney World and even Great Adventure (and before they were absorbed under the Six Flags masthead), amusement parks with rides were exclusive to the seashore resorts... as far as I was concerned. Look, I lived a sheltered life, I suppose. I only got to see amusement park rides at temporary school fairs or on those dangerous-looking trucks that would roam my neighborhood on weekends and summer afternoons. But, if I wanted to experience real, live amusement park rides, I would have to wait for a day trip or an extended weekend stay in Atlantic City. My father, not one to travel, would occasionally (and often begrudgingly) take our family to Atlantic City. My mom, my brother and I would love to go. My dad didn't care what his family wanted and when he finally relented, he acted as though he had just donated a kidney.

I loved going to Atlantic City, specifically for the famous Boardwalk. There were games of chance and soft-serve ice cream cones and salt water taffy and arcades. Yeah, there was the beach and the ocean, but those I could have done without. The real draw was the (now long-gone) Million Dollar Pier, jam packed with rides set up much too close to each other, damning all fire safety precautions. Walkways between rides were strewn with a tangled mess of heavy electrical cables. This was long before the days of "lawsuits at the drop of a hat." You tripped and your kneecap became embedded with a zillion splinters? Get up and keep walking... and be careful next time! 

My brother loved the bumper cars. As an adolescent, he honed his future driving abilities on those compact, exposed electricity-powered little death traps. Being too small to ride, as determined by an official-looking sign at the entrance to the ride, I was relegated to watch through a chain-link fence as my brother deftly guided his vehicle through the clumps of other cars, avoiding bumps while delivering same to defenseless fellow riders. With my fingers curled around the fencing, I'd marvel as my brother would weave around the slick floor, slamming randomly into other cars, only to make a clean getaway before a retaliatory blow could be received. It was all in fun, though, and riders would laugh as they exited at the ride's conclusion.

If you've ever ridden the bumper cars, you always remember that one guy, right? The guy who gets stuck in a corner, next to some non-operating vehicles, unable to free himself. While other riders race and bump and laugh, this poor guy just rumbles back and forth for most of the ride's allotted time, until he is finally spotted by the ride operator who frees him and, while standing on the rear bumper, guides him back to the entrance, arriving just as the power shuts off and the ride is over. Three tickets! Wasted!

My brother and a couple of his friends devised a plan when they rode the bumper cars. A plan to enhance their own fun. Once situated in their cars, my brother and his friends would select a rider and target him to ruin his ride. They'd chase after him and taking turns pinning him in a corner, trapping him for the entire ride, denying him the fun of racing around the floor and bumping into other riders. One evening, after picking their cars, my brother and three of his friends pointed to one guy and pegged him as their victim. They didn't know him. They had no connection to him. They just looked around and pointed. The power surged through the vehicles and the ride began. The plan was enacted. The ride floor was dimly lit, bathed in blacklight, distorting any details of other rider's faces. But they zeroed in on their target and they pinned this guy in a corner. My brother first, then each of his friends — one at a time. Their "victim" said nothing, but his anger was apparent from his body language. He was hunched over the steering wheel and bobbed his shoulders each time his vehicle was rammed with a confining bump. My brother and his friends were giddy and gleeful as their underhanded plan unfolded. In the darkness, they could hear a few frustrated exhales, but most were drowned out by the loud Top 40 hits that were piped in through the tinny speakers mounted at the floor's corners. The ride ended. The power stopped, bright lights came up and my brother and his friends got out of their vehicles and made their way to the exit. Their chests were puffed out and they laughed in their achievement.

Until, they saw the guy they pinned.

He rose from his tiny car.... and he kept on rising. With the bright lights on, they saw this guy stood well over six feet tall. He was wearing a tank top and he had muscles. Big muscles. His muscles had muscles. And he was not happy. Not. At. All. He pointed an angry finger at my brother and his friends and hollered "YOU!" and the look on his face revealed his displeasure with three little punks ruining his ride and making him waste three tickets.

This happened easily fifty years ago. I think they are still running.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

a whole new world

I met the future Mrs. Pincus in February 1982 and we were engaged to be married before that year was finished. I was attending art school and our plan was to get married after I graduated. There were a couple of years until that happened, so we had plenty of time to make arrangements for the big event. Future Mrs. P made all sorts of plans on her own, as well as with my soon-to-be in-laws.

One of the more interesting parts of planning a Jewish wedding is the purchase of custom head coverings (yarmulkes or kippot as they are alternately called) for the male guests to don at the ceremony. As a show of reverence to the deity above, men are expected to cover their heads in synagogue. Since our wedding ceremony would take place in a synagogue, the tradition is to supply head coverings. The yarmulkes are customarily kept as a souvenir and thus, inscribed on the inside with name of the bride and groom and date of the blessed event. I remember when my parents ordered blue satin yarmulkes for my brother's bar mitzvah. They just checked a box on an order form along with "paper napkins" and "cigarette holders" and "match books." (Yes, there were complimentary cigarettes at each table at my brother's bar mitzvah. "Today I am a Man," indeed!) But when it came time to order yarmulkes for our wedding, there would be no order forms or checking boxes. My in-laws "knew a guy."

One day a few months prior to our big day, my fiancee and I accompanied my future in-laws on a trip up the Garden State Parkway to New York City. My soon-to-be father-in-law navigated his car through the busy streets of the Big Apple's storied Lower East Side, where in 1983, the scenery could have passed for nineteenth century Anatevka. Storefronts were plastered with advertisements in Hebrew. The narrow sidewalks bustled with Orthodox Jewish men clad in heavy black coats and big black hats, their faces covered with long unkempt beards and their ears obscured by curly locks of payos that bounced as they walked. Women with sullen, expressionless faces, their hair covered by opaque cloth, wrangled scads of children — the boys in black with white shirts, the girls in white blouses and long dark skirts. My father-in-law guided his car into a parking space and killed the engine. We all got out and I dutifully followed my father-in-law down the street, leaving Mrs. P and her mother to window-shop — or shop shop — while we menfolk fulfilled a mission.

My father-in-law examined the addresses above the narrow doors as we walked along. We stopped at a nondescript wooden entrance. My father-in-law pressed a button on a panel with names in Hebrew and other buttons. An intercom speaker clicked on and a crackly voice said a few words in Yiddish. My father-in-law replied in Yiddish and we were buzzed in. We climbed a set of steps to another door that creaked when we swung it inward. The door yielded to an otherworldly view of a dusty room, cluttered with huge bolts of folded fabric and dozens of men — some on ladders, some leaning over work tables, some at desks — shouting at each other in Yiddish, their words overlapping other nearby conversation, that was also being shouted.

We approached a makeshift service counter (actually a thick plank of wood straddling a couple of piles of fabric). A man eyed us up and down and asked our business. My father-in-law asked to speak to "Yankel" or "Yussie" or some such similar name. In less than a minute, a small, wizened man appeared before us. He bore the facial features of a turtle and sported the same sort of facial hair that we saw on the men outside. He said a few words in Yiddish to my father-in-law and then waited for my father-in-law to respond with an order. And order he did — although I couldn't tell you what exactly he asked for because, as he pointed and gestured, he didn't say a single word in English. The old man interrupted a few times to ask a question, but for the most part he stood and nodded. When my father-in-law finished, the old man rolled his eyes in thought. Then he said a few final words in Yiddish and shooed us off with a wave of his lanky, wrinkled hand. Realizing our time here was up, we obliged and left the same way we came in. As we closed the door behind us, we could hear the men continuing their shouting.

"What just happened?," I silently asked myself. Then I asked my father-in-law the same question — aloud this time. He laughed and told me he ordered gray suede yarmulkes for our wedding, with our names embossed in gold text on the inside. Confused, I scratched my head and pointed out that the old man  didn't write a single thing down — not a quantity or a fabric identification number or even our names. For goodness sake, he didn't even give us a claim check to present if and (most importantly) when the order is ready to be picked up. My father-in-law reassured me that it was fine and there was nothing to worry about. Still not convinced, I noted that the man was pretty old. "What if he dies between now and our wedding?," I proposed, "He didn't write anything down. How will anyone know the order or anything?" My father-in-law laughed and changed the subject to where we would go for lunch.

Well, guess what? The guy died. Yep. Died.

My in-laws returned to New York a month or so later to pick up the yarmulke order. And it was ready and it was perfect.

Thirty-five years later, that experience still fascinates me. In a time before computers, this old man (who looked as though he was born old) ran a business where he didn't even use a pencil. Think about that the next time your internet connection cuts out for a few minutes while you're watching a cat video on YouTube.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com