i see my mary ann walking away

The other night, just after we finished dinner, I asked Mrs. Pincus what she would like for dessert. I'm sure we had some cookies in our pantry or a partial container of ice cream in the freezer. Mrs. P looked at me and — as she has replied to that question a thousand times before — said, "Hot Fudge Mary Ann." That reply may have zero meaning for you, but I knew exactly what she wanted.

Way back in the pre-casino Atlantic City of my youth, there was a little ice cream shop tucked into the first floor storefront of a block of apartments. This little establishment, located just a few blocks before the Ventnor City municipal boundary, was a throwback to a long gone era. Inside were dark wood, high back booths along one wall and a long, sliver-flecked Formica counter — complete with spinny stools upholstered in seafoam green vinyl — along the opposite wall. Between the two seating accommodations was a narrow tiled walkway, barely wide enough to allow tray-balancing waitresses and about-to-be seated patrons to pass each other without someone getting a face full of whipped cream. The laminated menu boasted old-timey treats like ice cream sodas, banana splits and pie ala mode — all hand scooped, hand-assembled and hand-delivered.

 If you grew up in the Philadelphia area and spent a portion of your summers "down the shore" in "America's Playground, you know the place I'm talking about is Lambert's.

I spent many a summer evening stuffing my face with refreshing indulgences from the menu at Lambert's. Sometimes with my parents. Sometimes with my friends and later with my girlfriend, then my wife (the same person!) and eventually our son. Lambert's was always packed. Granted, the place was tiny, but each summer evening, everyone — and I mean everyone — got a craving for ice cream at the exact same time. I believe that Lambert's was open earlier in the day and had an abbreviated menu featuring a few lunchtime staples like tuna salad sandwiches and BLTs, but it was the after dinner and late night crowds that flocked to Lambert's. The desire for a creamy, cold, chocolaty concoction hit everyone along the Atlantic City shoreline at the same time. Lambert's was there to make everyone happy... and boy! did they. Sure, there might be a short wait for a table, but the friendly staff of smiling young ladies and fellows were gently persuasive and didn't allow lingerers to monopolize a table for too long.

Not that one.

But, what about that Hot Fudge Mary Ann??? I'm getting to that! Listed among the ice cream parlor standards like fruit-covered sundaes, triple-thick hand-spun milkshakes and gooey marshmallow sauce dripping over massive scoops of any one of two dozen flavors of ice cream was the celebrated Hot Fudge Mary Ann. Despite its relatively simple components, I never saw it on the menu of another ice cream parlor — anywhere! Ever! And, believe me, I've been to a lot of ice cream parlors! This unique and delightful creation was comprised of a thick slice of pound cake that's toasted. Toasted! Then it's covered with three scoops of your choice of ice cream. Three the same, three different, two the same and one different — whatever! It's your choice. Then the whole shebang is covered — and I do mean covered! — with a generous serving of dense, viscous, delicious hot fudge. If you like, they'll even dust the top with a sprinkling of malt power! When this delectable assembly was deposited in front of you by the waitress as she placed your boothmate's selections in front of each of them, invariably someone (or everyone) would say, "Gee! That looks great! I should have gotten that!" In the case of Mrs. P and I, that never happened because we would both order a Hot Fudge Mary Ann!

Lambert's opened in 1930 and although they made it into the casino era, they didn't survive much past it. The property values in Atlantic City had skyrocketed and a big pile of cash sadly outweighed the appeal of a quaint relic from yesteryear.

What I can't understand is why no one has attempted to replicate the Lambert's Hot Fudge Mary Ann. How come no local restaurant — either in Philadelphia or in South Jersey — has added this fairly easy-to-make dessert to their menus? Not that I have any sort of experience or know-how in the restaurant/ice cream business — aside from the brief time I spent behind the counter of Philadelphia's legendary Hillary's Ice Cream, doling out perfectly conical 4 ounce scoops to drunken patrons on a summer Saturday night at 3 AM. Nevertheless, I'm pretty certain that pound cake is easily obtainable, as is ice cream and hot fudge. You can skip the malt powder, although it would be sorely missed as it completes the whole presentation. As a long time Hot Fudge Mary Ann aficionado and experienced eater of ice creams, I'd say the addition of this treat would cause waves of nostalgia among older (re: my age) patrons and internet buzz among their younger counterparts. Wise up local restaurants, there are plenty of people who still dream of the delights that Lambert's offered. I'm sure you can make a killing and probably overcharge for a recreating a memory.

Or maybe one of these days, on a trip to the supermarket, I'm gonna buy pound cake and ice cream and hot fudge and even malt powder. And when Mrs. Pincus says she wants a Hot Fudge Mary Ann... I'm gonna make one!

It hasn't happened yet.... but it might.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i got your number

I have always been terrible at math. I struggled with math classes from elementary school through high school. I find numbers intimidating. After high school, I attended an art school that did not offer any academic classes. That’s the one I chose specifically because I would never have to deal with a math teacher again. However, a small aspect of my job requires a rudimentary understanding of the most basic of math skills. In those instances, I use a calculator or my fingers or an entry-level equation scribbled on a piece of scrap paper. I hate math and I try to avoid it as much as I can. Numbers and I just don't  seem to get along. 

I like to think, with some exceptions (specifically the notorious “dropped cake” incident that, to this day, remains a contentious subject in the Pincus family saga), that I have a pretty good memory. I remember things from my childhood like vacations (because there were so few of them) and toys that I received as birthday presents. I have vivid memories of those birthday parties (at which I received the aforementioned presents). Of course, I remember lots of details from the numerous television shows I watched as a kid. That knowledge has netted me quite a collection of plastic trophies aboard many a cruise ship – a stellar achievement, if I do say so. 

In my current job, I am required to put to use my keen memory and my poor relationship with numbers on a daily basis. This requisite is not technically related to my job, per se, but it does allow me to enter the building in order to do my job. 

 

Every morning, for the past five years, I pull up to my workplace – a commercial printer - at around 6:30. The parking lot spaces are filled with cars belonging to the folks who work the night shift and there they will sit until the shift ends at 7. The entrance to the building leads through a small portion of the printing plant. It’s a space approximately the size of an airplane hangar which houses printing presses so large that the operator has to actually climb inside it to refill ink or clean press rollers. The paper itself, which comes in enormous rolls, is loaded onto the machine with a forklift. But before I am able to witness the final thirty minutes of the graveyard shift, I must punch a code into a small touchpad mounted on the outside wall next to the locked entrance door. It’s a four-digit number and It remains etched in my long-term memory since I first used it in 2021. I press the correct buttons – each one emitting a different electronic tone with each touch – until I hear a low “BEEP” letting me know the door has been unlocked. It is only then that I can enter. 

Once inside, I follow a designated safety path – delineated by bright yellow painted lines – that skirts the perimeter of the plant. At any given time, a speeding forklift, toting fresh rolls of printing paper or wooden pallets stacked high with printed material, could be crisscrossing the plant floor. These unwieldy drivers rarely yield to their pedestrian co-workers, so sticking to the painted walkway is wise. The path leads to an electronic timeclock. I never would have thought that, at nearly 65 years old, I still be punching a timeclock much in the same way I did at my first part-time job as a teenager. But, life is funny and career paths are funnier, so here I am. The timeclock also requires a four-digit code to start the process of logging my daily work hours. This is a different code than the one that allows me entrance to the building. This code is also stored in the “very important section” of my long-term memory alongside the entrance code. The VIP section is in a different part of my brain from the repository that catalogues such things as “Who played Grandmama on The Addams Family and “What song did Queen open with on the first night of the News of the World tour stop at the Philadelphia Spectrum.” No sir, those four-digit numbers need to be front and center, as they are extremely important and employed regularly. 

 

After I punch in at the timeclock, I turn on my heels and approach the locked access door to my office area. This door is also protected by an electronic lock that is deactivated by a similar keypad as the one outside the building entrance. It also uses the same building entrance four-digit code. Sometimes, if the many printing presses are running, it is difficult to hear the individual button tones as they are pressed. I have to rely on the green light at the top of the keypad to let me know that I touched the right buttons in the right order. If that is done correctly, I still have one more hurdle before I can begin work for the day. 

Just inside the office door is an alarm keypad. Why there is an alarm guarding the design department is beyond me. Aside from a bunch of outdated computers, a pile of cables and power strips and someone’s day-old lunch lying forgotten in the community refrigerator, there ain’t too much to steal. Nevertheless, the alarm is set long after I leave work for the day, so I’m not sure whose responsibility it is, but it's always set. Well, nearly always. Over the past five years, I have been surprised once or twice by an unarmed alarm. On most mornings, however, I have to punch in yet a third unique four-digit code to prevent the obnoxious wail of a siren from sounding off and summoning local law enforcement. That is a very unwelcome situation, especially before the clock strikes 7 AM. So, I enter the correct code until the comforting phrase “DISARMED CHIME” glows assuredly across the green LED display. Much like Indiana Jones navigating his way through a series of obstacles that are keeping him from his ultimate reward, I am ready to begin another productive day at work. That is after I fish around in the darkened hallway for the light switch. 

I have completed the above procedure approximately 1200 times over the past five years. On several occasions, I will sheepishly admit, I have totally blanked on one or all of the three unique four-digit codes. I have found myself staring at the outside keypad, looking at the ten buttons and the zillions of numerical combinations they present. Sometimes, it takes me several minutes to bring the correct information to the “immediate action” part of my brain. Sometimes it happens at every step of my entrance process – the front door, the timeclock, the office door and the alarm. Sometimes, I stare at each piece of equipment as though I have never seen it before, as though I have no inkling of its purpose or how to activate it. Sometimes, I instinctively lift my index finger, ready to punch in a number that I just plain cannot remember… and I stand there, frozen, finger extended, brow furrowed, trying to force the correct four-digit sequence to my frontal lobe where it would be useful. Sometimes, I can remember the code, but I enter it into the wrong device. Sometimes, I need to refer to a note I have stored in my cellphone – a sort of “cheat sheet” with all of the codes and the corresponding electronic instrument.

Other days, I knock out those numbers like I was tying my shoes.

When you reach a certain age, daily routines seem to make life boring. But for me, every day is an adventure.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

will the circle be unbroken

Mrs Pincus and I spent the first couple of years of our marriage living in a small townhouse apartment in Northeast Philadelphia. We had accumulated a small savings in the bank with regular deposits of our meager paychecks. One day, Mrs. P, who maintained and monitored our finances (because we certainly didn't want me taking on that responsibility, seeing as I have difficulty with any equation whose answer is more than double digits), brought up the possibly of purchasing a house. I was puzzled by the idea at first. After all, I was just 24 years old and buying a house was something that adults did. Even though we were married, I still viewed us as two crazy kids. For goodness sake, we still frequented Chuck E. Cheese, despite not having any children of our own. We attended performances of Disney on Ice. We even went to the circus in full clown make-up. Are these the kind of people who buy a house? Well... we would soon find out.

We did things in the proper order. We looked at a number of houses in Elkins Park, the suburban community where Mrs Pincus grew up. Elkins Park is a lovely little area known for its classic architecture, close proximity to public transportation and ridiculously high property taxes. After seeing a few potential homes, we chose one and made an offer... which was promptly accepted. Our next step was to gather all of the required forms and receipts and paycheck stubs and tax returns to prove to a financial institution that these two youngsters could be responsible for a mortgage. We submitted everything that was asked and we waited. Eventually, we were approved for a mortgage and we had to go to a big, sterile looking office to sign the final paperwork.

A young woman — a secretary — led Mrs. P and I to a room and we were offered seats at a large table. The secretary returned with a comically huge stack of paper, which she plopped down on the table's surface. She then informed us that the mortgage officer would be joining us momentarily. True to her word, the doorway was soon breached by an expressionless man in a very conservative business suit. (If I recall correctly, he resembled actor Joseph Maher, who portrayed a drunk airplane passenger in a Season Three episode of Seinfeld.) The man introduced himself as "Mr. Cassidy" and he extended his hand for the the obligatory shake. As Mrs. P shook Mr. Cassidy's hand, she smiled and proudly stated that we have a cat named Cassidy. (Our "beloved" pet was just one in a long line of cats that we would own whose names were inspired by the titles of Grateful Dead songs. Cassidy was a beautiful tabby cat with very distinct striped patterns on her sides. She had the disposition of someone with a perpetual toothache and she liked to sit on high shelves and push knick-knacks off to watch them shatter on the floor.) Our assigned mortgage officer — in his starched white collar and equally starched demeanor —was less than thrilled to hear about his feline namesake. With the exception of an ever-so-slight grimace, Mr. Cassidy did not acknowledge my wife's comment. Instead, he removed the top sheet of paper from the stack and pushed it in our direction, pointing our where we were to sign. This procedure was repeated over and over for the next 90 minutes until the stack of paper was reassembled in reverse order, now boasting the Pincus signatures on the majority of its pages. Mr. Cassidy thanked us, begrudgingly congratulated us and left the room. We were now officially members of that exclusive club and heretofore would be known as "homeowners."

Flash forward to today — forty years after two crazy kids signed on to become homeowners. Today, we were just approved for a home equity line of credit. This procedure differed greatly from the very tactile experience of gathering hard-copy documents to present to an actual face-to-face person at a desk in a brick-and-mortar bank. This time around in the age of the internet, electronic documents were uploaded to a secure website with instructions from faceless people working from various locations across several states. We were assigned a specific online portal with passwords and two-step verifications and several other security measures that weren't even dreamed of when we applied for our mortgage. During this application process, Mrs. Pincus received an actual phone call from an actual human being. In this rare case, she needed to clarify some minute piece of information that was previously submitted. The woman on the phone identified herself as "Cassidy" before proceeding to explain the reason for her call. Mrs. P laughed and interrupted. The woman asked what was funny.

Mrs P told her about our mortgage application. She told about the staunch gentleman who presided over the mass signature process on the day of closure. She told the woman on the phone — Cassidy — that the man's name was "Mr. Cassidy." Mrs. P explained that — at the time we had a cat named "Cassidy" and the little anecdote about name similarity did not amuse Mr. Cassidy in the least. The "Cassidy" currently on the phone, however, giggled. She said she thought the story was sweet. She even momentarily dispensed with any sort of financial conversation to find out more about the origins of the "Cassidy" name. Mrs. P was only too happy to expound on the Grateful Dead connection. She mentioned that the song "Cassidy" is a beautiful acoustic ballad that was rarely performed by the band (339 times as opposed to "Playing in the Band" which was performed nearly 700 times. This is for your benefit. These facts did not make it into the Mrs. Pincus/Cassidy phone exchange.) Cassidy thanked Mrs. Pincus for the information. She also said that she would seek out the song on YouTube during her lunch break. Quickly, the conversation switched back to the request of clarification of some financial document. Before the call ended, Mrs. P noted to Cassidy that our experience as homeowners had come full circle — beginning and concluding with a "Cassidy."

Our "Cassidy" — gone over thirty years — would be happy. She'd knock something expensive off a shelf in celebration. Then, she'd bite me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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 first time ever I saw your face

I have always loved stand-up comedy. I remember seeing forgotten funny men like London Lee (not particularly funny), Jack Carter (not particularly funny) and others on the Ed Sullivan Show. I was sometimes permitted to stay up late to watch George Carlin or Albert Brooks on the Tonight Show. One summer, my family was vacationing in Atlantic City. ("Vacationing" for the Pincuses was a weekend - about all my father could take.) One night, my usually disagreeable father followed my mother's lead and we all went to see Totie Fields at Steel Pier. My mom loved Totie Fields and my father sort-of feared my mother.

In the early 1980s, a couple of entrepreneurial guys opened up a small comedy club on the second floor of a pretty popular restaurant in Center City Philadelphia. They were open practically every evening with featured "big name" headliners reserved for weekend performances. The roster of comics boasted a number of budding Philadelphia-based folks mixed with performers who had graced the stages of similar comedy clubs in New York and Los Angeles. For around eight bucks, a weekend show offered an emcee, three warm-up comics and a headliner. All ages were welcome, but the drinking age of 21 was strictly enforced. I didn't turn 21 until the summer of 1982, so it was Cokes for me and my friends until then.

I don't remember how many times I attended performances at the Comedy Works, but it was a lot. I saw dozens and dozens of comedians. Some were young, anxious souls hoping for a career making people laugh. Others were weekend comics, who went to regular jobs during the week. Still others were "old pros" at the trade, grinding out the same routine on a different stage in a different town, wishing one night a talent scout would approach them after the show and invite them to perform on the stage next to Johnny Carson's desk.

I saw a lot of comedians who went on to bigger and better. Native Philadelphian Tom Wilson was a regular at the Comedy Works and I saw him often. He'd bring his trusty tuba on stage and punctuate portions of his routine with blasts from the big brass horn. After a few years as a familiar face at the Comedy Works, Tom announced that he was leaving the Philadelphia area for a Hollywood destination. I was in the audience for his final Comedy Works performance. Several years later, the opening credits of Robert Zemeckis's Back to the Future listed one "Thomas F. Wilson" as the villainous knucklehead "Biff Tannen." Sure enough, his first screen appearance revealed it was "our Tom."

My friends and I secured front-row seats for headliner Jackie "The Joke Man" Martling, a well-known comedy writer and then-sidekick for a pre-"World Domination" Howard Stern. Jackie's delivery was rapid-fire and his off-the-cuff observations were targeted at the audience before him. My friends and I decided to provide Jackie with a little inspiration. As soon as Jackie was announced and took the stage, we all donned large cowboy hats in full view of "The Joke Man." He got an eyefull of us and let loose with some of the most vile, disgusting.... and hilarious material I'd ever heard. We asked for it and he delivered.

Over the years, I was treated to early career sets from Bob Saget, Craig Shoemaker, Todd Glass and a very unmemorable set from late comedian Richard Jeni. But that wasn't Richard's fault.

The first weekend in April 1981, Richard Jeni was the scheduled headliner at the Comedy Works. In the tiny ad that appeared in the entertainment section of the Evening Bulletin, only the headliner's name was listed, along with the phrase "and support" or "and others," but never their names. In 1981, I recognized the name Richard Jeni, so I contacted my regular "comedy club" friends and we headed down for the show.

The line for admittance wasn't anything out of the ordinary. We paid the small admission fee and were escorted to a table about four or five rows back from the stage — about midway in the 300-seat venue. At showtime, the regular emcee (club co-owner Steve Young) made a few jokes before introducing the first comic. I don't remember who it was — probably someone local. Soon the second performer was welcomed... and I don't remember who that was either. Steve came to the mic and announced the next comedian as a "young man, just coming up in show business and making his Comedy Works debut... oh and you might have seen him on Saturday Night Live." 

Honestly, in 1981, nobody I knew was watched Saturday Night Live. The original cast of "Not Ready for Prime Time Players" were replaced by a cast of unknowns and there was no longer a reason to stay home to watch. So, the young comedian that was just introduced bounded up to the microphone and proceeded to immediately knock the audience. on its collective ass. He was hysterical. Hysterical, like no one I had ever seen. Hysterical, as in laughing so hard that you could not catch your breath. The room was so filled with loud, raucous laughter that half of the guy's material was missed because it was drowned out with laughter from the previous punchlines. People were literally crying from laughing so hard. I have seen a lot of comedians. I had never seen a reaction like this.

Eventually, the young man's set ended and the emcee introduced Richard Jeni, the evening's headliner. At least I assume that's what happened next. In reality, I don't remember hearing another introduction and I do not remember seeing Richard Jeni come on stage and I certainly don't remember a single topic that Richard Jeni talked about. I don't even remember a single word Richard Jeni said. I'm not so sure he was even there.

What I do remember is that everyone — everyone in the entire room — was talking about how unbelievably funny the previous comedian was. Everyone was ignoring poor Richard Jeni, as the discussion of the previous act grew louder throughout the venue. At the evening's conclusion, the emcee thanked everyone for coming and, as the crowd made its way towards the exit, lively chatter about comedian number three could still be heard.

The young man who was announced prior to Richard Jeni and stole the spotlight right out from under him was Eddie Murphy.

It was his only Comedy Works appearance.

He went on to bigger and better.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

banana split for my baby

I wrote this story sixteen years ago and it first appeared on my illustration blog. Soon after its publication, I was contacted via email by a local community newspaper in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. The correspondence, for the editor of the newspaper, asked if my story could be reprinted in his publication, accompanied by my illustration. Of course, he explained, some of the more "colorful" language would have to be altered, so it would not offend some of the older readers. (He didn't care for my use of "bad-ass" and "damn.") I happily agreed to his terms, which was zero payment, but a byline for my pseudonym. This story is a misty memory of childhood. Even if you didn't grow up in the Philadelphia area, I'm sure there was a "Greenwood Dairies" in your hometown. And I'll bet you had fond memories of your Uncle Sam and Aunt Dorothy.

When you’re a kid, dessert is always the best part of a meal. Who doesn’t love to find a package of Yodels in their lunch at school or have dinner followed by a chilled bowl of Jell-o or a slice of the cake you hungrily watched Mom bake and frost that afternoon? When I was younger, there was no better dessert than ice cream at Greenwood Dairies. Maybe what made it so great was the ritual involved in a visit to the Bucks County, Pennsylvania landmark. 

My mother had three brothers. They were three bad-ass youths who lived briefly in rural Oklahoma before settling in Philadelphia with their immigrant parents. (Actually, the family was asked to leave after the three brothers burned down a barn.) There was gravelly-voiced Abe, who resembled Manny from The Pep Boys, but with a pipe instead of a cigar. There was boisterous and barrel-chested Nat – burly, animated and childlike. He was a magnet at family gatherings, with nieces and nephews lining up to be the next one tossed in the air and caught in Uncle Nat’s huge protective hands. My mother’s oldest brother was Sam. Sam was a wonderfully balanced combination of gruff and sweetness, not unlike Ed Asner’s portrayal of "Lou Grant" on The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Even though Sam was eighteen years older than my mom, he was warm and friendly and since he and my Aunt Dorothy had no children of their own, he felt a special bond with those of this little sister. My mother loved and felt closest to her brother Sam and he was the only one of my mom’s siblings that my father could stomach.

Several times during the summer, Uncle Sam and his wife, Aunt Dorothy – a lovely and genial amalgam of Katherine Hepburn and Carol Channing – would drive from their tiny and cluttered apartment on the second floor of Sam’s West Philly rare book store to our cookie-cutter neighborhood in Northeast Philadelphia. My brother and I loved visits from Sam and Dorothy. They’d pull up into our driveway in a shiny new car, usually twice the size of my father’s current vehicle. My brother and I would run out to the front lawn and watch as Sam ambled around to the open the car door for his wife in the most gentlemanly fashion. Sam and Dorothy would sit on the sofa in our living room and have the “catching-up-with-family” conversation with my mom while my dad stood at the front door and smoked one cigarette after another. My brother and I would play at their feet on the turquoise carpet, occasionally interjecting into the conversation. But we were actually just biding our time until we heard the announcement we anticipated. The announcement that capped every visit from Sam and Dorothy. “Do the boys want to go to Greenwood Dairies for ice cream?,” Aunt Dorothy would covertly whisper to my mother. Oh, damn straight we do! What took you so long to ask? was the look that swept across my face. By the expression on my brother’s face, the sentiment was the same.

Greenwood Dairies was a twenty minute drive up Route One in Langhorne, Pennsylvania. Aside from stuffing ourselves with creamy summertime treats, my family’s only other reason to make the trek to Langhorne was to trade in one of our two current automobiles for a new used one at Reedman’s, a sprawling car dealership where everyone in Northeast Philadelphia bought their new used cars. My brother and I (mostly me) fidgeted in the back seat of Sam and Dorothy’s car until we recognized the crunch of gravel under the tires alerting us that we had pulled into Greenwood Dairies’ parking lot. Greenwood Dairies was a large, odd-shaped structure made odder by years of additions to the original building. The spacious eating area was crammed with green and cream-colored vinyl booths around the perimeter and chrome-trimmed tables with matching chairs upholstered with the same green and cream vinyl. A massive gold-flecked Formica counter snaked through the dining room equipped with stools whose metallic green cushions spun when given a good flick of the wrist. We bounded through the doors and waited with Aunt Dorothy for a table in the bustling seating area. As my brother and I occupied ourselves by spinning the aforementioned stools, Uncle Sam made a beeline for the retail store on the far side of the restaurant to buy a bag of Rold Gold pretzels. Sam couldn’t eat ice cream if it wasn’t accompanied by pretzels. They were like another utensil to compliment his spoon.

Once seated, Aunt Dorothy would shiver and express her dislike for how low they kept the thermostat. Despite wearing a sweater draped over her spindly shoulders, a single opalescent button clasped at her throat, she still hunched over trying to generate warmth. Her gray hair was pulled impossibly tight to the back of her head where it all met in a thick bun tamed by two wooden sticks and a network of bobby pins. As she bent forward to read the plastic-covered menu, her bun bobbed atop her head silently surveying the room. Reading the menu was only a formality, as we always ordered the same thing. Sam would order several scoops of various flavors of ice cream topped with whipped cream and jimmies*. Dorothy would order a fruit-flavored ice cream, usually peach or cherry vanilla. My brother would get two scoops of vanilla or, if he was feeling adventurous, vanilla fudge. I’d get the “Clowny Sundae,” an inverted ice cream cone on a plate with a cake-frosting face decorating the scoop, the pointed cone mimicking a clown hat. Dorothy would also request that the waiter bring two small gravy boats – one filled with marshmallow sauce and the other with hot fudge – each to be added to our desserts at our liking. Once our orders were placed and the waiter scurried off to the preparation area, Sam would pretend call the waiter back to change his order. “Instead,” he’d announce, “I think I’ll get a Pig’s Dinner!” The Greenwood Dairies “Pig’s Dinner,” if the memories of a seven-year-old serve me correctly, was a mountain of four thousand scoops of every ice cream flavor the dairy offered, blanketed in fudge and strawberries, slathered in marshmallow and butterscotch sauces, dusted in nuts, fortified with fifty-seven sliced bananas and crowned with enormous, fluffy clouds of whipped cream and a single cherry. (Perhaps I have gotten some of the quantities wrong, but you get my point.) Every time we went to Greenwood Dairies, invariably one brave diner would order the Pig’s Dinner. The staff would ring bells and blow whistles and make a general fuss. When the frozen concoction made its arrival to the patron’s table, it did so perched majestically upon a wood stretcher transported by two paper-hatted and aproned teens. They presented the customer with a single spoon and, amid thunderous applause, he would dig in! My brother and I marveled at Uncle Sam. Would this be the actual time he would actually order it? Of course, my Uncle Sam never ordered the Pig’s Dinner, but he feigned the threat on every subsequent visit. 

When my brother and I got older and preferred the company of our friends to that of our extended family and the taste of cheese fries and beer overtook the appeal of a Clowny Sundae, the visits to Greenwood Dairies stopped. Soon, we settled for the offering of close-by ice cream chains like Friendly’s, rather travelling the extra distance to Langhorne. Sam and Dorothy continued their regular visits into my teens until my early twenties when I got married and moved out of my parent’s house. By that time Greenwood Dairies had permanently closed its doors. The quirky maze of buildings was razed and Reedman’s expanded their dealership into the newly available grounds. Although many claims have been made by friend’s brothers and neighbor’s cousins, I still don’t know anyone who ever conquered the Pig’s Dinner. 

(* In the Philadelphia area, we call “jimmies” what most everyone else calls “sprinkles,” except in England where they are called “hundreds and thousands” and in the Netherlands where they are called “hagelslag” although they are primarily used as a sandwich topping.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sure know something

In early 1975, I purchased Dressed to Kill by KISS on 8-track. I had a portable Panasonic 8-track player called a Dynamite 8, so named for its cool resemblance to the explosive detonators used by villains in countless Westerns, as well as the perennially-exasperated Wile E. Coyote in his quest for the Road Runner. I played that 8-track over and over and over again. Due to the sequencing constraints of the 8-track format, the songs "Rock Bottom" and "She" were each split across two tracks, meaning the song stopped and a loud, audible "click" was heard to announce the second part of the song. For some time, I didn't realize that the dreamy introduction to "Rock Bottom" and the heavy drum-driven lyrical part were actually the same song. Nevertheless, I listened to Dressed to Kill relentlessly, until I purchased KISS Alive, the double disc live album, released just a mere six months later. This allegedly live set was a chronicle of the KISS concert experience, complete with Paul Stanley awkwardly addressing the crowd in his nasally Brooklyn accent and said crowd expressing their wild approval. (Of course, it was later revealed that the majority of this "live album" was heavily enhanced in the studio with recorded crowd noise added to create the illusion of a live recording.) Regardless, I listened to KISS Alive three times as much as I listened to Dressed to Kill... until I didn't.

Actually, I stopped listening to KISS altogether.

A few weeks ago, I obtained the fiftieth anniversary box set of Dressed to Kill. This sprawling, bombastic, overblown set expands the original 10-track collection to a whopping 107 tracks, including studio outtakes, remixes, unreleased takes, demos and two — count 'em — two full concerts. The original album clocked in at just a few seconds over the thirty minute mark. In commemoration of its half-century anniversary, no less that five discs are required for the full experience.

I listened to the first disc, which is a remastered version of the original album. It was the first time I listened to this album since I gave up on KISS when I was 14. I was surprised by how many of the songs I remembered. I was surprised by how many of the songs I didn't remember. But, I was most surprised by how terrible it was. I instantly figured out why I loved KISS when I was a teenager. They were loud. They were obnoxious. They sang about girls and partying and girls. But, the song lyrics were juvenile. The rhymes were amateurish "June-moon" stuff. The music was repetitive and unimaginative. It was just dumb. Yep. Dumb. That's the best way I can explain it. Dumb. There was no way I was gonna make it through four more discs of this.

I started to listen to the second disc and soon found myself skipping track after track. Jeez! How many times can you listen to the exact same intro of "Rock and Roll All Nite" and hear Paul warble out the un-"studio"-ized lyrics until he stumbles mid-take and is interrupted by a studio technician.. It was tedious. And, again, it was terrible. The two concerts (recorded on the same tour just a few months apart) included a number of the same songs and were just as bad. I stopped listening and listened to something else.

Earlier this week, I was listening to the radio. Philadelphia public broadcaster WXPN features a nightly show called "Highs in the 70s." This show is an hour-long showcase of music exclusively from "music's wildest decade," as promised by host Dan Reed. On this particular night, Dan was playing KISS's album Destroyer in its entirety to commemorate its release fifty years ago to the day. From the opening strains of "Detroit Rock City" through the faux menace of "God of Thunder" to the goofy repetitious party anthem "Shout It Out Loud" to the voice cracking sentimentality of power ballad "Beth," Destroyer was awful. Just plain awful. I briefly stopped helping Mrs. P prepare dinner and stared incredulously at the radio. I could not believe how extraordinarily bad this album was. Had I just forgotten? Did I just remember it differently? Had my musical tastes improved and matured over the past fifty years? I suppose it was a combination of the three.

KISS is music specifically for angst-ridden teenage boys, looking for a party, sneaking a fifth from dad's liquor cabinet and trying to get into some cheerleader's pants. It's dim-witted, insipid and sophomoric. KISS isn't a band. KISS is four accountants in clown make-up. They are a brand on the same shelf as Monster energy drink, Jack Links and Trojans. They should check IDs at KISS concerts or if you'd like to purchase a KISS album. If you are over 14, move along.

But, as bad as it is... it sure made those four guys a shitload of money.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the last time

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy every sandwich.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's all coming back to me now

In the early summer of 2024, retro nostalgia network MeTV launched an offshoot channel called MeTV Toons. After featuring The Flintstones and The Jetsons in its regular evening line-up of shows from over sixty years ago, as well as an early morning block of familiar animated shorts from the vast Warner Brothers catalogue , the cable network decided to offer a separate channel that ran cartoons 24 hours a day. When MeTV Toons debuted, no cable system offered the channel. It was only available as an HD channel, requiring a special antenna. Or, you could see it via an internet-connected TV.

I am a frequent viewer of MeTV. One Saturday afternoon this past December, I was watching Greg and Marcia Brady argue over who was the better driver when the debate was interrupted by a glorious announcement. MeTV Toons was now available through Xfinity, my cable provider. I couldn't have grabbed the remote control any faster! I immediately punched in the channel and — ta daaah! — there it was! MeTV Toons! Right there on my television! I am both proud and somewhat embarrassed to say that I haven't changed the channel in almost two months. In addition to the Bugs Bunny cartoons I had seen on MeTV's Saturday morning schedule, I was now afforded the likes of Underdog, Mighty Mouse, Speed Racer, Mr Magoo and a slew of others that I haven't seen since the days of riding a yellow school bus and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with my classmates at a long table in the basement of Watson T. Comly Elementary School. 

When I was a kid, my favorite cartoons were Yogi Bear, Huckleberry Hound and the rest of the characters from the Hanna-Barbera Studios. Unlike Warner Brothers and MGM, the Hanna-Barbera Studios cartoon were not originally shown in movie theaters.. Following the success of Ruff and Reddy, a cat and dog team widely acknowledged as the very first Saturday morning cartoon show produced specifically for television, Hanna-Barbera's Huckleberry Hound Show premiered in 1958, featuring the easy-going blue hound dog and supplemental adventures starring Pixie & Dixie, Hokey Wolf and Yogi Bear. Yogi would prove so popular, he warranted his own show in 1961. I loved all of the Hanna-Barbera characters, but now, seeing them for the first time as an adult, I have noticed some strange and disturbing things within their seven-or-so minute run times.

First of all, all of these cartoons feature an awful lot of guns, dynamite and cigars. Yogi, Huck, Hokey Wolf, Quick Draw McGraw, a bunch of black-masked crooks, a variety of big-game hunters and gangs of mean and unshaven western outlaws all regularly get shot by a pistol or a rifle, only to suffer a gray face, wiry hair or the occasional holes in their torso that miraculously heal in the very next scene.

Where does this endless supply of wooden-crated dynamite come from? What reputable demolition company is happily doing business with talking animals and have no questions when delivering an order to a semi-circular hole cut into the baseboard of a house? And what would a bear, a dog, or a couple of mice need with such enormous quantities of dangerous explosives?

And smoking? Jeez! Cigars are rampant throughout the Hanna-Barbera universe. From shifty looking gangsters (you can tell they are gangsters because they all have five o'clock shadows, dress in double-breasted suits and smoke cigars), to celebrating expectant fathers, to even Wally Gator all take pride in their tobacco habits. Ranger Smith often relaxes with a fat stogie after finally breaking Yogi Bear of that nasty penchant for stealing picnic baskets. Lippy the Lion has had more that one "loaded" cigar blow up in his face. What sort of example was this setting for impressionable youngsters in the early 1960s? Yeah, my father smoked four packs of tar-laden Viceroys a day, but he wasn't a funny cartoon character. Well, he wasn't funny, anyway.

Oh, I have other questions, too. A lot of 'em. Huckleberry Hound regularly wears a bow tie, sometimes a straw hat, and nothing else. Yet, in one episode in which he was doing some barbecuing in the back yard (whose house it was... that's another question), he was wearing an apron. Why? So as not to splash steak juices all over his... bow tie? And — yes! — who does own the house where Huckleberry Hound lives? Yogi Bear lives in a cave in Jellystone Park. Snagglepuss also lives in a cave (oh, I'll get to Snagglepuss in a minute), but Huckleberry Hound apparently lives in a house. I suppose he can afford rent or a mortgage because he has held so many different jobs across his many cartoon adventures. He's been a police officer, a cab driver, a circus performer, even an astronaut. Obviously, Huck is pulling down a pretty good salary, despite the fact that he cannot hold a steady job.  But, I digress....

Speaking of houses, who owns the house where Pixie, Dixie and Mr. Jinks live? In the old Tom & Jerry cartoons (an early endeavor by Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera), there was always a human in the house to berate poor Tom and turn a blind eye to that rotten little instigator Jerry. But in Pixie & Dixie cartoons, it looks as though Mr. Jinks has full run of the house. There is never a human present, unless, of course, we are only seeing the antics that go on while the homeowners are at work. I guess we are not privy to the clean-up and putting the home furnishings back in order before the owners of the house get home. That's a pretty daunting task for a cat with a bow tie and little-to-no motivation beyond "hating meeces to peeces!"

Even though I watched both cartoons back in their first run, Mrs. P (who joins me daily in watching cartoons) pointed out that Snagglepuss and Fred Flintstone have similar looking mailboxes and entrances to their homes. Which begs the question who is sending letters to a pink mountain lion (in a tie and cuffs) and a caveman? Are they getting utility bills? Advertising circulars? Unsolicited offers from realtors to buy their homes for top dollar? Can humans and large felines really survive in the same type of accommodations? For goodness sakes, Mr. Jinks owns a house — like a brick and mortar house!

On a totally different note, what happened to Yogi Bear between Season 1 and Season 2? His face changed. It's like a different character design. Early Yogi Bear had a mostly yellow face, while later versions show the "smarter than the average bear with the yellow solely coloring his snout. Even his tie was rumpled in earlier episodes. It straightened out as time progressed. Y'know, I'm not even going to address the fact that Ranger Smith held intelligent conversations with a talking bear, yet got angry when a misunderstanding led to that same bear following the beleaguered ranger to a hotel in Miami on his vacation. The talking bear wearing a tie and a hat was perfectly normal to a US National Park Ranger, but picnic basket stealing.... that pissed him off.

And one last thing... can gruff dogs really have a friendship with baby ducks?

Oh, I will continue to watch MeTV Toons. There are plenty of things that I like. Things that greatly outweigh these petty inconsistencies I have just mentioned. Pixie & Dixie and Yakky Doodle both have pretty catchy theme songs that I find myself humming absentmindedly throughout the day. 

I didn't even bring up the puzzling fact that Quick Draw McGraw has a pet dog, but his best friend is a donkey.

"Pixie Dixie diddly-dum....." (There I go again!)

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