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

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

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!)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time

This post is purely self-indulgent. It is 100 percent for my enjoyment. You may like it. You may not, but I'm telling you right now. It's just for me. So, if you want to skip this week's entry on It's Been A Slice, that's okay. Next week, I'll write about some old television show or a movie or some bit of day-to-day tedium that pissed me off. But this week, it's just a little "me" time.

One evening in the late fall of 1974, thirteen year-old Josh Pincus was up in his bedroom in his home in northeast Philadelphia. I had my radio tuned to WFIL, the radio station in Philadelphia for all the top pop hits of the day. Everyone listened to the "boss jocks" on WFIL and I was no different. I was probably avoiding getting my homework done when I heard a very very unusual sound coming from the radio. Among the glut of Olivia Newton-John and Mac Davis and America and Tony Orlando and Dawn, the song I was hearing sounded like aliens. I was stunned. I was motionless. I was mesmerized for a full three minutes. When it was over, the DJ announced to me and the entire Delaware Valley that we had just heard a new song called "Killer Queen" by a British band called Queen. I was an instant fan.

The following year, I became a concert goer. Going to concerts at 14 years-old was no easy task. I wasn't old enough to drive and I wasn't familiar enough with the intricate and often unreliable public transportation system in Philadelphia. Fearing that the wrong bus or subway train would deposit me in a different country where I'd never see my family again, I was not above securing (read: begging) my mother to provide door-to-door car service to one of the two (maybe three) major concert venues in the city. My mom was only too happy to drive my friends and I. My father... well, I never asked my father. If we weren't going to see Al Jolson, my father was not driving. Besides, he had to get up early the next morning for work... even if it was his day off.

In the winter of 1977, Queen released A Day at the Races, the follow-up to their international hit album A Night at the Opera. Somehow, some way, I had missed Queen when they brought their A Night at the Opera tour to the Tower Theater for three nights in 1976. But I was not going to let that happen again. Queen had become my favorite band and I was determined to see them live. Based on their new-found popularity, the natural venue, after playing the 3000-seat Tower Theater, was the self-proclaimed "America's Showplace" — The Spectrum. The Spectrum, an 18,000-seat multi-purpose facility, was the home to the Philadelphia 76ers and Flyers. It also hosted a wide variety of musical acts — all presented with the worst acoustics one would expect from a place more suited for hockey games. But — no! — Queen was relegated to the Philadelphia Civic Center, another multi-use venue. (The Beatles played there in 1964.) Alas, The Spectrum was hosting Electric Light Orchestra on February 11, 1977, so Queen drew the short straw. Nevertheless, I purchased a ticket for $7.50.

The night of the show, my mom graciously drove a friend and me to West Philadelphia. We made firm arrangements where to meet my mom at the show's conclusion. My friend and I nervously maneuvered our way through the general admission crowd. We decided that a viewing point on the second level would be optimum. I really didn't want to fight the crowds stage side. So we spotted and laid claim to two empty seats in the balcony and waited for the lights to dim.

Irish rockers Thin Lizzy kicked things off. They buzzed through a quick thirty minute set highlighted by "The Boys are Back in Town," their current big radio hit. After a brief intermission, Queen burst on to the stage to the shrieking guitar strains of "Tie Your Mother Down," the lead track on their A Day at the Races album. From there, they tore through 22 more songs, each one more exciting than the last. Their four-song encore included "Hey Big Spender" from the Broadway musical Sweet Charity and a "queen-sized" take on Elvis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock." Freddie Mercury stalked and swirled and pirouetted his way right into my teenage heart. I thought my head was going to explode... and that would have left my friend without a ride home. 

Despite touring in support of A Day at the Races well into the summer of 1977, Queen released News of the World, their sixth studio album in October of the same year. Where did they find the time? The album boasted a rare double-A sided single in "We Will Rock You/We Are The Champions" which was already charting ahead of the album's official release. Two Queen shows were announced at the Spectrum for late November 1977. I bought tickets to the first night. At the time, it was unheard of in my social circles to go see a band on more than one night of a multi-night stop in your city. Except if you were a Deadhead... and I surmised that Deadheads only went to more than one show in a tour because they were so stoned that they had forgotten where they were the previous night. Besides, the night of Queen's second show was Thanksgiving, and there was no way my mom would have allowed me to go to a concert instead of spending the evening wrestling a turkey drumstick away from my Aunt Claire. 

I got a ride to the concert with my brother, who also had tickets. His seats were in the front row to the right of the stage, but the view was obstructed by a giant speaker. My seats were in the fourth row but dead center. Queen hit the stage with a fast, hard version of "We Will Rock You" and immediately segued into the epic "Brighton Rock" from Sheer Heart Attack. They packed a whopping 31 songs into their evening's set. The night ended when Freddie Mercury disappeared backstage and reemerged with an armful of  pink carnations. One by one, he nonchalantly tossed them out to the crowd... and I caught one. (I took it home and - almost fifty years later - I still have it.) My brother watched a speaker and the top of Brian May's head.

Almost a year to the day, Queen returned to the Philadelphia Spectrum in support of their album Jazz. This release, again, was supplemented by another double-A sided single "Bicycle Race/Fat Bottomed Girls." I honestly remember very little about this show. I was sitting seventeen rows from the stage, which, in the scheme of the Spectrum, might as well have been in the parking lot. In between the time I bought my ticket and the day of the show, I contracted a bad case of pneumonia. It was bad enough to keep me out of school for a few days... but not nearly bad enough to stop me from seeing Freddie and company live in concert. At one point during the show, I thought it would be a good idea to stand up on my chair like everyone else in my section. It turned out not to be a wise decision at all. As soon as I stood up, I lost my balance and fell backwards. Luckily, my friend who I was attending the concert with, grabbed me and kept me from hitting the floor. I suppose the show was really good. I read about it in the newspaper the next day.

After a two-year hiatus, Queen returned to Philadelphia for The Game tour. For some reason, I don't remember who I went to this concert with. I don't remember how I got there. By 1980, I had a driver's license. I may have borrowed my mom's car. I really don't remember. I have seen a set list and read about the show. I remember seeing Freddie Mercury come out on stage perched upon the shoulders of Darth Vader. I remember him referring to my beloved city as "Filthydelphia." I even remember being confused by their choice of opening song - "Jailhouse Rock." I remember being surprised by the inclusion of an opening act, something they had dispensed with for the previous two tours. I just don't remember being there. 

In 1982, I met the future Mrs. Pincus. She walked into the restaurant where I worked. After a few dates and "getting to know you" conversation, I revealed myself as a Queen fan. She was a Deadhead. She didn't have to tell me. It was apparent by the stickers on her car and the music in her apartment. In April of 1982, against my better judgement and despite my long history of concert-going, I was taken to my first (of many) Grateful Dead shows. Let's just say... I love my wife a whole lot more than I love the Grateful Dead. I only thought it would be fair to take my soon-to-be wife to a Queen concert. (Turnabout is fair play.... isn't that how the saying goes?) So I did. Queen was coming back to Philadelphia in the summer of 1982. I bought three tickets — one for me, one for the future Mrs. P and one for the original Mrs. P... my mom. My mom had developed into quite the avid Queen fan. She bought Queen albums before I did. She turned up the volume when she heard Queen songs on the radio. (Oh, she recognized Queen songs on the radio, unlike my dad who... well, my dad didn't.) So, that summer I took the two Mrs. Ps to their very first Queen concert. One was ecstatic. The other, not so much. 

The show — in my very biased opinion — was great. My mom cried the moment Queen took the stage. (She loudly voiced her dismay with opening act Billy Squier, commenting: "Well, he sucked!") My mom was just beside herself — dancing and singing along and squealing like a teenager. Mrs. P-in-waiting, however, was unimpressed by Freddie Mercury's descent to the stage on a flower-covered swing, citing that Jerry Garcia never did such a thing. My future spouse questioned the band's numerous costume changes, asking if that was a ploy to cover for their lack of talent. I noted that Jerry Garcia had been wearing the same black t-shirt since 1968. We remained quiet for the rest of the show.

While Queen mounted several more tours before Freddie Mercury's death, they never returned to the United States after 1982. 

I got to see Queen five times. This week was the forty-ninth anniversary of that very first show. Time sure does fly when you get old you're self-indulgent.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

comfort and joy

There were a series television commercials when I was a kid that fascinated me. They were commercials for Cream of Wheat, the hot breakfast cereal, perennially overshadowed by its more celebrated oaten comrade. The commercials all depicted approximately the same premise and message. A boy or a girl — or, sometimes a boy and a girl — are seated at a typical family breakfast table, spooning heaping servings of Cream of Wheat into their hungry maws while an authoritative voice expounds on the nutritional value of the less-popular, bastard cousin of breakfast stalwart oatmeal. Then came the most exciting part of the commercial. After slurping down the last vitamin-filled glob of Cream of Wheat, the child would tie on a scarf, zip up a jacket and head out for a day filled with running and jumping and other stuff kids were expected to do in the early 70s before their eyes were glued to a video game or a smartphone screen. But — and here's the part I loved — before they left the house, a ghostly bowl of steaming Cream of Wheat would rise off the table and float eerily about the child's head. When the child left the house, there was that bowl of Cream of Wheat, animated tendrils of warmth swirling above its cartoon rim, hovering protectively just inches from the child's head. The announcer reassured us that the vitamins and energy packed into each delicious bowl of Cream of Wheat followed your child and stayed with them throughout the day.

Well, I was sold. I begged — begged! — my mother to buy Cream of Wheat. And, she did... along with a big cardboard canister of Quaker Oatmeal for my father, because my father.... well, my father wanted what he wanted...and that was oatmeal.... and not that "creamy wheat" shit.... oh, and cigarettes. On weekends in the winter, and sometimes if I got up early enough before school, my mom would make Cream of Wheat for me. There was no instant Cream of Wheat when I was a kid. No instant boiling water and certainly no microwaves. My mom would actually cook the Cream of Wheat in a pot on the stove, closely following the detailed directions printed on the side of the box. She'd carefully measure each precise quantity of water and dry grainy Cream of Wheat in a large glass measuring cup. She'd bust out her jailer's ring of aluminum measuring spoons to dole out the exact amount of salt the recipe called for. I'd wait impatiently, watching my mom stir and stir and stir the contents of that little pot until the allotted time had passed (again, according to the recommendation from the good folks in the trusted test kitchens of Nabisco's Cream of Wheat Central). My mom would grab a bowl from our kitchen cabinet. Setting it down on our kitchen table, she'd tip the pot slightly, allowing the golden gloppy mixture to lazily flow into the bowl. Then, she'd add a pat of butter, a few generous teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk, again, adhering to the "serving suggestions" from the hot cereal authorities at Nabisco.

I ate that Cream of Wheat and I really liked it. I liked the creaminess (hence the name!). I liked the sweetness, not realizing that it was due to the ridiculous amount of sugar my mom added. I liked the smooth texture (what they call "mouth feel" now, thanks to a slew of pretentious Food Network programs) and I liked the warmth it provided as it made its way to my stomach. I was, however, very disappointed that I didn't have a ghostly bowl follow me for the rest of  the day, like in the commercial. Oh, believe me... I looked. I looked a lot. I tried to spot it in my peripheral vision. I tried to spy it lurking above my head or ducking behind a tree as I walked to the school bus stop. After a while, I resigned myself to the fact that the floating bowl only followed those kids on television. But, I still ate Cream of Wheat.

Now, I am almost 65 years old. I hate winter. I hate the cold. I hate snow. I hate shoveling snow. I hate driving in the snow. I hate worrying about other people driving in the snow. I hate going to work in the dark and coming home in the dark. The only thing about winter that I do like is Cream of Wheat. When the temperatures start to drop and Canadian winds blow cold air down to our area, that's when I buy a box of instant Cream of Wheat to supplement my regular breakfast of cold cereal. Unlike the days of my youth, when my mom would avail herself of the elaborate ritual of Cream of Wheat preparation, I can just empty a premeasured envelope of dry Cream of Wheat into a bowl, add two-thirds of a cup of water and pop it into the microwave. One minute and thirty seconds later, I have a hot bowl of Cream of Wheat, all ready to receive a small scoop of non-dairy margarine (instead of butter) and two packets of Splenda substituting for the sugar my mom insisted on adding. That first spoonful brings me right back to my childhood kitchen table. When they talk about macaroni and cheese and real mashed potatoes being "comfort foods," I always think of Cream of Wheat as my "comfort food." I am still comforted by Cream of Wheat. Remember that climactic scene in Ratatouille when surly food critic Anton Ego is mentally transported back to his childhood by a single taste of a dish from his distant past? That's me and Cream of Wheat! It reminds me of a time when my biggest concern was which cartoon to watch on Saturday morning. It takes me back to a time when I didn't have to hear some asshole supermarket owner tell me to make the price of blueberries in his store's ad three times its current size and to move that can of soup just a skosh* to the left. It's simple. It's calming. It's comforting. 

Yes sir... Cream of Wheat sure is good.

And I'm still looking for that bowl floating behind my head.

* Yeah, that's how it's spelled. I looked it up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com