josh pincus is crying

The new Monday Artday challenge word is “silly.”

Vampires don’t always act sullen and menacing.

The current Monday Artday challenge is “flying machine”.

Wilbur and Orville were two brothers, named Wright
The nicest pair of kids you’ve ever seen
They worked twelve years on a secret project
They thought it was a washing machine

I said, “Fellas, what are all those wings for?”
They said, “For hanging clothes out to dry”
I said, “You fools, take that washing machine out to Kitty Hawk
And see if the darn thing’ll fly

— “Good Advice” by Allan Sherman

Press the “play >” button below to hear Allan Sherman’s “Good Advice” in its entirety (all eight minutes and twenty-six seconds)

This week’s challenge on the Monday Artday illustration website is “favorite food”.

I began to observe kashrut (keeping kosher) shortly after I got married in 1984. I figured it was easier than trying to explain to our (potential) children “why Mommy eats this but Daddy eats whatever he wants”. So, without as much sacrifice as I had anticipated, I eliminated shellfish, bacon, pork chops and the mixing of meat and dairy products from my diet. I also ceased eating non-kosher certified meat period. The Philadelphia area was home to few kosher eating establishments. I could only choose from a single kosher deli several blocks from my suburban home or my in-law’s house — also several blocks from my home (and the prices were way more reasonable). A few kosher restaurants sprouted up over the years, but they were either not very good or didn’t remain in business very long. Fortunately, Philadelphia is conveniently located just a two-hour drive from New York City, a smorgasbord of kosher offerings, specifically, 2nd Avenue Deli, my favorite restaurant on the planet.

In 1939, the Soviets occupied western Ukraine and nationalized all businesses. Abe Lebewohl’s father was arrested and exiled to Siberia. Young Abe and his mother were banished to Kazakhstan, escaping the horrors of the Holocaust. After the war, the Lebewohl family reunited and returned to western Ukraine and then to Poland. Escaping Poland illegally, the family traveled through several European locales until they arrived in America in 1950. Upon his arrival in New York, Abe found work at a small coffee shop at Second Avenue and 10th Street in East Greenwich Village. In 1954, Abe and his family pooled their funds, purchased the shop and reopened it as a delicatessen. Over the next few years he expanded the deli into a twisting maze of added rooms filled with Yiddish theater posters, cramped booths and tiny tables. The deli, now able to accommodate 250 hungry customers at a time, exuded an atmosphere as warm and comforting as the Old-World fare being prepared in the kitchen. Despite the additional space, there was usually a wait for tables at 2nd Avenue Deli. But, patient customers were appeased with slices of rye bread slathered with homemade chopped liver served by the hostess-on-duty — sometimes right out on the Second Avenue sidewalk. Abe and his operation provided a steady stream of artery-clogging creations, like gribenes, cholent and kreplach, to the customers that paraded through his doors for the next several decades. In addition to the time-honored dishes that could stand flanken-to-flanken  with anything your bubbe could make, Abe and company engineered enormous triple-decker meat-stuffed sandwiches that would make you kvel.

One morning in 1996, Abe took the previous night’s receipts to a bank one block from his deli, like he had done a thousand times before. He was shot twice in broad daylight by an unknown assailant and shoved into his van. Abe was dumped in the street on East 4th, and with his dying breath, he gasped “He shot me”. Even with reward money offered by comedian and long-time customer Jackie Mason, Abe’s murder remains unsolved. After a brief closing to observe mourning, Abe’s brother Jack continued operation of the business.

In 1982, when I was dating Mrs. Pincus, we would often drive to The Big Apple. That’s when I was introduced to 2nd Avenue’s corned beef on rye with Russian dressing and cole slaw. This skyscraper of meat was unlike any sandwich I had ever seen. It was easily six inches tall, dripping with fresh cabbage and carrot slaw and homemade relish-flecked dressing… and it was like biting into manna. Sure, I knew that this sandwich wasn’t doing my circulatory system any good, especially when accompanied by a bowl of hot matzo ball soup and a side of gravy-covered kishke, but it was irresistible. Many, many visits to New York City were capped off with a “dressed” corned beef sandwich, as they called it. Sometimes, we would shoot straight up to the East Village after a Sunday afternoon Phillies game for dinner at 2nd Avenue Deli. That succulent corned beef and those crunchy kosher dills made the two-hour drive worth every minute. The guys behind the deli counter waved and the waitresses would “cheek-kiss” my wife when the couple from Philadelphia dropped in. I could inhale one of those sandwiches and I would often think about the next time I’d have one after polishing one off. My wife and in-laws made an annual trip to a Lower East Side bakery for special cake for Passover. They would stop to eat at 2nd Avenue Deli and to pick up a corned beef sandwich for me, which I would happily consume no matter what time it was brought home to me — even if I had already eaten dinner. Interestingly, I was never a big meat-eater. I even toyed with the idea of becoming a vegetarian. But, as long as 2nd Avenue Deli was in business, I had a reason to continue being a carnivore. I even said that the day 2nd Avenue Deli closes is the day I stop eating meat.

On January 1, 2006, my family and I dined at 2nd Avenue Deli. My wife had her usual roast beef with mustard on a club roll. My son, a vegetarian since the age of two, had a huge plate of plump, tender, potato-stuffed pierogen  with fried onions. I started off with a sauerkraut-topped frankfurter as the lead-in to my usual “dressed” corned beef sandwich. It would be my last. Unbeknown to us, because of a dispute over a rent increase, 2nd Avenue Deli would never open again.

My family and I were planning a trip back to New York on Presidents’ Weekend 2006. My son called a New Yorker friend to arrange a meeting, perhaps getting Mom and Dad to spring for dinner. My son mentioned 2nd Avenue Deli as a possible (read: probable) spot for dinner. His friend said, “I think that place closed.” My son relayed that report to me. “Closed?,” I repeated, dismissing the notion, “They’ve been open for fifty years! We were just there!  There’s no way  they’re closed!” My son’s friend emailed us a link to an East Village neighborhood website displaying these photos —

and an article describing the rent increase and Jack Lebewohl’s decision not to open on January 2nd — the day after our last visit. I was crushed. However, I pride myself on being a man of my word. As of that moment, I was a vegetarian.

On December 17, 2007, in the former location of a tapas restaurant at 33rd Street and 3rd Avenue, Jeremy Lebewohl continued his Uncle Abe’s legacy and reopened 2nd Avenue Deli. When we heard this news, my family and I anxiously planned our first trip to the new digs. Soon, we found ourselves on tiny 33rd street in the shadow of the Empire State Building and under a familiar awning emblazoned with pseudo-Hebraic block letters. The new restaurant was considerably smaller, narrower and cleaner than the original, but the amiable faces and bustling ambiance made us feel at home. My wife looked at me smiling, but then her expression turned to wonder. She didn’t need to ask the question. It was in her eyes. Since 2nd Avenue Deli reopened, would I continue to keep my vow? Would I eat meat?

The Deli always had an extensive menu but I never read it. I always ate the same thing. Always. However, I felt that I needed to be true to the integrity of my word. My son ordered three potato latkes, each roughly the size of his head and a bowl of applesauce that was just a bit smaller than Lake Michigan. My wife ordered a juicy beef burger topped with several slices grilled pastrami. And me?  Well, after a long perusal of the many meatless options, I settled on French toast made from thick sliced challah bread. I also added a piece of kugel, a traditional noodle pudding, the portion of which was about as large as the average sofa cushion.

I didn’t eat meat that night and I haven’t had any since.

This is the second illustration for the Monday Artday challenge word “friendship”.

“When you’re a kid, you can be friends with anybody. Remember when you were a little kid what were the qualifications? If someone’s in front of my house NOW, That’s my friend, they’re my friend. That’s it. Are you a grown up.? No. Great! Come on in. Jump up and down on my bed. And if you have anything in common at all ─ You like cherry soda? I like cherry soda! We’ll be best friends!”     ─ Jerry Seinfeld

Growing up, there were a couple of kids on my block that I’d call “friend”. One, in particular, was Dougie Piller. My relationship with Dougie ran the spectrum from close buddy to mortal enemy. Dougie lived three houses away from me on Nestling Road in Northeast Philadelphia. Dougie and I grew up together ─ playing with our Matchbox cars, reading comic books, riding our bikes ─ all the things that adolescent friends did. Sometimes Dougie would steal my Matchbox cars and my comic books and take off with my bike, but I usually overlooked those things because he was my friend. Dougie once stole my entire collection of Partridge Family  trading cards and I never even mentioned it to him. Friends just don’t bring stuff like that up.

Every so often, Dougie would turn on me. I think he thought it was funny. We would be happily playing in his backyard or on a neighbor’s front lawn when he would suddenly unleash a spewing fountain of anti-Semitic slurs in my direction. In hindsight, I’m sure he was merely parroting what he had heard his parents say behind closed doors. After all, my family was one of a handful of Jewish families in a predominantly gentile neighborhood and only one of two on the block. Dougie’s father always reminded me of Art Carney, if Mr. Carney was a Klansman. I always got an uneasy feeling from Mr. Piller around the Christmas/Chanukah season, as though the pathetic electrified menorah in our front window posed some sort of threat to him. I’m sure neither Dougie nor I fully understood the true implications of his insults, but we understood their basic purpose. Dougie wanted to start a fight.

Infrequent as they were, my neighborhood did play host to a number of fights. I was involved in a few fights as a kid, though I can’t, for the life of me, remember what initiated them. It was a rite of passage of sorts, but not one I needed to experience on a regular basis. I know I never started a fight (except maybe with my brother, an ill-conceived endeavor as he bested me in all the important fight categories ─ bigger, older, stronger and more athletic). I did run from a few fights, avoiding my predator for as long as it took to be forgotten. I fought with Jackie Hackett, a little anti-Semitic prick from up the street. He would torture me from afar, yelling “Jew” and “Kike” at me from the sanctuary of his fenced-in backyard. In winter, he would fire snowballs at me as I made my way home from school. I did my best to avoid him, but one time we went at it and I never let his taunts bother me after that. I even fought with a girl on my block once.

But most of my fighting was with Dougie Piller. Dougie fucking Piller. It seemed that Dougie didn’t need a reason as specific and meaningful as my ancestors standing idly by while his savior was crucified. One time, I was in Dougie’s house and I saw a triptych photo frame displaying images of his two younger sisters dressed in tutus and frozen in ballet poses. In the center frame was a smiling Dougie in a sequined vest, posed in a similar fashion. I was staring at the photo in disbelief for too long until Dougie decided I had seen enough. He took me outside and beat the shit out of me. He was bigger than me. He was stronger than me. He was most likely beaten by his parents, so he had the fighting moves. When I fought with Dougie, he would always beat the shit out of me. One time he snuck his brother’s off-limits BB gun out to his backyard to show me how cool he was. He squeezed shot after shot out of that gun, the BBs bouncing off tree trunks and empty tin cans that littered his yard. Bored with his static targets, he turned toward me, raised the gun at arms length and in a low voice through clenched teeth whispered, “I’ll give you three to run.” Horrified, I turned and fled like a frightened rabbit ─ Dougie’s low snickers echoing behind me. He pulled the trigger attempting to fire one over my head. Instead, the errant BB ricocheted off his overhanging roof and found the dead center of the back of my head. I stumbled and fell on the grass. Afraid that he just killed me, Dougie ran over to check on my well-being. I rolled over on my back, crying from the pain. Dougie’s face revealed a look of relief ─ relief that he had not just committed murder. I managed to get to my feet and I ran home. I told my mother what had transpired and, after tending to my wound, she telephoned Dougie’s mother so no one would be left out of the fun. Dougie’s mother resembled Batman -era Julie Newmar and there was something weird and other-worldly about her. She listened to my mother’s second-hand account of the incident. I have no doubt that Dougie felt her wrath when she hung up the phone. I know this because several days later, totally unprovoked, Dougie beat the shit out of me again.

Dougie beat me up regularly from the late 1960s into the early part of the 1970s. They weren’t horrible or bloody beatings. A crowd of kids from the block, whooping and yelling, would encircle the two of us as we rolled around on the grass. A few minutes would pass and, after a series of blows to my torso, the fight would end with me crying and humiliated and Dougie triumphant. Sometimes, my mother or father would come out of the house and break it up, while Mr. Piller stood off in the distance, smoking a filter-less Camel, calling out  “Ahh, they’re just kids!” and chuckling.

One day, enough was enough. I don’t remember what it was that triggered me, but Payback Day had arrived and it arrived expecting a lifetime of compounded-daily interest. I have a clear, indelible picture in my mind of that day. I knocked Dougie flat on his back. I got on top of him, my knees assuring that his arms remained immobile. With my adrenal glands pumping, my unrelenting fists unleashed the fury of countless shellackings as I walloped the motherfucking piss out of Dougie Piller. The fight ended when Dougie’s mortified father pulled me off of his son and berated my parents who were watching from our kitchen window.

Although Dougie and I were the same age and went to the same elementary school, we never had any classes together. Dougie was always in the remedial classes because he was an idiot. When it came time for high school, I vaguely remember some hushed gossip about problems in the Piller household and Dougie either dropped out or moved away with one of his parents.

I would imagine that as life continued for Dougie, he persisted in his fighting ways and eventually met someone who wasn’t as forgiving a friend as I was.

This week’s Monday Artday challenge word is “friendship”.

Henry Lee Lucas and Ottis Toole met in 1976 in a Jacksonville, Florida soup kitchen and they became instant friends and eventual lovers. Lucas, the son of an alcoholic father and an abusive prostitute mother, served prison time for armed robbery and had murdered his mother and a seventeen-year-old female acquaintance by the time he met Toole. Prior to his intimate bond with Lucas, Toole was raised by his grave-robbing, Satan-worshipping grandmother, had committed four murders and became a serial arsonist who was sexually aroused by fire. Together, Lucas and Toole were a match made in Hell.

For seven years, Lucas and Toole drifted across twenty-six states on a rampage of robbery, arson, torture, rape and murder. They were a compatible team, as Lucas was a vicious sadist and Toole was a cannibal. Their usual routine involved picking up hitchhikers, both male and female, for sex and then killing and mutilating them.  Sometimes, they would just run over hitchhikers and drive off.  Once, they drove for two days with a victim’s head in the back seat of their car. In all, they assisted each other in 108 murders, fulfilling Lucas’ penchant for necrophilia and Toole’s preference for the consumption of human flesh.

In April 1983, Toole was arrested on arson charges in Jacksonville. While in custody, he confessed to dozens of unsolved arsons and murders, including the 1981 murder of nine-year-old Adam Walsh. Toole was given two death sentences which were later changed to life sentences on appeal. He died in prison of liver failure in 1996.

Lucas was arrested on weapons charges in Texas in June 1983. Lucas confessed to over 3000 murders, recanted his confessions and later confessed again. Some of the murders to which he claimed involvement occurred when Lucas was documented to have been elsewhere. He was eventually convicted of only three murders. Texas Governor George W. Bush commuted his death sentence to life imprisonment. Lucas died of heart failure in prison in 2001.

This week’s Monday Artday challenge is “ancient civilization”.

Between the Upper Palaeolithic and the Late Stone Age, a forgotten civilization existed briefly. Archaeologist would rather it remain forgotten. These ancient people were called the Ineptics and carbon dating has determined that they roamed the early Earth for approximately seven weeks. There are few things known about them, but what is known is that they were remarkable in their intelligence. Or, more precisely, their lack thereof.

Physically, the Ineptics ranged in height from three feet to five feet tall. They were relatively hairless, except for a few unsightly tufts here and there on their bodies. The males of the species had seven nipples, with one on the right breast, two on the left and four on the lower left abdomen. All seven served no function whatsoever. They had three fingers and a thumb on each hand and three thumbs on each foot. They possessed prominent lower lips, though not large enough to confine several protruding teeth. The Ineptics did have dentists among them, but dentists in their society delivered the mail.

The Ineptics were the first to develop shoes, however they wore them on their heads. They hunted for food, mostly birds. When the birds were caught, they plucked them and ate the feathers, discarding the meat. They cooked the feathers by breaking up and burning the rudimentary tools they had fashioned.

The Ineptics attempted cave paintings by dragging long leaves across cave walls. The leaves were not dipped in pigment of any kind, so they left no marks.

The males wandered around in circles, often bumping into each other. The women of the group were known to throw up their hands in disgust and leave. The entire species eventually died out when they all wandered off a cliff.

The current Monday Artday challenge word is “flight”.

In Greek mythology, Daedalus was a talented Athenian craftsman. Daedalus built a labyrinth for King Minos to contain the fierce monster the Minotaur (half man-half bull), which was sent as punishment for tricking the god Poseidon. King Minos also imprisoned Daedalus and his son, Icarus, in the labyrinth to keep watch over the Minotaur and prevent a possible escape.

To escape their confinement, Daedalus fashioned two pairs of wings out of wax and feathers for himself and his son. Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sun, nor too close to the sea. Icarus was overwhelmed by the jubilent feeling that flying gave him. He soared through the sky and came too close to the sun, which melted the wax. Icarus kept flapping his wings but soon realized that he had no feathers left and that he was only flapping his bare arms. Icarus fell into the sea and drowned. The area where he fell was named for Icarus — the Icarian Sea near Icaria.

Moral of the story: Listen to your father or your wings will melt off and you’ll drown.

This week’s challenge word on the Monday Artday illustration website is “awake”.
This post marks the third anniversay of the josh pincus is crying blog.

“Honey? Sweetie? Are you awake?”

The current illustration challenge on the Monday Artday website is “monkey”.

The early morning campfire gathering that is the current  “Today” show came from very humble beginnings.

“Today”, the brainchild of then NBC vice-president Pat Weaver (actress Sigourney’s father), made its debut on January 14, 1952. Weaver hand-picked Dave Garroway, a television journalist who hosted a show in Chicago that NBC sporadically carried, to serve as host of his new endeavour. Since “Today” was the first attempt at this type of broadcast, Weaver had free reign as far as format. As a novelty, Weaver chose one J. Fred Muggs as Garroway’s co-host. Muggs was born in French Cameroon and came to New York at an early age. He was a lively and somewhat mischievous performer and his antics delighted viewers of the new show. Muggs was also a monkey.

Garroway and J. Fred Muggs were important contributors to the early success of the “Today” show. Viewers loved the pair’s interaction with guests, especially when J. Fred would whip Garroway’s glasses off of his face during interviews. An often-denied rumor related a time that J. Fred bit the elbow of comedienne Martha Raye. J. Fred was featured in children’s books and games. At the height of his popularity,  J. Fred’s likeness was reproduced as puppets and plush toys.

Garroway always displayed a smile and a relaxed manner on the air. His signature sign-off was a warm smile and saying “Peace” as he raised his open palm to the camera and the home viewers. Despite gossip, he got along well with J. Fred. It was NBC management he had difficulty with. Garroway suffered from chronic depression. To ease his pain, he self-medicated with a daily mixture of vitamin B-12 and the stimulant Dexidrine. He would sometimes disappear during live broadcasts, leaving announcer Jack Lescoulie to quickly cover. In 1961, a delusional Garroway, greatly affected by the recent suicide of his wife, lay down on the studio floor, refusing to leave until his contract demands were met. NBC fired him.

Future NBC News anchor John Chancellor replaced Garroway as the host of “Today”. NBC felt that J. Fred Muggs didn’t fit in with the new format. J. Fred Muggs briefly starred in a local kids’ show in Newark, New Jersey and then, for five years, performed at Busch Gardens in Tampa, Florida. He retired to Citrus Park, Florida under the care of his original trainer’s son. Dave Garroway, however, was found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound in 1982.

The current challenge on the Monday Artday illustration website is “castaway”.

Earlier this week, Corey Haim, another former child actor with a hard-luck story, passed away at a young age. Corey was just another in a long line of former child actors following an unfortunate path — Dana Plato at 35, Brad Renfro at 25, Brittany Murphy at 32, River Phoenix at 23. But there is one former child star that this ultimate fate consistently eludes — Dante Daniel Bonaduce. And it certainly is not for lack or trying, because Danny Bonaduce has tried his darnedest.

For four seasons, Danny Bonaduce was on a television sitcom called The Partridge Family.The show told the far-fetched story of a typical Southern California family that also happened to be a rock group. Danny played second banana — no, make that third banana —to the series stars Oscar winner Shirley Jones and heartthrob David Cassidy. Danny played obnoxious little brother/bass player Danny. As it turns out, Danny was acting when he played bass, but wasn’t acting when he played obnoxious. When the series ended, Danny attempted to continue his acting career, but one thing stood in his way, he didn’t have and ounce of talent. Nope, not a drop. He made a handful of low-budget movie and TV appearances, mostly playing himself with some Partridge Family  reference as the punchline to a joke. Yep, Danny managed to milk his (almost) four year stint on a novelty TV show that aired forty years ago into a career.

So, when a story pops up in the news about a tragedy involving a former child star, Danny is front and center, spewing stories of his own troubled youth. I have heard Danny’s nicotine-ravaged voice relating these anecdotes so many times, on so many news and entertainment outlets, I could tell them as my own. In every analytic discussion of the actors named earlier and others, Danny always manages to push his way into the spotlight. A proud accomplishment for an inarticulate, hot-headed, violent, former drug addict with no talent, who has served time in jail. He was one of three “experts” interviewed on NBC’s Today Show  the morning after Corey Haim’s death. I said to my wife, “How long until he says the words ‘Partridge Family’ ?” She answered, “Only if it preceded by ‘When I was on the’“.

Danny’s latest gig is morning drive-time DJ on Philadelphia radio station WYSP. I live in Philadelphia, and while I don’t listen to him or his station, Danny has traveled to Philadelphia Phillies spring training camp in Clearwater, Florida on behalf of WYSP. Because I follow the Phillies, I have seen Danny during several reports on preseason baseball activity, to my dismay.

I hate Danny Bonaduce. I’m sick of seeing his craggy features splashed across my television. I am sick of hearing his raspy croak telling the same story for the past forty years. I would like Danny to become stranded on a uncharted island, free from TV cameras, radio microphones and all forms of media exposure.

I really hate Danny Bonaduce and I long for the day I never see him again.