josh pincus is crying

The challenge word on sugarfrostedgoodness.com is “nice”.

Syd Barrett was a founding member of Pink Floyd. He provided the musical direction and psychedelic influence in the band’s early work. He recorded two albums with Pink Floyd and two solo releases before mental illness and heavy drug use put him into a self-imposed seclusion lasting more than thirty years.
Due to his abundant use of LSD, Barrett’s behavior on stage was unpredictable. He would strum on one chord through the entire concert. Sometimes he would not play at all. At a show at The Fillmore West in San Francisco, during a performance of “Interstellar Overdrive”, Barrett slowly detuned his guitar. The audience seemed to enjoy such antics, unaware of the rest of the band’s consternation. Before a performance in late 1967, Barrett apparently crushed Mandrax and an entire tube of Brylcreem into his hair, which subsequently melted down his face under the heat of the stage lighting, making him look like “a guttered candle”.
Following a disastrous abridged tour of the United States, David Gilmour, a school friend of Barrett’s, was asked to join the band as a second guitarist to cover for Barrett as Barrett’s erratic behaviour prevented him from performing. For a handful of shows David played and sang while Barrett wandered around on stage, occasionally playing. The other band members soon tired of Barrett’s antics and, in January 1968, on the way to a show at Southampton University, the band elected not to pick Barrett up: One person in the car said, “Shall we pick Syd up?” and another person said, “Let’s not bother”.
Years later, in 1975 during the recording sessions for the “Wish You Were Here” album, Barrett showed up at the session unannounced, and watched the band record “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” — a song, coincidentally, about Barrett. By that time, Barrett had become quite overweight, had shaved off all of his hair, including his eyebrows, and his ex-bandmates did not at first recognize him. Eventually, they realized who he was and Roger Waters was so distressed that he was reduced to tears.
Barrett died in July 2006 of pancreatic cancer. The occupation on his death certificate was given as “retired musician.”
In 2006, his home in Cambridge, England, was placed on the market and attracted considerable interest. After over 100 viewings, many by fans, his house was sold to a French couple who bought the house simply because they liked it—reportedly they knew nothing about Barrett.
Syd Barrett once said, “Fairy tales are nice.” In his mind, he likely experienced a bunch of fairy tales.

The current challenge on sugarfrostedgoodness.com is “scary”.

Paul Goresh was a New Jersey college student and amateur photographer. He met John Lennon on two occasions by posing as a VCR repairman. He hung around outside of The Dakota with his camera hoping to get some pictures of Lennon. Paul was just a fan, but Lennon thought he was working for the press. Lennon didn’t want his picture taken and he felt Paul was harassing him. Paul just wanted to take candid photos of the ex-Beatle.
Paul explained to Lennon’s assistant that he didn’t work for the press and he was just a fan. Paul encountered Lennon several more times and Lennon eventually warmed up to Paul, sometimes inviting him on walks through upper Manhattan.
Around 4:15 PM on December 8, 1980, Lennon was met by Paul on the sidewalk in front of The Dakota. Paul raised his camera and began snapping pictures. He photographed Lennon signing a copy of Double Fantasy for another fan that Paul had met earlier. In approximately seven hours, that other fan, Mark David Chapman, would fire four bullets into Lennon and kill him.

The sugarfrostedgoodness.com current challenge is “yummy”.
For this uncharacteristically cheerful illustration, I took my inspiration from Dr. Seuss.

Here’s my original story of “Mister McBaker O’Frosting Moran”
Mister McBaker O’Frosting Moran
Baked one thousand cakes and used only one pan
He concocted pink cupcakes
And yellow and blue
But he used just one pan
Not seven or two
Giant red cream cakes with sprinkles on top
A big plate of chocolatey brownies and glop
Crunch cookies and fudgy yum yummies with fudge
Six batches of rum raisin spice cinnamon sludge
A great big enormous sweet stick-ity bun
And the pans that he used only numbered to one
He mixed in the eggs and the butter and flour
And the baking was done in just under an hour
Petit fours were presented by O’Frosting Moran
And ten dozen tea cakes — all using one pan
Cakes for a birthday
Cakes for a bris
Cakes for a Christening
with a cinnamon twist
How, you may ask, could he just use one pan?
’cause there’s magic in the kitchen
Of McBaker Moran

The current challenge on sugarfrostedgoodness.com is “comfortable.”
If you are too young to remember when “The Tonight Show“ was hosted by Johnny Carson, then you probably don’t remember Myron Cohen. Myron Cohen was a textile salesman working in New York City’s “Garment District“. Early in his career, he developed client relationships by telling jokes. Pretty soon, his jokes became more popular than his merchandise. Customers urged Cohen to become a comedian. In the early 1950s, Cohen left his job in the fabric industry and began performing in nightclubs. In his act, Cohen told long stories, enunciating each word in beautifully cultured English. He contrasted that by sprinkling masterfully mimicked New York Yiddish accents throughout his narrative. His nightclub performances proved very popular and led to numerous appearances on “The Ed Sullivan Show“ and “The Tonight Show” during the 1960s. He also recorded several popular comedy albums.

Here is one of my favorite Myron Cohen jokes:
An old man is crossing the street in the Garment District and gets hit by a car. An ambulance arrives and two emergency workers carefully lift the old man onto a stretcher. As they are carry him to the ambulance, one of the EMTs asks the the old man, “Are you comfortable?” In obvious pain, the old man looks up and says, “I make a nice living.”

Myron Cohen passed away in 1986.

The current challenge word at sugarfrostedgoodness.com is “black”.

In the middle nineteenth century, Jack Black (no, not THAT Jack Black) served as rat-catcher and mole destroyer by appointment of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. That meant he was the head vermin exterminator, but he was a bit of a showman, too.
Henry Mayhew, founder of British humor magazine Punch, recalled that Jack Black (no, not THAT Jack Black) was ”the most fearless handler of rats of any man living.” Proud of his profession, Black wore a wide leather belt inlaid with cast-iron rats. Black drove a cart with rats painted on the side panels. He would often stop his cart in busy areas of town for “performances”. He had a stage rigged on the cart, on which were cages filled with rats. He would exhibit the rapid effects of his rat poison, by dipping his hand into a cage of rats and taking out as many as he could hold. He would then administer his own blend of rat poison right into the animals’ mouths. However, his work experiences included a number of occasions when he nearly died from infection following rat bites.
When Jack Black (no, not THAT Jack Black) caught any unusually colored rats, he bred them, to establish new color varieties. He would sell his home-bred, domesticated colored rats as pets to well-bred young ladies to keep in squirrel cages. Beatrix Potter is believed to have been one of his customers, and she dedicated the book Samuel Whiskers to her rat of the same name.
Jack Black (no, no THAT Jack Black) had a number of sidelines beyond rats, including fishing (for food and supplying aquariums), bird catching, taxidermy and dog breeder.
The position of royal rat catcher disappeared in the early twentieth century. Unfortunately, THIS Jack Black was never caught.

The challenge word this week on both Monday Artday and sugar frosted goodness is “olympics”.

There are things I don’t like. I don’t like being manipulated and told what to like. The media in the United States has been manipulating and telling us what to like for years. The influence of the US media combined with the complacency and short attention span of the average US citizen creates an awesome power. Most recently, we, as a society, are told by the media to give our allegiance and adoration to Britney Spears, High School Musical, American Idol, Hannah Montana and countless others. We are guided, influenced and swayed to follow the every move of someone or something that the media deems “a star”. Sure, I know it’s not a new thing. I watched “The Partridge Family” when I was a kid. My female classmates in elementary school pored over Tiger Beat Magazine. And as the years go on, the manipulation intensifies.

I watched the Summer Olympics in 1972. In the years before cable television, we only received four channels, so there wasn’t much choice. The afore-mentioned Partridge Family was pre-empted, so we watched. I remember cheering that porn star-mustachioed Mark Spitz and his incredible swimming accomplishments. I remember my mom digging Mr. Spitz for other reasons, as highlighted in his famous poster. We marveled as deadpan Russian Olga Korbut executed impossible gymnastic routines. I also remember watching live coverage of the ominous horror as the Olympic Village in Munich was infiltrated by eight Palestinian terrorists. I watched the 1976 Summer Olympics from Montreal, where Romanian darling Nadia Comăneci simultaneously won the hearts of viewers and the highest scores from judges and made us forget Olga Korbut.
In between the two Olympics in the 70s, life went on. Regular television programming was resumed and interest in discussing the Olympics waned.
From 1980 until now, I have watched approximately three minutes of the Olympics. I thought about that. I have come to believe that the Olympics are much more popular in other countries than in the United States, much like soccer. The United States media attempts to whip up interest in the Olympics because so much money is sunk into it by advertisers and NBC. Unlike professional sports like baseball or football, where fans can follow a player’s career for years, Olympic participants appear in one (maybe two) Games and then retire from their sport. With each new Games, we are presented with new athletes and their stories about which we are expected to care. They are offered in such a way that we are told “these are the people you must watch for and care about.” We are commanded to watch sporting events that, aside from two weeks at the end of summer every four years, no one gives a shit about.
I have heard more stories about Michael Phelps’ facial hair and his daily calorie intake than I really care to. He seems like a good guy. I guess it’s a good thing that he can swim fast. I suppose winning eight gold medals is good. But he’s a swimmer! A swimmer, for Christ’s sake! A guy who swims in a goddamn swimming pool! He’s not a brain surgeon. He hasn’t cured cancer. And after his endorsements run out when the “next cool athlete” rolls around, he’ll be wearing a paper hat and asking if you’d like to try the hot apple pie.
The Olympic Games have grown to over 11,100 competitors from 202 countries. Have you been following the careers of these 2008 Olympic gold medal winners?
Samuel Sánchez
Masato Uchishiba
Satu Mäkelä-Nummela
Pak Hyon Suk
Chen Ying
Elena Kaliská
I didn’t think so.

The US Olympic Men’s Basketball team brought home an unprecedented nine gold medals between 1936 and 1984. In 1996, the previously amateur basketball team was comprised of the best-of-the-best of the NBA. They easily took the gold medal in Men’s Basketball. Yesterday afternoon, 2008 US Men’s Basketball teammates, Kobe Bryant and LeBron James giggled on the bench as they watched their team trounce the Australian team by 31 points. The Coubertin Medal is awarded to athletes who exhibit the spirit of sportsmanship. It is named for Pierre de Coubertin, founder of the International Olympic Committee, whose ideals are illustrated in the official Olympic Creed:
“The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.”

The original ideology of the Olympics was noble. The current ideology of the Olympics is bullshit.

*Footnote: My wife is watching the Olympics as I make this post. They just presented a story during Women’s Beach Volleyball (Yes, THAT’S an Olympic event). The story told about volleyball team member Misty May-Treanor and how she brought some of her mother’s ashes (as in cremated) to sprinkle at the volleyball venue in Beijing.
I hate the fucking Olympics.

The current challenge word on sugarfrostedgoodness.com is “mischief”.

In Northeast Philadelphia where I grew up, as in most places thoughout the United States, the night before Hallowe’en was recognized as “Mischief Night”. In the 1960s, the time in which I grew up, the so-called mischief was usually of the “prank” variety and, for the most part, harmless. At sundown on October 30, some neighborhood kids would mark up car windows with a bar of soap. They would toss an egg or two at a random house. They may unload a battery of toilet paper on a neighbor’s tree, entwining its autumn-bare branches in yards of Charmin.
One year, my brother sat in the darkness of our yard, poised with the garden hose in his hand, waiting patiently and silently for those young vandals. A group of kids approached my dad’s Dodge Dart and my brother let loose his deluge. The kids scattered. I don’t remember our house being a victim for years after.
While innocuous hijinks were the norm in my neighborhood, across the Delaware River in Camden, New Jersey, it was a different story. Beginning in the late 60s, things in Camden started to deteriorate. The Camden Fire Department started getting numerous false alarms and calls for trash fires. The seventies ushered in a period of significant civil unrest in Camden. The situation got dangerous for firefighters; people started throwing rocks and bottles at firefighters and their apparatus. This period of dangerous, at times riotous behavior spilled over into Mischief Night, which evolved into a much more destructive annual event. Every October 30th, hoodlums would do their very best to burn the city of Camden to the ground. Over 130 arsons were committed in Camden on the night of October 30, 1991. The next year, Camden started emptying the streets of potential troublemakers, busing thousands of teenagers to Halloween events outside the city. Camden officials also organized a massive police and fire presence, which along with a stricter-than-usual curfew, has helped tame Mischief Night.

The Sugar Frosted Goodness illustration blog has changed its challenges to bi-weekly and the challenge words are posted on Mondays instead of Thursdays. That said, the current challenge is “spots”.

Out, damned spot; out, I say. One, two,—why, then ’tis time to do’t. Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier and afeard? What need we fear who knows it when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

These words are spoken by Lady Macbeth in Act V, scene 1 in Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Lady Macbeth is sleepwalking through the castle. She is subconsciously thinking and feeling guilty about being the driving force behind the murder of Duncan. After the murder, Macbeth believed his hand was irreversibly bloodstained, Lady Macbeth told him, “A little water clears us of this deed”. Now, she sees blood on her own hands. She is completely undone by guilt and descends into madness.
“What need we fear who knows it when none can call our power to account?” she asks, asserting that as long as her and her husband’s power is secure, the murders they committed cannot harm them. But her guilt-wracked state and her mounting madness show how hollow her words are. So, too, does the army outside her castle. “Hell is murky,” she says, implying that she already knows that darkness intimately. It is implied, although not directly stated, Lady Macbeth commits suicide.

The current challenge word on sugarfrostedgoodness.com is “tiny”.

Herve Villechaize was born in 1943 in Paris. A malfunctioning organ would leave Herve at a full-grown height of just under 4 feet tall. Herve studied painting and photography at the famed Beaux-Arts Museum in Paris. At the age of 18 he became the youngest artist to ever have his work displayed in the prestigious Museum of Paris.
At the age of 21 Herve sailed to New York City. After teaching himself English by watching American television and upon immersing himself in the New York City art scene, he would eventually land roles in several off-Broadway plays. In his first notable movie role, Herve played Beppo in the 1971 comedy The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight starring Robert DeNiro. He wouldn’t experience his big break into show biz until 1974 however, when he landed the role of a tiny villain named Nick-Nack in the 1974 James Bond film The Man with the Golden Gun.
Herve moved to California, where he eventually hooked up with Aaron Spelling. Spelling would cast him opposite Ricardo Montalban on Fantasy Island. The show’s six season run made a household name out of his character, Tattoo, and injected his signature call of “de plane, de plane” into American pop culture. Herve’s newfound fame would lead him to command a whopping $25,000 per episode salary. Herve and his wife moved into a 2 1/2 acre ranch in the foothills of the San Fernando Valley. Soon, Herve began to sense he was not being treated as fairly as other Fantasy Island cast members. He responded by demanding the same money as Montalban, prompting ABC to drop Herve from the show.
Leaving Fantasy Island would prove to be beginning of his career decline. Herve, having blown through his Fantasy Island money, eventually had to sell his ranch in the Valley and move into a rental house in North Hollywood. His collapsing career and deteriorating health led Herve to the bottle. He would often consume two bottles of wine in a single night. While not that unusual for average sized people, it was detrimental to Herve as he tipped the scales at just 90 pounds.
Herve’s medical condition was worsening. With increasing pain from internal organs that were too large for his body, Herve was taking upwards of 20 pills a day to alleviate the symptoms. He realized that his body was beginning to shut down, and found himself fending off frequent bouts of depression.
In 1993 Herve’s luck would turn a bit towards the better. He found work in several TV commercials including a Dunkin Donuts spot that, despite his wishes to distance himself from his Tattoo days, found him asking for “de plain” “de plain” donut.
On September 3, 1993, Herve, accompanied by his common-law wife, Katherine Self, attended a movie screening in Hollywood. They later enjoyed dinner at a restaurant near their home.
In the early morning hours of September 4, Herve placed two sound-muffling pillows against his chest, and fired a pistol into them.

The challenge word this week on sugarfrostedgoodness.com is “star trek”.

I was never much of a Star Trek fan. I was five years-old when the original series premiered. I’ve seen it, on and off, in reruns for years. I have seen a few of the movies. I just never “got it”.
Whenever I hear “Star Trek” mentioned, I am reminded of an article by Gilbert Gottfried (yes, that Gilbert Gottfried) that appeared in National Lampoon Magazine years ago. The article was titled “How Not to Get Laid”. Gilbert listed the three places that a person had absolutely no chance what-so-ever of getting laid.
1. Any Star Trek convention
2. The lobby of any Star Trek convention
3. Anywhere within a ten block radius of any Star Trek convention.

….and only a true Star Trek fan will point out my error.