i'm beginning to see the light

We moved into our house on Labor Day weekend 1986. That's nearly forty years ago. In that time, I have changed a lot of light bulbs in our house. 

Every so often, when I am in the main bathroom in our house — or even when I just walk by the open doorway to the bathroom, I glance up at the odd ceiling fixture and I think: "I don't think I have ever changed that light bulb." Sometimes, I find myself staring at it for way too long, wondering..

1. How a light bulb can last so long. That bulb had to have been originally screwed in to its socket by the previous owners, the couple we bought our house from

2. If I do have to ever change that light bulb, how on earth will I get my hand up into the long glass shade to get the bulb out

3. Why am I pondering this light bulb non-dilemma when have to get to work?

... then, I just go about my business, often putting a little speed into my step because I wasted so much time unnecessarily contemplating a light bulb.

Just the other day,  I was in the bathroom getting ready to go to work. I was leaning over the sink, brushing my teeth, when the lights dimmed — ever so slightly — above my head. I stopped mid-brush and looked up. The lights seemed fine. I returned my attention to my dental hygiene, and, once again, the lights flickered. And then they flickered more. And then, with the sun outside not yet up at 5:20 AM, I was plunged into total darkness. I stopped what I was doing. I spit out the foamy toothpaste in my mouth and dropped my toothbrush in the sink... and I let out a long, exasperated sigh to myself.

Before heading to the basement to check on the Pincus utility closet's lightbulb inventory, I hopped up on the edge of the bathtub to determine if the light bulb really needed to be changed... like l'm some kind of licensed electrician. I leaned over precariously, keeping a firm grip on the shower rod to prevent Mrs. P's discovery of a nasty scene when she awakens a few hours from now. I carefully fitted my hand up into the glass shade protruding vertically from the bathroom ceiling. The opening was just big enough for me to get my hand inside, but it was difficult to employ the digital dexterity required to extract this light bulb from its socket. Determined, I slowly rotated the bulb with the tips of my fingers pressed against its smooth glass surface. It was a slow and tedious process, but I finally was able to turn it enough times so as to release its threaded base from the receptacle. The bulb dropped into my hand. After all, there was little space for it to drop any place else. I examined the bulb. The glass nearest the metal base was darkened, most likely from the burnt filament that had once proudly illuminated our bathroom for so many years. The spent bulb was marked 60 watts. I noted the size as I started for the basement.

Downstairs, I rifled through the shelves of extension cords and cleaning products until I located our stock of light bulbs. We had a full box of 100 watt bulbs, a partial box of 100 watt bulbs and a box where the size had been torn off, yet was identified as "40 watts" in black marker in my handwriting, something I must have done years ago but could not recall exactly when as I stood shirtless and barefooted in my pajama bottoms holding a burned-out light bulb at five-thirty in the morning.

Disappointed with the selection at hand, I chose a 40 watt bulb. I climbed the stairs back up to the bathroom. This time, I brought a chair from the living room to stand on, as I no longer trusted myself on the edge of the bathtub where I would be working like one of the Flying Wallendas without a net. With the same patience I used to remove the old bulb, I inserted the new bulb in a display of skill that was slightly trickier in reverse. The words of Ginger Rogers commenting on the extra effort she was forced to utilize when dancing with Fred Astaire suddenly came to mind. The task finally completed, I flicked the light switch and the room was once again bathed in light — 20 watts less than previous, but bathed just the same.

When I got home from work, I went upstairs to our third-floor office where my wife was busily listing items  in her eBay store (no, she won't sell your stuff for you). I related the tale of changing the light bulb to Mrs. P, asking if she thought the bathroom light seemed dimmer. Before she answered, she produced a 60 watt bulb from a nearby desk, where it had been sitting in reserve, just waiting for the bulb in one of our desk lamps to blow. I frowned, but took the bulb downstairs to install it in the bathroom fixture. I repeated the steps — slow turns and all — until the bathroom once more glowed in 60 watt luminescence.

Forty years went by without a change of light bulb in our upstairs bathroom. Today, I changed it twice.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i know a place

You may not know it, but you are looking at the greatest parking spot on the planet Earth. Gaze upon it. Relish in its glory, Marvel at its very existence. This, by the way, is a very, very rare photo of this parking space without a car parked in it. But, rest assured, it will be occupied as soon as I finish taking this picture. Guaranteed.

Where — you may ask — is this coveted, exalted parking space? Why, it is right in front of my house.

My wife and I moved into our house on Labor Day weekend 1986. My wife regularly parked her car in our driveway. I would take the curbside space that was adjacent to our driveway, directly in front of our house. I began to notice that, on any occasion that I moved my car — to go to work or for just a quick trip to pick up a pizza — someone would immediately pull into the parking space in front of my house once I vacated it. I could be gone for eight hours, a full weekend or just a few minutes. When I returned, there was always — always! — a car occupying the space in front of my house.

For twelve years, I took the train to work, leaving my car parked in front of my house — untouched — for five days. I would rarely drive anywhere on weekends, but if I did — to pick up dry cleaning or to claim a package at the post office — the space would be taken when I got back. I started to take my wife's car on short errands, so as not to give up my parking space.

If correctly spaced, there is room for three cars between my driveway and my next-door neighbor's driveway. If the allotted space is not divvied up correctly, the available space is not big enough to accommodate a car. But, that doesn't seem to matter. On many occasions, in an effort to park in the most wonderful parking space in the world, cars have been carelessly left by their drivers with the rear bumper extending a foot or more into my driveway. I often wondered if the violators assessed their parking skills and have determined that they are fully within their rights to block my driveway. I wonder if they get out of the car, look at how much of their rear bumper of their car is not within the safe, legal confines of  a parking space, and think: "Yes. This is fine. I will leave my car here, because I don't care if the folks who live at this house and own the car parked in the driveway will need to move said car during the time my car is parked here." And then they leave. 

Every so often, I watched from my front door as someone pulls into the space and shimmies back-and forth until they are satisfied with the parking job they have achieved. When they exit their poorly-parked vehicle, I emerge from my house and tell them that they are blocking my driveway. Never — never! — have I ever received an apology, followed by the person sheepishly returning to their car to seek another spot in which to park. No, no, no! I am usually met with an angry reply of "You can get out!" to which I very calmly counter "You are blocking my driveway. If you leave your car there, I will call the police." This retort elicits an exasperated grumble from the driver, a lot of head-shaking and, eventually, a relocation of the offending car by way of gunning the engine and screeching away from the curb. 

I have left notes on the windshield of cars that I didn't catch in the act only to find my handwritten message crumbled up in a ball and laying on my front lawn.

My wife and I have been cursed at by drivers who, wanting so desperately to park in the greatest parking spot in the world, have parked across the apron of our driveway because there was already a car in the space. (Usually it's my car!)

I don't know what it is about this parking space that makes it so desirable. There are other spaces available up and down my street. But there is something about the space in front of my house that attracts cars before all of the other spaces on the block. There are no special services that come with parking there — no blockades, no barriers, no valet. There isn't a free car wash or oil change as though you are leaving your car at the airport. It's just a parking spot.

One day, during the time that I took the train to work and my car would sit for days (or weeks) at a time, I found a note under the windshield wiper. Scrawled on a torn piece of paper was a... a... threat from someone who, in direct violation of the Tenth Commandment, ordered me to "move my car so someone else could park there."

I sometimes think I am unreasonably obsessive (re: nuts) for wanting to park my car in front of my house. I won't even park my car in front of my next-door neighbor's house if that spot is available and the one in front of my house is not. I like to think he would afford me the same courtesy if the situation was reversed. (Surprise! He does not.) I was once asked (actually demanded) to move my car from the space in front of my other next-door neighbor's house. She referred to that space as "her space." (There is not designated parking anywhere on my street.) Ironically, she (or visitors to her house) has blocked my driveway numerous times over the years. But, it seems, I am not nuts. No, not at all. It appears that everyone — everyone! — just wants to park in front of my house.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

little shop, little shop of horrors

This story appeared a few weeks ago on my illustration blog. I wrote it after I read that actor Jonathan Haze passed away. Jonathan was the star of the original 1960 version of the non-musical film "Little Shop of Horrors." However, the story is actually about my relationship with my mom. I had a great relationship with my mom and this story illustrates it very well. If you already read this story on my illustration blog... thanks. If you didn't... here it is.  — JPiC

Many, many years ago, my mom’s friend Arlene recommended a film called Little Shop of Horrors. She told my mom, in a phone conversation, that she had stumbled upon this little gem while trying to find something to watch during a late-night bout with insomnia. Arlene settled upon this quirky little flick after watching a scene that was riddled with references to the Yiddish humor she had heard as a child. Arlene explained to my mom that the film was somewhere between a science-fiction tale and the stand-up comedy of Borscht Belt comic Myron Cohen. In the days before VCRs, Netflix and other instantaneous home media, we would just have to wait until a repeat showing of Little Shop of Horrors popped up on a local UHF station. (UHF? Ask your parents.) 

A week or so later, my mom spotted a Saturday afternoon showing of Little Shop of Horrors in the daily TV listing of our local newspaper. My mom and I shared a wicked sense of humor, so based on Arlene’s account of the movie, it was right up our alley. My mom and I often bonded over eclectic comedy. We would watch episodes of the (then) newly-discovered Monty Python’s Flying Circus and — quite literally — roll on the floor in uncontrollable peals of laughter… much to my father’s chagrin. While we tried to catch our collective breath, my dad would glare at us and, bark, “I don’t see what’s so funny? I can’t understand a goddamn thing they’re saying!” He’d go back to chain smoking his Chesterfields, reading his newspaper and getting angrier and angrier as my mom and I continued laughing.

Jackie Joseph, Mel Welles, Jonathan Haze
and the ubiquitous Dick Miller

On Saturday afternoon, my mom and I sat down in our den to watch Little Shop of Horrors. My father was off in another room, listening to a Phillies game on the radio, smoking cigarettes and staying well out of earshot of our potential laughter. The film began and within minutes, we were laughing. Between the deadpan opening narration parodying the popular Dragnet format and the dialogue involving a bereft character slyly named “Mrs. Siddie Shiva,” our laughter had progressed to hysterics. As the film continued, it got goofier and goofier. There was a giant man-eating plant, a wildly-masochistic dental patient, a climactic chase through a toilet factory and all sorts of the Jewish humor that Arlene had told my mom about. The cast featured Jackie Joseph, a character actress who frequently showed up in sitcoms and whose distinctive child-like voice was often heard in cartoons like Josie and the Pussycats, as well as a host of unknown actors from producer/director Roger Corman's stock players… including an up-and-comer named Jack Nicholson (as the aforementioned dental patient). “Seymour,” the sad sack main character, was a typical “mama’s boy.” The role was played by Jonathan Haze, the former Jack Schachter from Pittsburgh, who was pumping gas in Southern California when he was offered a role in a Z-grade picture called Monster from the Ocean Floor.

For the next one hundred and eleven minutes, my mom and I laughed and laughed at the improbable antics unfolding in Mushnick’s Flower Shop. There were some overt horror aspects to the film, but overall, it was a hoot and, although presented in earnest, it was definitely played for laughs. 

Years later, my mom and I were surprised when an off-Broadway musical (a musical!), based on this silly little low-budget horror-comedy, was generating a buzz. We were doubly surprised when the off-Broadway production was made into a big-screen musical with Steve Martin, John Candy and Rick Moranis in the role of nebbish “Seymour.”

Jonathan Haze, who originated the role of “Seymour,” passed away this week at the age of 95. Although his published obituaries noted his appearance in Little Shop of Horrors as the pinnacle of his career, he actually enjoyed a career that spanned six decades. Jonathan appeared in over 20 films, including a dozen produced by his friend Roger Corman. He also wrote scripts for a science-fiction parody, as well as an episode of the hipster drama 77 Sunset Strip.

Jonathan also gave my mom and me some hearty laughs.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it was just my imagination

I have known Mrs. Pincus for 42 years. We have been married for 40 of those years. I don't mean to brag, but, I have never in my life met a more compatible couple than the two of us. That sounds like a pretty nice compliment, although it could just as well be interpreted as no one else could possibly get along with either one of us for that period of time. Eh... let's just go with the compliment.

Even though we didn't meet each other until we were in our early 20s, we had similar experiences growing up. We had completely different family dynamics. I lived in a working-class neighborhood in the far reaches (although still within the geographical boundaries) of the city limits. She lived in a decidedly more affluent suburb. Her father was gregarious and often anxious to take the family on regular vacations. My father never wanted to go anywhere. Our last vacation taken as a family was when I was seven. After that, I was on my own for travel plans. But, locally, Mrs. Pincus (before she was "Mrs. Pincus") and I (I was still me) went to a lot of the same restaurants, a lot of the same movie theaters, a lot of the same department stores and some of the same local entertainment complexes.

Philadelphia is in close proximity to Hershey Park, home of the world-renowned Hershey candy factory. When I was little, there was a small amusement park near the factory. Back then, visitors were permitted to tour the actual factory and see actual vats of boiling hot chocolate until someone realized that this was not a good idea. A simulated tour was constructed and the small amusement park expanded. My parents took me there. We also went to a tiny amusement park about ten minutes from my house where six-year-old Josh Pincus thrilled to kiddie rides years and years before Walt Disney World was conceived. The future Mrs. P also went to this amusement park as a child. Perhaps we crossed paths and didn't even know it.

The alleged location

Over the years, my wife and I  have had many conversations, reminiscing about the different places we visited as children. Those conversations always — always! — feature a mention of a place called Care City. Care City, according to my wife, was a small amusement park in small town called East Norriton, Pennsylvania — a tiny municipality in Montgomery County that I didn't know existed until I moved into Montgomery County when I got married. Care City, as Mrs. P recalls, was comprised of mostly kiddie rides, including kiddie swings that were pulled by a pony. Mrs. Pincus gets misty-eyed when she talks about Care City, staring off into the distance, visualizing childhood memories of tiny merry-go-rounds and small boats that went in circles in a real pool of water and, of course, those swings. The conversation usually winds up somewhere else. Mainly because, I kind of steer it someplace else. You see, before I met my wife, I never heard of Care City. No one I knew ever heard of Care City. A simple "Google" search yields no evidence online about Care City. I started to believe that Care City was not a real place and that it only existed in my wife's memory.

A week or so ago, we were out with my son and his girlfriend on a fairly long car trip. Our conversation bounced around from subject to subject until Care City breached the conversation. My wife started to explain to my son's girlfriend all about the wonderous Care City, until I interjected with a typical "Josh Pincus" curveball. "Alleged Care City," I announced with a palpable tone of skepticism in my voice. Mrs. P frowned, dismissively countering that "Josh doesn't believe Care City existed."

Exhibit A

My wife has been clearing out stuff from her parents' house in a futile effort to get them to move to a dwelling more manageable for folks of their advanced age. Tucked away in a pile of assorted and unrelated papers, Mrs. P discovered a merchandise bag from — you guessed it! — Care City! It was yellowed and, at some point she had written on it and glued some construction paper squares on it, but there were the big. bold letters proclaiming this non-existent locale as well as the specifics of its location and a few highlights of one's visit to the place (like a delicacy known as "French Fried Hot Dogs"). She proudly brought this bag home to show me... and by "show me" I, of course, mean waving it in my face. But that was not the end of the Care City saga. Not by a long shot. Josh Pincus still needed some shuttin' up.

On Saturday, we had dinner with our friends Consuelo and Cookie. Consuelo grew up right near East Norriton. Mrs. P asked her about Care City, until she realized that Consuelo is 15 years younger than we are and Care City did not exist in her lifetime. (Until recently, I didn't think it existed in anyone's lifetime!) My wife's explanation of Care City was something of an inspiration for Consuelo. After dinner, she immediately posted in an East Norriton Facebook group (well, of course there's one!) asking some of the older members of the group for any information about Care City.

The comments and responses exploded! Evidently, Care City held a special place in the collective memory of many... not just Mrs. P. One person elaborated that it was situated on land owned by the Care family and a different family owned, operated and maintained the rides. At last count, over 40 different people shared their fond memories of beloved Care City with details and anecdotes as clear and concise as though it still occupies the northwest corner of Germantown and Dekalb Pikes. Of course, it doesn't.

But it did. It really did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com