oh no, I said too much

Last week, we got a new laminating machine at work. Without going into too much unnecessary detail, a laminating machine laminates (duh!), that is applies a protective barrier to the 54" wide sheets of self-adhesive vinyl that is an integral component of my job. 

Mmmm...kay?

One morning, I arrived at work to find an unfamiliar man assembling the new laminating machine in the warehouse area. I greeted him with a friendly "good morning" and he nodded in my direction, paying more attention to the task at hand. I opened the door to the Graphics Department and made my way to my desk. An hour or so later, the man wheeled the new machine into the graphics workroom to the space previously occupied by our old laminating machine. My boss and I joined him in the workroom for a training session. The three of us gathered around the new apparatus like the townspeople of Anatevka marveling at Motel Kamzoil's new sewing machine. The man — who resembled Mike Judge as he appeared in Office Space — nervously tugged at his company-required tie, cleared his throat and began his overly-rehearsed training speech.

Actually, before Mike Judge started, he asked: "Which one of you will be taking notes and which one will be taking pictures?" My boss and I looked at each other. Neither one of us had any plans for note taking nor could we imagine what part of the training would need to be preserved with photographic evidence. I obligingly grabbed a legal pad and took my cellphone out of my pocket, clicking open the "camera" app in the process. I suppose this little display of interest satisfied Mike Judge, as he commenced.

I was told to take this picture.

The tone of his instruction was very stilted. He spoke to us as though we were bewildered elementary school students who had never laid eyes on a commercial laminator before. In reality, our old laminator — the one my boss had been using for the last fifteen years and had just trained me to use — was still just a few feet away. He pointed to the buttons and dials on the control panel — explaining in repetitive detail — the purpose of each one. Several times, Mike Judge told me to "write that down" without specifying exactly what he wanted me to write down. He hefted a roll of laminating material onto one of the aluminum receiving rollers and fit it into the proper position. Again, Mike Judge stopped and asked, "Did you get a picture of that?" "Of what?," I thought to myself, snapping a picture of nothing in particular.

Suddenly, in the middle of threading the laminate through the specified path in the machine, Mike Judge turned to tell my boss and me that he was awarded "Salesman of the Year" and honored with his photo on the cover of a trade publication. (Laminator Monthly, perhaps?) Then he quickly switched back to "training mode." My boss and I silently exchanged confused looks. 

After he passed the material under and around several rollers, Mike Judge stressed the importance of safety regarding the operation of the machine. He explained that most accidents on this machine happen to women, because they are not paying attention to what they're doing — always talking and distracted by something else. He emphasized "women" in this statement. Once more, I traded an uncomfortable glance with my boss.

At the end of our training, Mike Judge told us that his company's machines are designed to accommodate people with handicaps. "Y'know," he expounded, "there are people in wheelchairs and some with amputated or deformed hands and arms...." I blotted out the rest of his sentence. I wasn't interested in where he was headed with this.

Mike Judge asked which one of us would like to take a spin at a solo run on the machine, he gestured to my boss first, deeming him the less experienced member of the graphics department. Actually, my boss has been employed here for over twenty years and I just started this job a few months ago. But, since I have white hair and am older than my boss, Mike Judge just assumed..... Once the confusion was cleared up and we each got a chance to demonstrate our prowess on the new machine, Mike Judge packed up his belongings — his narrow-minded, antiquated, inappropriate, sexist way of thinking — and headed for the exit.

Once Mike Judge was gone, my boss asked me, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Then he added, "Sure you are."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let the jerk-offs clean it up

I have been writing this blog, in one form or another, for nearly seven years. When I first began, I was invited by another blogger to contribute to his existing blog. I was flattered, but since my main focus was maintaining my illustration blog, my offerings were infrequent. After the untimely demise of the original blog, I created my own version. I actually enjoyed writing about the mundane things I see every day, the usually unnoticed quirks and foibles exhibited by people, the weird sights I have spotted and the funny situations I have encountered. I also began to realize that this blog has become a sort-of therapy, a cathartic outlet for frustrations and outrage. Although I am not a writer by trade (and I don't pretend to be), the act of putting aggravation into the written word can be a comforting release. But the main goal of my blog is to be funny. If you, dear reader, don't think it's funny, be assured that I do and, in all actuality, I write this thing for my entertainment, not yours.

However...

Although cloaked by the powerful anonymity of a pseudonym, I am still not entirely free to write about anything I like. Believe it or not (if you are a frequent reader of this blog - God bless you), there are certain subjects that are off-limits. You see, I know some people who read this blog regularly. People with whom I have a personal relationship. There are some topics and incidents that would elicit bad feelings — very bad feelings — if I were to elucidate in a public forum.

Oh, I can be sneaky though. I have written about touchy subjects with slight changes to the actual scenario. I have changed names and twisted around timelines, but the gist of the story remains fairly clear. Mostly, I embellish by injecting humor, but still am able to make my point and satisfy my original grievance. See, I still know who the stories are about, but the unknowing main character remains clueless. I have dropped subtle hints alluding to actual incidents and people, most of which only I am aware. A handful of readers get the reference and are suitably amused. That's the fun part.

Sometimes, I don't have the ability to cleverly camouflage the particulars in a story without revealing who I'm writing about. I have avoided publishing several stories because they are far too offensive and potentially damaging to either a specific person or my relationship with a specific person I have described. I usually get away with my cryptic references, because only I know what I mean. But I don't always have that luxury. Sometimes, I just have to completely pass on a subject in order to keep and maintain the peace. Sometimes, I have to write about how much I hate snow or a bad restaurant experience instead of a serious, personal injustice that I would prefer to scream about.

A while ago, I coined this proverb that I use quite often: "Everyone can act like an asshole, but if you act like an asshole, then you're an asshole." Some people just behave like total arrogant, entitled, self-centered jerks. But they are the first ones to be angered and offended by someone exhibiting the exact same behavior. Because of behavior like that, I am kept from writing about certain scenarios.

So, if you continue to read my blog (and I hope you will), be warned. If you are confused by the roundabout way in which I approach certain subjects, I may be writing about you.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

tuxedo junction

Winter is finally giving way to nicer, milder weather. And as the days get longer and the temperature rises on a daily basis, the school year begins to wind down. While most students are contemplating summer camp or a special family vacation, high school seniors are setting their sights on the grown-up world of the future. The future has a looming menace about it. An uncertainty that can be pretty confusing — even frightening — to a seventeen-year-old who spent the last decade in the protective cocoon of book reports and recess. So, the last thing that these adolescents need is another administrative, power-wielding adult telling them what is appropriate attire for the senior prom.

As far as proms are concerned, tradition dictates that the boys wear a tuxedo — and pretty much anything with silk lapels passes as a tux, even if the accessories include a pair of well-worn Nikes. Girls are expected to wear something that falls into the very broad category of "formal dress." Some schools and school districts have gotten very precise about the depth of necklines and the height of hemlines and the form-fitting tightness of the dress itself. For some reason (known only to school board officials), there is more scrutiny of girls apparel than boys. I suppose they are just happy that boys have the decency to put on long pants for a few hours. Girls, albeit unfair, are held to a higher standard. Over the years, school administrators have become increasingly adamant about gender-specific dress codes, asserting that it needs to be reinforced and maintained, lest the delicate balance of society be thrown towards an unspeakable demise. Even if the formal wear is made of an unconventional material (like duct tape), as long as the girl wears a dress and the boy wears a tux, our safety is protected.

It seems that each new "prom season," brings another news story about a girl wishing to wear a tuxedo to the prom. The community is aghast. The school bans the young lady from attending in male-specific clothing. An uproar ensues. The local news station sends out a camera crew. Everyone behaves as though a girl wearing a tux is the harbinger of the apocalypse. Just this week, a story about Claudetteia Love, a student at Carroll High School in Monroe, Louisiana, was initially banned from the prom because of her desire to wear a tuxedo. The school's principal  firmly stated, " 'Girls wear dresses and boys wear tuxes, and that's the way it is." Love, an honor student who happens to be gay, was furious over the decision. Several teachers stood behind Love and, through protest and solidarity, the policy was eventually relaxed.  Love was granted permission to attend the prom – tux and all. Similar stories have crept up every year, some with different outcomes, but always the same controversy.

I don't get all the fuss.

"Come on down,
you'll find me there"

In 1979, as my senior year was winding down, my thoughts turned to my own prom. I didn't have a girlfriend and I wasn't dating anyone on a regular basis, so I knew my prom date would not be of the romantic variety, merely a friend. At the time, I worked as a cashier, and the only male employee, in a women's clothing store. (My mom was the store manager. Never turn your back on a little nepotism.) I had become friendly with the assistant manager, Randi. Despite our constant battles stemming from her love and my abhorrence of disco, we got along pretty well. Randi, who was two years my senior, was a sweetheart. She was also one of those girls who had to go to as many proms as she could. She attended a senior prom when she was a junior, her own senior prom and one the year after her graduation. She made it very clear that she wanted to be my date for my prom. I was her "in" to one more high school gala. She also made it very clear that, instead of buying a dress that she'd never wear again, she wished to wear a tuxedo — one that matched mine, as a matter of fact. Without giving the notion a second thought, and being the die-hard nonconformist that I was (and still am), I just said, "Sounds okay to me."

Together we went to a tuxedo rental store. The place was jammed with guys my own age milling around, looking at the formal offerings on display on the many racks. Randi was the only female there (not counting some guys' mothers). Her inquiry to a salesman about renting a tux was only met with an amused smile and a couple of  side comments of "That's neat!," but nothing derogatory or insulting. Nobody screamed or fainted or told us we were going to hell. They just cleared out an area of the fitting room so Randi could have some privacy while trying on her tuxedo choices. The night of my prom, we danced, laughed, mingled and had fun. We even noticed a few other girls wearing tuxedos.

That was 36 years ago. And, believe it or not, the world didn't end.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com