ignoreland

When Mrs. Pincus and I first got married, we were out shopping in a local mall. As we exited a store and were strolling in the common area, I saw a familiar face coming up on us. I pointed the fellow out to my wife and said, "See that guy? I went to high school with him." Mrs. P smiled and asked, "Are you going to say 'hello' to him?" I turned to her and, with furrowed brow, replied, "No! I never liked him in high school." We continued walking. My former classmate-in-question walked right by us and I didn't even glance in his direction. It was right then and there that I fully discovered my superpower.

I can ignore anyone.

With very little effort, I can pretend as though any person, at any given time, is totally invisible. This has included (but not limited to) family members, co-workers, salespeople, solicitors, homeless, those people — toting a clipboard or iPad — who stop you on the street for "a moment of your time" and strangers in the car next to me trying to get my attention. I can look right at someone and at the same time look right through them as though they weren't even there. 

Just a few hours ago, I went to the supermarket. I parked, got out of my car and started towards the store, when I received an alert on my phone. I stopped and fished around in my pocket for my phone. I extracted the phone from my pocket and saw it was just a notification that someone "liked" a recent post of mine on Instagram. I put the phone back in my pocket and continued into the store. Inside, I grabbed a shopping cart and reached for the shopping list I had compiled before I left the house.

It wasn't in the pocket I swore I had put it in. It wasn't in any of my pockets. I checked them all and I checked them all again. Dammit! It must have fallen out when I grabbed my phone. I pushed the shopping cart I had selected over to one side and began to retrace my steps to find my shopping list. This was very important, because without that list, I couldn't remember a single item I came for. That is why I made a list. 

I turned, making my way to the front doors. Right then, in walked my sister-in-law and my niece — right through the door that would be my exit. My sister-in-law has been the bane of my family's existence since she began dating my brother-in-law over twenty years ago. By this point, I should be calling her my ex-sister-in-law, except my brother-in-law is too goddamn lazy to divorce her. They have been separated for years. My brother-in-law has been living on my in-law's den sofa for the past four years. He moved into their house right around the time we were made aware of COVID-19 and a pending pandemic. My brother-in-law quarantined at his parent's house and never left. His estranged wife... well, I don't know where she was living, and frankly, I don't care. All I know is: I haven't seen her in almost four years and here she was — going shopping at the same time and place that I chose.

When my brother-in-law and sister-in-law were married and cohabitating, I could very easily sit at the same dining room table at my in-law's house and not speak a word to her. I don't believe I have spoken a word or even acknowledged her presence in a dozen or so years. That's right... years.

And now, here she was, not five feet away from me. Suddenly, my superpower engaged. Just like Clark Kent whipping off his glasses and tearing the buttons off another dress shirt, my eyes focused somewhere out in the parking lot. I walked right past them and continued my quest for my misplaced shopping list.

Sure enough, I spotted the folded list right where I expected to find it. It was laying on the ground in the spot where I had earlier checked my phone. I picked the paper up and, with it firmly held in my fist, I went back into the store. 

My first stop would be the produce section, where I would find bananas, the first item on my list. In my peripheral vision, I could see my sister-in-law lingering near the display of bananas. I decided to make bananas the last item on my list. Instead, and going against my regular shopping procedure, I made almond milk the next item I would get. I headed towards the dairy section at the rear of the store. My list would be filled backwards. When all of the items I needed sat safely in my cart, I grabbed that bunch of bananas and stealthily worked my way to self-checkout. I scanned, paid and was out of that store in just under twenty minutes.

And I never crossed paths with my sister-in-law again.

Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound? My ass! How about a useful power, Superman? You know you really don't want to talk to Batman ever again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we can be heroes

Let me preface this by saying "I am not a comic book guy." I didn't read comic books when I was a kid. With very few exceptions, I don't like movies or TV shows based on comic books. I have seen only a handful of movies from the Marvel and DC franchises and, again with few exceptions, I didn't care for any of them. It's funny. I've had friends, family members and other acquaintances recommend a particular comic book movie, touting "This one is different! You'll like this one!" Against my better judgment, I watch and — sure enough — it is not different. It's a comic book movie. And I am once again reminded that I don't like comic book movies.

As a matter of fact, I can only identify a few of the colorful characters depicted in the image at the top of this blog post. So, what gives me the qualifications to write a piece about comic book characters. What gives me the qualifications to write about anything I don't know about?

My wife and I were out in the neighborhood on our regular after-dinner, early evening walk. We strolled past a newly-opened store that, by the stock visible thorough their large front window, is an art gallery of sorts. (Actually, this place hasn't actually had its doors open to welcome customers in weeks. Even during the days leading up to Christmas, the place is dark and a large metal grate is pulled down across the entrance and secured with an imposing and impenetrable padlock.) The window is cluttered with all sizes of prints, paintings and colorized photographs of celebrities, along with out-of-place framed Philles and Eagles logos.

As we walked past the store, I spotted this print in a corner of the window.

I just glanced at it at first, but then, I stopped and went back for a closer inspection. Apparently, these superheroes have taken a quick break from their busy agenda of philan.... philan.... uh... good deed doing to.... um.... relieve themselves against a wall, à la Who's Next. I pondered this print for way to long. I stopped Mrs. P, who had already proceeded on her walk, nearly making it past the newly-reopened (but currently closed) neighborhood ice cream store. I summoned her back to answer some of the questions now forming in my head, brought on by this stupid print in the window of a closed (and not long for this world) art gallery. Mrs. Pincus is more of a comic book fan than I am. If you get right down to it, almost everyone is a bigger comic book fan than I am. Mrs. P is partial to Superman and the Fantastic Four. I know this because we have seen cinematic entries in the canons of the both properties, both in first-run theaters and on television. I remember trying to stay awake during one of the Fantastic Four films and thinking how Brandon Routh was a poor replacement for the late Christopher Reeve in DC's attempt to revive interest in the Superman saga. (To his credit, Routh was serviceable in the recent Hallmark Christmas movies featuring the one and only Ambrose the cat... the real star!)

I pointed to the picture and asked: "Do superheroes need to go to the bathroom?" This sparked quite a debate. One that took up way too much of our time, but considering that we have had lengthy discussions regarding the use of Jeannie's powers versus the use of Samantha Stephens', this was not anything unusual. (Welcome to the world of the Pincuses!) I began to think, despite my admittedly limited knowledge of all things superheroes. The one thing I do know is: one so-called "super" hero that has no actual super powers at all. Technically, he's just a guy in a costume with a bunch of highly-advanced gizmos. That guy's name is Batman. Obviously, Batman has to pee sometime. Because I am not now nor have I ever been a reader of Batman comics, I can only assume that the Caped Crusader has not been depicted using the porcelain facilities in the colorful pages of a printed book. I know that was never shown or even alluded to in the campy 60s TV series (which, as a five year-old, I watched religiously). However, I cannot speak for the current trend of grittier, more adult-oriented stories and subject matter that apparently pervades today's comic publications. So, because Batman is human and was not subjected to gamma rays or a spider bite nor is he a strange visitor from another planet, who came to Earth with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men — he pees. It's the other ones I'm not so sure about.

Superman, for instance. Since he is an alien, there is no way of knowing if he eliminates bodily waste in the same way as humans. Sure he eats and walks and does other humanesque things, but how are we to know if the Kyptonians were so evolved that the simple process of urinating was replaced with something more sophisticated and less.... primal.

A lot of superheroes started out as humans, but were subjected to an overexposure of laboratory chemicals and/or rays, either accidental or intentional. Sure, we got to see the results of such a mishap in Dr. Bruce Banner's anger or Barry Allen's speed. But, how can we assume that normal bodily functions weren't also affected by the same chemicals or rays. We can't. Has the Hulk ever stopped for a bathroom break during a heated session of smashing? Has the Flash every paused to tinkle in the middle of a high-velocity pursuit? I don't really know. As far as Captain America, Steve Rogers was definitely human. He was injected with a laboratory controlled regimen of "super soldier serum" to make him the ultimate human specimen. While he may have suffered from a back full of "steroid acne" like Barry Bonds and Mark McGwire, he certainly was capable more than just hitting a lot of home runs. I'm fairly sure that Bonds and McGwire still continued to urinate during their record-breaking seasons, but I cannot confirm or deny Captain America's bathroom visits.

By the same token, did the radioactive spider bite that gave poor Peter Parker his arachnidical abilities affect his urinary system? I read that spiders don't produce urine like humans, but do produce uric acid in solid form (hence to be known as "spider poop.") So, if "A + B = C," then Spiderman shits but does not piss. (Actually, I felt a glimmer of hope when I misunderstood Peter Parker's inner dialogue as "My spider sense is tinkling." I was disappointed all over again when I was corrected.)

Other heroes, like Martian Manhunter, Silver Surfer and Hawkman, fall under the same category as Superman. They are aliens. Since the creators of these characters were free to make up any sort of lifestyle functions they wished, bathroom requirements were, most likely, either not taken into consideration or ignored entirely. Wonder Woman, being an Amazon, can also be given "non-human, so human qualities do not apply" status.

As I have explained, I am by no means an expert on superheroes. I'm not even a novice. Perhaps someone can come forward and clear up this controversy once and for all. But, please... I beg you.... don't tell me how much I would enjoy Avengers: Endgame. Unless it ends with everyone excusing themselves to go to the bathroom.... I won't.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

taking care of business

For over 20 years, Mrs. Pincus has sold stuff on eBay, the popular online auction/marketplace. Before you ask... no, she will not sell your stuff for you. We have enough "merchandise" to sell that will last a lot longer than the time we have left on earth. However, if you like to see some of the items that are currently up for auction, please... stop reading now and click HERE. You can come back to this story anytime. But you may get outbid on that one elusive treasure to complete your collection.

Now, when most people hear that my wife sells stuff on eBay, they wrongly assume that she quickly lists thousands of items and then sits back while the money rolls in. Hardly. Listing items is a tedious, repetitious and time-consuming task. But, it doesn't end there. There are endless questions from prospective buyers. Questions that could very, very easily be answered if the buyer would only read more than the first three words of the auction title. Mrs. P is very careful to include pertinent information for each item (color, dimension in inches, sizes for clothing). Unlike some sellers on eBay, she no longer includes an extended, flowery description — opting instead to post pictures of the particular item, taken from several angles. (A picture is worth a thousand bids, as they say in the online auction game.) Nevertheless, no matter how long or short the description, Mrs. P regularly fields questions like "What color is this?" or "What size is this shirt?," despite the answer appearing in the title or the first sentence of the brief explanation of the item.

Then, there's the packing and shipping of the items once they sell. Mrs. Pincus maintains an office near our home that serves as a merchandise warehouse and packing center, stocked with boxes and padded envelopes and tape and bubble wrap. My wife is a regular face at our local post office, making trips there three times per week. So it's a job, my friend. A real live job. Just like the one you go to and complain about every day.

The other thing Mrs. P has to deal with — just like at your job — is assholes. Yep. They are everywhere. While the majority of eBay transactions come off smoothly, every so often, some jerk pops up and causes unnecessary trouble. (Just like at your job.) There are folks who make up elaborate stories about bidding on items by mistake. ("My two-year old bid on this when I wasn't looking." or "I was putting my phone in my pocket and I accidentally bid on and paid for this item.") Mrs. P treats them with courtesy and in the most professional manner, although they are all lying thorough their fucking teeth.

Then there is what is referred to as "buyer's remorse." This is when a purchased item arrives and it is not what the buyer envisioned (although each auction displays numerous pictures of the item). Or, the buyer has second thoughts about buying the item in the first place. Both of these usually evoke some sort of made-up tale of damaged packaging or a flat out lie about the item never arriving. Both of these scenarios are usually accompanied by a demand of a full refund of the purchase price. This is when "buyer's remorse" becomes "mail fraud." 

And then there are times when the unbelievable occurs.

Some time ago, Mrs. Pincus sold a small figurine of DC superhero Green Lantern to a buyer. The figure measures a few inches tall and is meant to stand on a shelf and be observed. It is not an action figure for play, as it is affixed to a base and is constructed from solid piece of molded plastic. 

A week of so after the Green Lantern was paid for and shipped, Mrs. Pincus received an email from the buyer, explaining that the figurine arrived broken. As per my wife's usual procedure for items allegedly damaged in postal transit, she politely asked for pictures of the afflicted figurine in question. At first, the buyer balked and offered the lame excuse that he did not have a camera — a situation that no longer exists in the free world. After a little email back-and-forth and a bit more coaxing, the buyer sent one picture. This picture, as a matter of fact...

Mrs. Pincus and I marveled at this photo. We felt like we were playing one of those "Spot The Differences" games from Highlights for Children magazine we loved as children. First off, this is a picture of an action figure with articulated arms and legs. The original figurine that my wife packed and shipped had non-moving appendages. The green color of the costume is different. The costume configuration is different. The sculpting of his little muscles is different. (If I may draw your attention the the figure's groin area [I beg your pardon!], you will seen the green color extends down to the figure's upper thigh. In the original figurine that my wife sold and shipped, everything from the waist down is black. The green ends at the abdomen. What I'm trying to illustrate is — this guy sent a picture of a broken Green Lantern figure he happened to have lying around. (Remember that thing about "mail fraud" I mentioned? Insert that here.) Mrs. Pincus immediately reported the entire episode to the good folks at eBay's fraud department. They took care of the rest.

We can only imagine that we ruined this guy's intricate international Green Lantern action figure Ponzi scheme, assuming he must have a stockpile of broken Green Lanterns and various disconnected arms and legs.... and my wife foiled his evil plan.... or something like that.

I guarantee this won't be the last eBay flim-flam story. It certainly wasn't the first.

***** UPDATE *****

Thanks to a head's up from a loyal reader of this blog, it appears that this motherfucker was scamming us worse than originally imagined. The picture that he sent to Mrs. Pincus to accompany his claim of the broken action figure wasn't even his picture! It was nabbed from an online article about repairing broken action figures, published a few years ago. See for yourself HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

at the late-night, double feature picture show

The experience of going to the movies has greatly improved at the same rate that the movies themselves have declined. When I was a kid, in the 1960s, going to the movies meant paying a buck for admission to a theater jammed with other screaming kids on a Saturday afternoon. It meant buying a giant bucket of popcorn — some to be eaten, some to be thrown. It meant a shitty sound system with barely-understood dialog pumped through ancient, crackly speakers. And the movie? Well, in my neighborhood, we had to wait several weeks until the big Hollywood productions made their way out of the ritzy, downtown theaters and into the twin-screen cinemas in the so-called "Greater Northeast," a section of the city that, while geographically was "northeast" of Philadelphia, was, by no means "great." So, our entertainment was provided by a movie that the rest of the world saw a month earlier or a years old, third-rate K. Gordon Murray twisted child fantasy. Nevertheless, it was a memorable experience. 

By the time I reached high school, the first-run policy had been relaxed and movies would premiere just a short drive from my house, in theaters that had been expanded to accommodate up to four separate screens. Most times, this was accomplished by splitting existing auditoriums in half. Economically, this made perfect sense for the theater chains, but the viewing experience was akin to watching a movie in a bowling alley. The ticket prices increased, of course, to subsidize the renovations, but the seats seemed more comfortable and the concession stands seemed to offer a wider and better selection of food.

Although I love movies, I stopped going when the ticket prices skyrocketed and the quality of the actual films diminished. There was that glut of big-screen versions of television shows — mostly miscast and filled with contrived premises. Then there were the plotless action films with more attention paid to explosions than to an actual script. So, I stayed away. Also, thanks to the advent of home video,  people just flat out forgot how to behave in the company of other people. They'd talk loudly, text incessantly and parade up and down the aisles regularly. Some even brought screaming children to inappropriate films. My son and I watched a couple wander into a theater pushing, not one, but two strollers for a 9:15 PM showing of Hellboy. Really, Mom and Dad? Hellboy?

Then theaters began installing stadium seating and sophisticated, state-of-the-art sound systems. Concession stands were stocked with menus featuring deli-style sandwiches and side orders like french fries alongside the M&Ms and popcorn. The auditoriums were even cleaner. Shoes no longer stuck to the floor while walking to a seat. It was slowly becoming a welcoming experience again, albeit very slowly. My wife and I, however, could still categorize our movie-going frequency as "infrequent." 

Last night, Mrs. P and I took in the pinnacle of the movie-going experience. A local branch of the innovative theater chain Movie Tavern opened in late 2015 a mere twenty minute drive from our house. I had heard about how great it was, with a full-service bar, restaurant and movie theater combined into one big, convenient conglomeration. Not content with a package of Twizzlers and a bathtub-size cup of Sprite? Well, how about sweet potato fries, Margherita Flatbread pizza or a 1/3 pound bacon cheeseburger while you watch your choice of films on your choice of eight screens? Remember John Travolta's revelation in Pulp Fiction as he explained about getting a glass of beer in a movie theater? Well, Movie Tavern makes that reality. Yes sir, someone was doing some thinking and they hit upon a concept so simple, I'm surprised it took so long.

Yeesh!

Mrs. P and I were led to our reserved seats by Kyle, an overly-friendly and overly-attentive server. Kyle answered all of our procedural questions without once mocking us for behaving as though we had never been out of the house. He showed us the control to make the deep-cushioned seat recline to almost a flat position. He showed us the magical "call button" that would summon him at a second's notice. (Mrs. P immediately tried it out while he was still going through his explanation.) We ordered dinner and I anxiously pondered how disruptive the food delivery would be. Soon the theater darkened and, as coming attractions splashed across the enormous screen, a warm bowl of spinach-artichoke dip silently arrived at our seats. This was gonna be great! The main feature began. (Despite horrible reviews, we were seeing Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice. I hate superhero movies. My wife loves superhero movies, I love my wife, ergo...) Our main course arrived just as stealthily as our appetizer — a hefty and delicious roasted vegetable wrap for me and a grilled portobello mushroom "burger" for the Mrs. In the dark, we exchanged approving nods for the food, the seats, the service and the theater. We agreed that we may never go to another movie theater again. If we can get them to serve Chinese food on Christmas, this place could be as close to Heaven as one could get.

The movie, however, was another story. Jam-packed with convoluted sub-plots, faux-profound dialog, relentlessly lengthy fight scenes and a plethora of unnecessarily menacing characters (not to mention Ben Affleck's ligneous acting), it's no wonder this 151-minute mish-mash tanked in its second week of release. Even Mrs. P — who still enjoys 1983's misguided Superman III — shook her head in disgust at this mess.

Current movies still suck, but, damn!, if Movie Tavern don't got it goin' on.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com