lessons learned

You know all those times when I write something about an incident involving Mrs. Pincus and her eBay business and I always add a disclaimer noting that she will not sell your stuff on eBay......? Well, here's why.

A little while ago, Mrs. P acquired a children's play table from one of her many sources. She has an uncanny knack for spotting things that she knows are desirable and will sell quickly. Granted, there are a number of items in her vast inventory that were obtained during the Clinton administration that are still waiting for their chance to be "re-homed," as they say. But, for the most part, Mrs. P will acquire an item and sell it within a reasonable amount of time.

Once a particular item is sold, it has to be packed securely and shipped to its new owner. Most of the items that Mrs. P sells are small enough to fit in a standard square or rectangular box. These are things like books, toys, jewelry and small kitchen gadgets. On the occasion that an item is large and awkward and oddly-shaped — like a children's play table — well, that's when things get a little more involved.  See, Mrs. Pincus acquired this table fully assembled. She knew, when the time came, it would have to be disassembled. Because the table did not come with its original box, a new box would have to be imaginatively created from the stockpile of other boxes that Mrs. P has collected. 

But, first, the disassembly portion...

I am not what you would call a "handyman." I can draw a handyman, but I can barely change a lightbulb or hang a picture. Our household toolbox consists of six or seven screwdrivers in assorted sizes, a hex key set that I think I used once and a couple of hammers — including a small lightweight example that is painted pink. Oh, and the "toolbox" itself is actually a small plastic beach bucket. It may even have Thomas the Tank Engine emblazoned on it. Needless to say, I have no plans to add a deck on to the back of my house or change an air filter in my car by myself. So, when the task of taking apart this children's table arose, I grabbed three of my screwdrivers and excitedly set to work. (That's what we, in the trade, call "sarcasm.")

The table had somewhere between thirty and a million screws holding it together. The object was to get this big, square, three-dimensional table to be as flat as possible. That would involve unscrewing and removing each of those million screws. and stacking up the colorfully-painted slats that formed the table. The first couple of screws came out easily, giving me a false sense of accomplishment. "This will be a snap!," I thought to myself. After quickly removing four screws, the fifth one spun and spun and spun in its little screw hole. If it was capable, I'm sure it would have giggled at me and my efforts to extract it. For the next hour or so, I struggled with these tiny screws. Some came out relatively easily. Others — most of the others — took much more concentration and a fair amount of elbow grease. I kept switching from screw to embedded screw, leaving several partly extracted while I worked on one of its colleagues. Mrs. Pincus suggested borrowing an electric screwdriver from her brother. I haven't spoken to my brother-in-law in nearly ten years and I wouldn't borrow a pint of blood from him if it meant another few hours of my life. As an alternate, my wife suggested asking if my next-door neighbor had an electric screwdriver I could borrow. This is a guy with whom I exchange waves when I arrive home from work. That's hardly the type of relationship that includes the lending out of tools. I waved off both suggestions and — eventually — I got all of the screws removed. The task stretched across two weekends, but after a little sweat, a little resolve and a lot of cursing, success was mine. At least for the first part of the "let's ship this table" project. Now, the thing has to be packed up.

Mrs. P and I toted the table pieces over to her shipping and packing facility just a few blocks from our house. First, we wrapped each piece in plastic and bubble wrap. Then, we measured and stacked and rearranged and fitted those pieces into a double-thick cardboard box that was fashioned — Frankenstein-style — out of pieces of other cardboard boxes. Together, we secured the table pieces into a tight and sturdy package, all held in place with miles of clear packing tape. When we were satisfied that the whole thing was capable of making the trip to the far reaches of North Carolina and would not succumb to the angry and careless hands of the good folks within the Federal Express shipping lanes, the box was hoisted up on the office scale for a final check of weight. The digital display confirmed that our little (well, not so little) parcel was within the "safe" bracket and would not incur additional "oversize" charges. Then it was off to the nearest Fed Ex office.

A few days later, Mrs. P got an email from the happy buyer. The table had arrived safe and sound. She complimented Mrs. Pincus on the stellar packing, noting how each piece was carefully wrapped and secured inside the box. She went on to say how she and her husband were assembling the table where it would provide their young daughter with hours and hours of educational fun... or something like that.

However...

The email concluded with a slight criticism. She scolded Mrs. P for not properly wiping off visible dust and smudges on the table's surface. She noted that there was a slightly sticky residue on the one of the slats. Although it was not visible, she could feel its tackiness when she ran her finger over the particular spot. Before concluding her email, she reiterated her complaints and recommended that — in the future — items be cleaned before shipping. As Mrs. P responded in the most humble and apologetic way possible, I offered a passionate "fuck you" which did not make the final cut of Mrs. P's reply.

Once again, eBay is much more that listing an item for sale then kicking back while the money rolls in. There is a lot of work involved. A. Lot. Of. Work. So... for the last time.... no! Mrs. Pincus will not sell your stuff for you on eBay.

So, stop asking.

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

the next voice you hear

At the end of the summer, my wife's trusty Toyota 4Runner finally gave out. After sixteen years of reliable, nearly maintenance-free service, it just couldn't proceed anymore. With over 160 thousand miles tallied on its odometer, accumulated on countless journeys, it was the final few miles of a return trip from Slaughter Beach, Delaware that finally did the dependable vehicle in. The non-specific "check engine" light glowed ominously until our mechanic revealed the old workhorse was in need of a new transmission, a costly repair for a car that was pushing two decades on the road. Totally taken off-guard, we made the reluctant decision to purchase a new car. 

Jane! Stop this crazy thing!

On Labor Day, we drove over to our local Toyota dealer, the same one where we purchased our last three cars, including my 2004 RAV4 that sat almost dormant for the 12 years I took the train to work. Once in the showroom, we were approached by the same salesman that sold us our Previa minivan when our 31-year old son was a toddler. The salesman, in typical salesman fashion, told us he remembered us. (He did not.) My wife had done some online research prior to our arrival and reserved a 2018 RAV4 (in red) for herself. Our salesman led us out to the lot and we all climbed inside this shiny-new, pumped-up version of my car – fourteen years newer and chock full of technological enhancements that weren't even considered when my car was easing its way down the assembly line. There was a back-up camera and blind-spot indicators and beeps and dings and other assorted noise that alerted the driver to critical circumambient happenings, as though it was the command center on a NASA rocket launch.

We made our purchase, signed and initialed a bunch of papers and soon, Mrs. P was presented with a giant plastic key fob emblazoned with the Toyota logo. It was explained that the car did not require a key to start the engine. The dashboard sported a lighted button that fired up the engine when pushed, as long as the driver had the fob somewhere on his or her person. My wife joked that she went from driving the Flintsone's car to driving the Jetson's car.

The most important update on the hulking dashboard, of course, was the sophisticated sound system. This computer-operated, digital-displayed system integrated Bluetooth technology, HD radio and the Sirius XM satellite subscription radio. With 30 optional pre-set stations and a large screen displaying a wide variety of information, this system was, at first, overwhelming to those of us who considered an in-dash cassette deck to be hot stuff. Although it wasn't officially presented to us, we found out that with our purchase, we received a free, three-month, trial subscription to Sirius XM satellite radio. Sure, it was cool, but we really only listen to one terrestrial radio station in the Philadelphia area – the one that, bias aside, employs our son. However, free is free, so we gave it a cautious shot. First we discovered a channel that plays only big band and swing classics from the 1940s. My wife and I are huge fans of the music of that era. A little more scouting around unveiled a channel that played only Beatles tunes. Then one that plays early New Wave songs from the early 80s. Then a Billy Joel only channel, hosted by the Piano Man himself. Then, Mrs. Pincus stumbled upon the Grateful Dead channel and it was as though the red carpet to the Pearly Gates were just rolled out for her. A scenario that included twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week of Jerry Garcia and his psychedelic pals was the clincher. Mrs. P was officially spoiled.

After enjoying weeks and weeks of Sirius XM, the pending end of the trial period loomed large. The regular price of continuing the service was outrageous, as was affirmed by a number of emails reminding us of the termination of the free subscription. However, the longer we waited to make a decision, the sweeter the deals became. First, Sirius started dropping the price a little bit with each email. Then, the length of time of the proposed subscription was extended. Then, a combination of lower price and longer time period. Sirius didn't want us to leave, so they finally took a page from the Don Corleone playbook and made us an offer we couldn't refuse. My wife opened an email that enticingly put the price at fifty bucks for six more months and they'd throw in a free Amazon Echo Dot, something with which were were only vaguely familiar and were pretty sure we didn't need. But, we took the offer and we took the free Echo Dot and within two days I found myself setting up this little lighted hockey puck that plugged into the wall.

Talk to me.

Two years ago, we made a major leap into the world of advanced entertainment technology. We bought – not one – but two high-definition flat-screen televisions and signed up for the magical X1 service from Xfinity Cable. The new system came with a sleek black remote control that would respond to voice prompts. I felt kind of stupid talking to a piece of plastic, especially if I was asking to see the latest episode of Sam and Cat. I use the feature infrequently, as there are many other options to make the television do the exact same thing. Honestly, I feel more comfortable pressing a series of buttons than telling the remote what I want to watch... especially when I am by myself. Now, we have a new gadget in the house that is operated by voice commands. Granted, it was essentially free, but we still felt obligated to use it. (Actually, Mrs. P wanted to sell it on eBay, but I thought it would be cool and convinced her to keep it.)

The future is now.

Following the brief, simple set-up, our new Amazon Echo Dot was ready to heed our every command. According to write-ups and explanations about the Echo Dot's capabilities, it could control our television, control our house lights, operate and set our burglar alarm, lock our doors, adjust the heat, see who is knocking at our front door, answer our phone and a plethora of other time-saving duties. But, none of those things in our house are compatible with or equipped for the state-of-the-art technology of the Echo Dot. Instead, we are limited in its potential. Disappointed that our home was not immediately transformed into the Monsanto House of the Future (on display in Disneyland from the late 50s until the late 60s), we were relegated to having the Amazon Echo Dot perform a few amusing tricks. At this point, it was a novelty, like a little trained seal that can do a bit more that balance a beach ball on its nose. Activated by starting each command with "Alexa" (the so-called "wake word"), we get a daily report on the news, the weather, what are our choices for the evening's television viewing and other basic information. We have asked "Alexa" various trivia questions like who played a particular character in a movie or in what year did a certain event occur – questions that could easily have been answered by a few taps on our omnipresent cellphones. We have installed several "skills" (Echo's version of "apps") that allow "Alexa" to tell us daily celebrity birth and death anniversaries. We can also have "Alexa" provide musical entertainment via WXPN (our favorite radio station) or even through our new Sirius subscription. We discovered that "Alexa" can tell jokes, sing songs and recite poems all in her pleasant, weirdly-inflectioned, otherworldly female timbre – somewhat unnervingly reminiscent of HAL 9000.

"Alexa, hi."

To be honest, we are enjoying our time with "Alexa." For the first week, my wife was determined to change "Alexa"'s name to "Janet," after the adorable and obedient android on the quirky TV series The Good Place, to no avail. (The device is pre-programmed to respond to either "Alexa," "Computer" or "Echo" exclusively.)

Resigned to the fact that a name change is impossible, Mrs. Pincus is now focused on trying to get "Alexa" to say "fuck."



www.joshpincusiscrying.com

now it's time to say goodbye to all our company

In the summer of 1980, I made my first trip to Walt Disney World.... and I didn't even want to go. 

I had graduated from high school just a year earlier and hadn't yet decided what I wanted to do with my life. My friends had all taken the expected educational path and were enrolled in college. But not me. I was working as a cashier at a clothing store as I pondered a suitable (and lucrative) direction for my career. I considered going headfirst into retail — except I hated it. I had been drawing since I was a child, but the thought of making a living at it was inconceivable. I had always heard of the proverbial "starving artist" and I didn't want that to be me.

My friends and I began kicking around ideas for a trip — our first collective vacation sans parents. As summer was approaching and the school year (at least for some) was drawing to a close, a vacation sounded like just the thing we all needed. We quickly dismissed a week in Atlantic City, as that was the "go-to" option we were compelled to take for most of our lives. We wanted to really go somewhere. Somewhere to which we'd never been. We all agreed on Florida, but where exactly in Florida was a point of contention among us. I voted for Fort Lauderdale, lured by my older brother's tales of flowing beer and bikini-ed girls. My friends Alan and Scott suggested landlocked Orlando, home of Walt Disney's variation on his "Disneyland" theme. I frowned at the idea. "An amusement park?," I whined, "I don't want to spend a week at an amusement park!" I was debated and cajoled until I finally relented. Little did my 19-year old self know that by agreeing to go to Disney World, my feelings for all things Disney were about to do a complete one-eighty.

I scraped together every spare cent I could and even had to borrow the last few dollars to purchase my very first airplane ticket. Soon, my friends and I found ourselves face-to-face with actual palm trees of which we had only seen pictured in geography books. Our rental car took us to the ritzy (in our perception) International Inn, dead center on the main drag of bustling International Drive in Orlando, a thoroughfare so exotic in our sheltered eyes that it boasted an International House of Pancakes at either end of the street. We were definitely not in Philadelphia anymore. We checked into our room, tossed our luggage where ever it landed and headed out to the first liquor store we could find. Unlike Pennsylvania, where the state-run Liquor Control Board holds a tight grip on the distribution and sale of distilled spirits, alcohol flowed freely and was as readily available as Coca-Cola (or in Florida's case — Mr. Pibb). And four rambunctious, uninhibited Yankee 19-year-olds took full advantage.

Twenty bucks including tax.

On our first full day in Florida, my friends and I stuffed ourselves with the fine offerings from Davis Brothers breakfast buffet (where a mere five bucks allowed me to eat more waffles in one morning that I had eaten in my entire life up to that point). We piled into our rental car and tooled on over to the Magic Kingdom, the only Disney theme park in Central Florida at the time. We made sure we each had our coveted two-day, all-inclusive Magic Kingdom "Passport" that we had purchased under the guidance of  the travel agent with whom we had arranged our trip. Yessiree! Our "passport" would allow full access to every attraction the Magic Kingdom had to offer without having to fuss with those pedestrian "letter" tickets. As we passed through the turnstile, our admission ticket was hand-stamped by a smiling young lady in a Disney-branded plaid vest and skirt. I began to feel a twinge of actual excitement breaking through my previous "vacation cynicism." This was pretty cool. And perhaps, I thought to myself, this place is something more than an amusement park. The combination of a loud, steamy tooooooot from an old-fashioned train just above our heads, the low tones of a unseen calliope, the distinctive rhythmic tinkle of ragtime piano chords, the scent of fresh popcorn and the sweet aroma of flowers was putting my senses into euphoric overload. A grin stretched across my lips as I scanned the free park guide map, trying to decide which attraction would be my inaugural foray into an eventual lifetime of Disney.... hell, I'll say it.... obsession. I raced with my friends up Main Street, weaving around the crowds, making a slight left toward the path marked "ADVENTURELAND" in decidedly primitive-looking letters arranged across a wicker arch that spanned the walkway. Jungle drums beat out an ominous cadence. Giant palm trees bent down, creating a cool, secluding canopy that effectively blocked out the gaiety on Main Street, a mere fifty or so feet away. We tackled The Swiss Family Treehouse first, making our way up and down the narrow rope-and-plank staircases that threaded through the enormous trunk. On first glance, the whole thing is quite impressive, but, when you realize that not a goddamn thing in the entire place is real — that's when it hits you just how impressive Disney World is. It was the kick-off of a surreal day filled with rollicking pirates and singing bears and spinning teacups and gas-chugging race cars and 999 happy haunts and eighty dolls singing small world after all.

Gotta have 'em.

At the end of my first taste of the immersive world of a Disney theme park, my friends and I made our way towards the exit, but not before an obligatory stop at The Emporium — the largest gift shop in the Magic Kingdom. Excitedly, I sorted through the bins and displays and racks of Mickey Mouse-emblazoned tchotchkes. I began grabbing everything! And I do mean everything! Buttons! T-shirts! Pens! Posters! Magnets! I started filling a shopping basket as my bewildered friends marveled at my behavior. They had never seen me so... so.. possessed, at it were. They also seemed curious as to why I was wasting precious beer money on black felt Mouse ears with "Josh" stitched across the back. When the dust finally cleared, I lumbered out of the store with several bags brimming  with all sorts of Disney treasures.

And that's where it all began. My hobby. My pastime. My collection.

I visited Walt Disney World many more times after my initial trip, including my honeymoon and a wintertime vacation when Mrs. Pincus was about six weeks pregnant. Actually, when I met the future Mrs. Pincus, we each had a small collection of Disney items from previous theme park visits. Her family had been to Disneyland in '68 and to Disney World just after its 1971 opening. When we married, our collections were merged in much the same way as her Grateful Dead albums were placed alongside my Queen albums, but without as much cacophony.

Each visit yielded more and  more Disney items added to "the collection." What had once been a little assembly of cute figurines, novelty buttons and a smattering of ephemera on a single shelf in a spare room now swelled to three full bookshelves and soon an entire room and it showed no signs of receding. Books and toys (still pristine in their packaging) stood meticulously positioned alongside vintage glassware and novelty lunchboxes, all distinct in their inclusion in the Disney canon.

Our Disney collection was expanding almost at the same rate as Disney expanded their theme park roster worldwide. Of course, we obtained items from Tokyo Disneyland, Disneyland Paris, Hong Kong and the Shanghai locations, as well. My wife and I were always on the hunt for that elusive object that we didn't even know we were missing until we saw it. We had housewares and mugs and records and the much-sought-after "cast member" items... oh, all kinds of stuff. Guests at our house would smile, and yet, scratch their heads, pondering why two adults would have a roomful of kids' stuff. In their defense, it was a pretty good question.

Just before our son was born, the entire collection was moved (by me — in a single night) to a heretofore empty room on the third floor of the home we had purchased a few months earlier. Of course, we purchased a lot of Disney toys and related items for our new baby, as did family and friends who figured that he had no choice but to become a "Disney Kid." Our son E's room was subtly appointed with Mickey Mouse and Winnie the Pooh, in both plush and plastic formats. We watched Disney video tapes as a family and E was a fan of cable TV's fledgling Disney Channel. As E grew up, he would often ask people whose houses we visited if he could see their "Disney Room." He just assumed that every house had one. His house did, as well as the standard living room, kitchen and bathroom, so why wouldn't they have a "Disney Room?" When his requests for a tour were met with confusion, I suppose that's when he figured out his parents were not like other parents.

Over the course of thirty or so years, between numerous vacations to Disney World, Disneyland, Disney merchandise outlets, Disney Stores, eBay auctions, flea markets and collector shows, our "Disney Room" grew and grew and grew. It became legendary among friends, relatives, friends of friends, coworkers and other acquaintances. At our yearly "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert soiree, invited guests would climb the two flights of stairs to the third floor of our house and cram themselves into the ever-shrinking space in the center of the "Disney Room." With each passing year, the walls seemed to close in a little more and fewer people could fit in the room at the same time.

(click to enlarge... if you dare)

When my parents passed away in the early 1990s, I became concerned about what sort of mess my son would be left with when my wife's and my time on earth has run its course. I certainly didn't want to leave a house full of shit like my parents left me. While our house is way more orderly than the chaotic shambles my parents called "home" (and stocked with way cooler stuff), Mrs. P and I toyed with the notion of thinning out our household accumulations — including our beloved "Disney Room." With our 60th birthdays looming in the not-too-distant future, we really gave "liquidation" some serious thought.

Then, this past February, came the unthinkable. I lost my job. At 56, it was quite scary. Not knowing when my next employment would begin, my wife and I tightened our belts, swallowed our pride and started in on the bittersweet task of dismantling and selling off a lifetime — our lifetime — of Disney memorabilia. At first, it was hard. Very hard, as a matter of fact. I scanned the room and reluctantly cherry-picked a few nondescript items. A book. A die-cast car. A yo-yo. A doll. My wife, who has maintained an eBay store over twenty years, patiently schooled me on the ins-and-outs of listing items on the world's largest internet auction website. The first weekend of our "little project" was admittedly tough, but as the days went on, it was actually a freeing and fun experience. I began to gather up items with zeal. I was not nearly as discerning as I was when the project began. Certainly not as discerning as when I was originally buying the stuff. I was on a mission and that mission was clearing those shelves to both generate income and not leave an abysmal burden for our son. Every weekend afternoon, my wife and I sit side-by-side and list our prized possessions. And little by little, the room is noticeably emptying. For the first time in thirty years, I am able to see the backs of the shelves. Some surprising items are generating interest, while others — ones I thought would be most sought after — are ignored by what is obviously a new crop of collectors who don't share the same sense of nostalgia as Mrs Pincus and me. There is activity among DuckTales and TaleSpin items, a Disney cartoon that was popular when I was 26, so there's this "window of opportunity" for the older, more collectible pieces that may have closed when were were still happily admiring our accumulation. Nevertheless, the majority of our collection is selling at a fairly brisk clip.

Am I sorry to see the stuff go? Not nearly as much as I thought I'd be. As a matter of fact, as the weeks go on and more of our collection is sold, I am less and less concerned. Recently, my son had the opportunity to give the Disney Room a "once-over," grabbing stuff that he had singled out and desired over the course of his lifetime — stuff that, at one time, was off-limits to the touch of a child's hand. He took a mini Pirates of the Caribbean music box from Tokyo Disneyland that he had been eyeing for years. (Actually, my wife had to yank it from her eBay store, as it was already available for sale.)

If you have ever been to my house — I'm sorry — but the "Disney Room" is no longer accepting visitors. If there was something you saw on a shelf that you secretly wished you could own, now is your chance. Take a look at the Disney items available in Mrs. P's eBay store and auctions.

There's enough stuff to fill a room. But it's going fast.

Click here for a panoramic view....that no longer exists.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

any colour you like

Earlier this week, the United States Treasury Department announced plans to remove the portrait of Andrew Jackson, the seventh President of the United States, from the twenty-dollar bill and replace it with the image of Harriet Tubman, the courageous and defiant freedom fighter and fierce proponent of the Underground Railroad. Andrew Jackson, who has only graced the monetary note since 1928, was the owner of over 500 slaves. He fought and won the bloody Battle of New Orleans in which 285 British troops were killed and nearly 500 hundred were captured. Unfortunately, The Treaty of Ghent — that ended the War of 1812 — had been signed several weeks earlier. He started wars with many tribes of Native Americans and, as President, he signed the Indian Removal Act of 1830, forcing tens of thousands of Native Americans off of their land.

When the news of the redesigned twenty-dollar bill was made public, Twitter and other media outlets lit up like a bunch of racists igniting Southern-purchased fireworks on the Fourth of July. I could not believe the amount of blatant, unbridled bigotry I was seeing in my Twitter feed. There were feeble references to "tradition" and "respect" regarding Andrew Jackson coupled with flat out insults and historical unfamiliarity and misinformation in reference to Harriet Tubman. It made me think that all of the talk of "equality" and "opportunity" and "inclusion" and "freedoms" are just bullshit as far as a lot of people in this country are concerned. I see textbook examples of those types of people during highlights of every "Donald Trump for President" campaign rally. Those people, waving their flags and throwing punches at anyone who doesn't look like they do, are the voice of the racism and prejudice that exists in our great nation.

The thought of bigotry makes me nauseous. Partly because it's just wrong to arbitrarily discriminate against people because of their skin color, national heritage or religious beliefs. Partly because my father and grandmother regularly discriminated against people because of their skin color, national heritage or religious beliefs. It was something I grew up with, something I knew was wrong and something from which I promised to distance myself.

Colorful.

So, after a full day of monitoring my little corner of the internet spew its racist opinions about something as insignificant as whose picture is on money, as though a change will disrupt the delicate balance of..... whatever,* my work day ended. I boarded my train and came home. My wife met me at the train station. As I got into her car, she told me that she had sold a large Little Tykes climbing structure that my nieces had outgrown. Mrs. P had listed the piece on a local Facebook "yard sale" page and it sold almost immediately. The toy was in my in-laws' backyard and a couple were coming to pick it up shortly.  She needed some help maneuvering the awkward and bulky piece to a more convenient spot near the driveway. Once we got to the yard, we decided to take a shot at disassembling the structure and we were successful. When the buyers showed up — right on schedule — they were happy to fit each piece in the back of their SUV.

The toy had, in reality, belonged to a friend of my mother-in-law. A very nice woman that I know well. At least I thought I knew her well. After the transaction was completed and the happy buyers were on their way, my mother-in-law called her friend as were gathered around the kitchen table for a quick dinner. Although the phone was cradled and pressed close to my mother-in-law's ear, we easily heard both sides of the conversation. My mother-in-law explained that Mrs. P has sold the piece and the method through which the sale was made. We could hear squeals of approval and a few questions about the condition of the piece and the about the buyers  — including one question that made me bristle.

"Were they white?," she asked. We heard it clear as crystal.

I was dumbfounded. The purchase was made and the buyers were happy. I couldn't understand what their race could possibly have to do with.... with..... anything. The only color that mattered was that their money was green.

That's really the only concern that anyone should have with whose picture is on it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


*Hey! Remember when quarters began sporting different state imagery for over a decade? Didn't destroy us, did it?

wish I could be part of your world

Despite not having young children nor participating in the celebration of Christmas, Mrs. P and I found ourselves in the thick of the holiday shopping frenzy. Killing time before a snowstorm predicted for our area, we ventured into a nearby Barnes & Noble Booksellers. My wife had a printout of an emailed offer from the book retailer and I came along to peruse the books and novelty sections. Although our son is 26 and moved out of our house over a year ago, I still purchase toys — to accessorize my home office and work office, as well. The shelves of my office are jammed with figurines depicting cartoon pals from my youth and more recent film characters (Quick Draw McGraw and Jonny Quest stand cheek-by-jowl with Norman Bates and Cherry Darling, Rose McGowan's machine gun-legged seductress from Robert Rodriguez's schlockfest tribute Planet Terror.) Earlier in the day, I picked up a small figure of Fred Flintstone, complete with Royal Order of Water Buffalo hat, which will occupy a prime piece of shelf space this coming week.

Barnes & Noble was bustling. Parents were selecting educational gifts for their youngsters, along with the obligatory frivolous toy... and B&N is not short on frivolous toys. A few years ago, the fine folks at Funko - the West Coast toy manufacturer noted for their character bobbleheads - introduced a new line to their roster of pop culture icons called Pop! Vinyls. Like the bobbleheads before them, Pop! Vinyls are 3.75" tall representations of your favorite superhero, TV character or other iconic member of the fictional world. At Barnes & Noble, the colorful boxes were piled high on shelves and on the floor. Customers, young and old, scanned the window-fronted display boxes looking for their favorites. My wife and I hung back behind the small crowd that had gathered by the figures — children in bulky winter coats upfront, Moms and Dads on cellphones at the back. I, however, wanted to look at the stock. Perhaps there was one that would feel at home on display next to the small plastic Mr. Flintstone.

My wife commented on how cute she found the figures. The man standing next to her - cellphone wedged under his chin, his arms trying to wrangle the many boxed figures he was precariously balancing - agreed with her aloud. Then he elaborated.

"I got my kids The Little Mermaid and Cinderella ones. We gave them to friends who were going to Disney World and they got The Little Mermaid and Cinderella to autograph them. They signed 'em right across the heads!" He was quite proud of his ingenious accomplishment.

My wife asked, in a whisper, "Do your kids still belive in Santa Claus?"

"Oh no!," he laughed heartily, "They're way too old for that!"

Now let me get this straight. They are past the age of believing that a man in a red suit delivers toys to every child in the world in one night in a reindeer-powered sleigh, BUT they are perfectly fine with believing that a pretty teenaged girl who is working her way through college by wearing a red wig and fish fins on a float in a theme park parade is the actual Ariel from her namesake cartoon from a quarter-century ago... and her glass-slipper wearing BFF, too.

"Please let me in."

My wife replied, "Y'know, you could have just signed it yourself." with an uncharacteristically sarcastic tone in her voice.

The man smiled and said, "Yeah, well, our friends were going to Disney World anyway."

Mrs. P awkwardly smiled, wished him a "Happy Hoiliday" and slunk away. I joined her... right after I picked out Russell.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com