Sunday, January 30, 2022

I've got gadgets and gizmos a-plenty

Kitschy appliances were all the rage in the 60s and 70s. And my mom had her fair share of them. Sure, she used her trusty electric skillet most often. She'd make her own spaghetti sauce and would brown a pound or so of ground meat in her electric skillet before adding it to the sauce. She used her electric skillet to make hamburgers, fry chicken and, at Passover, she'd use it to make matzo brie (fried matzo), one of the few things I like about the springtime Jewish holiday. The electric skillet was always out, always on display on the counter of our avocado-colored kitchen, because it saw so much regular cooking action.

My mom had a pressure cooker, too, and that also got plenty of use in the Pincus kitchen. At least once a week, my mom would stuff that pressure cooker with little cubes of beef, cut-up vegetables and homemade dumplings. Then, she'd clamp the lid down tight and, several hours later, she would extract the most delicious beef stew you or I ever tasted (of course, this is a biased opinion).

But, aside from those two cooking aids, our kitchen boasted a number of appliances that got very infrequent employ, some just a single use. A lot of these appliances were obtained at our favorite appliance outlet — Million Dollar Pier on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk. For those of you familiar with Atlantic City in its 1960s heyday, you are probably wracking your brain to try to remember an appliance store among the rides, food stands and sideshow performances. Well, there wasn't one, so you can stop. I am, of course, referring to the various Wheels of Chance that encircled the perimeter of the amusement pier, as well as those that dotted the actual Boardwalk. These games involved a giant wheel with at least a zillion individual spots delineated by metal pegs. After placing a nickel (later a dime, and then even later, a quarter) on a corresponding spot on the counter of the stall, the game operator would give the oversized arrow in the middle of the wheel a big spin. The excitement would build as the blurred arrow whizzed around and around until it slowed and eventually stopped — where its rubber pointer would indicate the winner for that round. I was always given the opportunity to choose which lucky spot would hold our coin for a particular round of the game. Would I choose a color or a number or one of the  many choices of three letter names like "ART" or "BOB" or "MOM?" Aside from the excitement the wheel generated, the stand itself was a spectacle. The rear shelved section of each of these booths was jam-packed with brand-new, in-the-box, brand name appliances punctuated with large, brightly-colored signs that read: "EASY TO WIN!" and "YOUR CHOICE!" In reality, it wasn't easy to win and my parents would often spend too much time and too much money trying to win an unnecessary appliance that would end up costing three times the price they would pay if they just went to our local discount department store. But where was the thrill in that? However, no trip to Atlantic City was complete without an extended encounter at one of the wheels. 

My mom won a Presto Hot Dogger one summer. TV chef Alton Brown cautions viewers to avoid "unitaskers" in the kitchen, referring to novelty cookware that serves just a single purpose. He says that every item in your kitchen should be able to perform a multitude of tasks — save for a fire extinguisher, the only "unitasker" he says is permissible. Well, the Presto Hot Dogger is the unitasker to top all unitaskers. This little device accommodated a half dozen standard size hot dogs and, once there were curved and placed in position, made the cumbersome, strenuous, time-consuming chore of cooking hot dogs a thing of the past. The hot dogs, held in place by impaling their little tips on two dangerously pointed (and wired-for-electricity) spikes, tasted like you'd imagine licking a newly-unplugged electric plug would taste. But, they were cooked in a fraction of the time — if you call that "cooking." No amount of ketchup, mustard, relish, onions or even sauerkraut could mask the unmistakable flavor of 110 volts of household current. But we ate them, because it was the 70s and that's how Madison Avenue told us we should be cooking hot dogs in the "modern age." After a few uses, the Presto Hot Dogger was relegated to the hall closet and my mom went back to filling a big pot with water and boiling hot dogs when they were requested for dinner.

Another acquisition from the shelves at Million Dollar Pier was a waffle iron. My dad was most excited about this... probably because he didn't have to actually prepare the waffles. That was left to my mom. Every so often, my mom would surprise the family on a Sunday morning by making pancakes in her reliable ol' electric skillet. She could churn out those little golden beauties at an alarming rate, keeping my dad, my brother and me satisfied with an always-tall stack of hot cakes before each of us, often replenished before being asked. When we each had our fill, we'd vacate the kitchen table, leaving my mom to clean up and enjoy the last few pancakes by herself. But waffles.... that was a different story. That required an extra step, one my mom wasn't exactly thrilled with. She didn't mind making pancakes, but waffles... well, those were just square pancakes. The process of filling each little square reservoir with batter, closing the lid, watching a timer, gingerly removing the finish waffle without tearing... well, that was just... just.... stupid. Soon, my mom placed the waffle iron next to the hot dogger and the Pincuses went back to eating pancakes.

Useless appliances weren't just specific to the kitchen... or to my mom's exclusive usage. Nope! One day, my dad won a Schick Hot Lather Machine at Million Dollar Pier. That thing sat in a place of honor on the bathroom counter, next to a couple of bottle of my dad's after-shave and my mom's prized atomizer of Giorgio. The Schick Hot Lather Machine was loaded with a standard size can of ordinary shaving cream, but after plugging it in, it released a wad of slightly warmed cream, just like you'd get at your local barber shop.... as though my father ever let his barber shave his face. The Schick Hot Lather Machine lasted, in regular usage, for as long as it took to use up one single can of shaving cream. After that, my dad went back to shaving with cream straight from the can... and the Schick Hot Lather Machine joined its kitchen pals in the hall closet.

When my parents passed away in the early 1990s, cleaning out their house was quite an undertaking. Apparently, my parents never threw anything away. When the hall closet was opened, it was as though we were hovering behind Howard Carter as he entered King Tut's tomb. Fittingly, that closet looked like its contents had been touched since 1922. There was a long-forgotten collection of one-time used appliances that hadn't seen the light of day since the Nixon Administration.

A fire destroyed the then-closed Million Dollar Pier in 1981. So much for making a return.

Sunday, January 23, 2022

I would've liked to know you, but I was just a kid

I was driving home from work yesterday. I was listening to my favorite radio station, as I do most every evening on my commute home. It is a commercial-free public radio station that plays an eclectic mix of new and old, popular and obscure and features music from all sorts of genres. A little before 5 PM, the drive-time DJ played "Right On Time," a 2021 release from Grammy Award-winning singer-songwriter Brandi Carlile. When the song ended, I heard the opening notes to a song I had not heard in years, perhaps decades. It was one of those moments where I knew I knew the song and quickly tried to rush ahead — in my mind — to a chorus or familiar part of the song to identify it. As the singer sang, the lyrics came to me as though I had just heard the song a minute earlier. Suddenly, it hit me and I instantly smiled like I had bumped into an old friend. (To be honest, bumping into an old friend wouldn't always evoke a smile from me.) The song was "Holiday Inn," a not-played-so-much album track from Elton John's 1971 release Madman Across the Water

I was immediately transported back to the tenth year of my life. Even at a young age, I was an avid music fan. When I was six or seven, my Uncle Sidney gave me a stack of 45s that he pulled from one of the many jukeboxes that he serviced. (I think that was his job, but, as much as I love my Uncle Sidney, what he did for a living was decidedly sketchy.) Among the records — its grooves well-worn from countless plays in some unknown bar or diner — were many Beatles songs, all sporting the familiar yellow and orange swirl label from Capitol Records. Despite the pops and scratches, I played those records over and over, first on my little Close-N-Play phonograph, the worst possible invention geared towards music aficionados and vinylphiles. Later, my parents broke down and purchased a real stereo for our family room, featuring an AM-FM radio and a built-in 8-track player. Soon, I was buying 45s on my own, with The Archies' "Sugar Sugar" and the Fifth Dimension's take on "Aquarius" as the first entries in a years-long collection of recorded music.

At the beginning of 1971, I purchased my first album. It was Tapestry by Carole King, a stellar collection of songs that deservedly swept the Grammys that year. I was still buying 45s, though, as album prices at the time, were still pretty steep for the income of a ten year-old. I bought two 45s one day after saving up enough money and "Tiny Dancer" and "Levon" by this new singer named Elton John were now part of my blossoming collection. I had heard those songs on the radio and I was hooked. They stood out from the other offerings on the AM airwaves. That is something that I have always looked for in music, songs that don't sound like everything else. Among the girl group holdovers and Motown smoothness, Elton John's plaintive voice was fresh and new and unfamiliar. Sure, in 1971, there were songs by the Rolling Stones and The Doors and Sly and the Family Stone... but I was TEN! I was still mesmerized by The Funky Phantom, reeling from the cancelation of The Banana Splits and unaware that The Jackson Five were real people and not just cartoons. So, listening to Elton John was a revelation for little Josh.

In November 1971, my brother — four years my senior — came home with a copy of Madman Across the Water, the actual album that, not only contained the non-radio edited versions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Levon", but a slew of other songs by the fledgling Mr. John... including the epic title song clocking in at nearly six minutes! Twice the length of the poppy little ditties blasting out of my transistor radio. That album got a ton of play in the Pincus household, even by my mom — a proud rock and roller who, at sixty years old, attended a Culture Club concert with a bunch of eighteen year-olds, co-workers at the clothing store where she was employed. The songs — just nine of them — were all wonderfully crafted pieces of music. They ran the gamut from angry rockers like "Rotten Peaches" to illustrative (though historically inaccurate) stories like "Indian Sunset." And, of course, "Holiday Inn," a Bernie Taupin-penned ode to the lonely life of a rock star on the road. Madman Across the Water was the beginning of my love and admiration of Elton John.

Over the next few years, Elton John was pumping out albums like a man possessed. Between 1971 and 1976, Elton John released eight albums, including two double albums. Some years saw the release of two albums. And these were all chock full of hits and album cuts that should have been hits. This was Elton John at his most prolific and most successful. In addition to chart-topping album sales (six consecutive Number One albums), Elton toured extensively, selling out venues worldwide. As funds were short for me, I relied on my brother to keep our house stocked with the latest Elton John releases. I remember having to scrape together nine bucks to purchase a ticket to see Elton John on an upcoming Philadelphia stop on his current tour. On July 6, 1976, I got to see the spectacular Mr. John at the Philadelphia Spectrum, as he toured in support of what would become my favorite of his albums -  Rock of the Westies. (Yeah? Fight me!) He was terrific and even warranted the higher-than-usual ticket price.
Later that very same year, my love of Elton John came crashing down hard. I purchased my first Elton John album on my own. It was the overly-ambitious — and rightly panned — Blue Moves, a two-record set that would forever be compared to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Rolling Stone magazine, a publication I find both self-righteous and irrelevant, described the 1976 effort as "[containing] nowhere near enough good songs to justify the extended length." For once, I agreed with something I read in Rolling Stone. Oh, I didn't just give up on Blue Moves. Not by any stretch. I listened to it... again and again. I gave it every chance. I wanted to like it. I desperately wanted to like. But, in my opinion as a loyal and devout Elton John fan, it stunk! The lead single "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word" sounded like a cheap attempt at recreating "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me" and "Someone Saved My Life Tonight." It seemed very formulaic and rushed. And... honestly... I can't remember any other song from the album. I was done. I washed my hands of Elton John. Luckily, I had discovered Queen a few years earlier and they would only disappoint me when Freddie Mercury died and Brian May wouldn't shut his goddamn mouth. Elton John released 20 more albums after Blue Moves. I can't name one.

But hearing "Holiday Inn" coming from my car speakers was like entering a time machine. And those four minutes and seventeen seconds were nice. Really, really nice.

Sunday, January 16, 2022

the impression that I get

I have told this story many times, so I'll tell it here...

Many years ago (probably in the middle 1980s), My wife and I were in Atlantic City with our friend Randi. (You remember Randi...) We were at Caesars Casino on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk. Atlantic City, New Jersey is a little over an hour away from Philadelphia, so it was not unusual to drive to the famed shore resort for a day trip. We would often go for dinner, a stroll on "the boards" and then into one of the casinos to try our luck at instant riches. That third one never quite came out the way we had hoped, despite our most courageous efforts.

As the evening progressed and we felt it was time to start heading home, Mrs. P and Randi needed to make a quick stop at the closest ladies' room before we left on a lengthy car ride. The parking lot at Caesars was accessed via a long narrow hallway from the casino. It had an unusually low ceiling and the width of the corridor barely accommodated four people across. (Over the years, several building renovations have changed this.) Mrs. Pincus and Randi located the rest room and I stood alongside the doorway to wait for them. To entertain myself, I watched the interesting faces in the crowd as they passed by in relatively close proximity. There were old people, young people, short people and tall people. There were men in three-piece suits accompanied by women in sparkly gowns. These couples were followed closely by disheveled-looking fellows who looked as though the last place they should be was a casino. 

I smiled to myself as this cross-section of society paraded by me. Then, in the crowd, I spotted a familiar face, one I had seen on television numerous times. It was comedian Charlie Callas. He was a staple performer on television in the 60s, 70s and early 80s. He made 50 appearances on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, as well as The Ed Sullivan Show, Merv Griffin's show and the full roster of variety shows that were so popular on the 1970s. Charlie was a regular on the Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts, often showing up in military garb and doing as dead-on impression of show biz patriarch George Jessel. Charlie was known for his rubber-faced mug and the barrage of strange noises that he would inject into his stand-up routines. Folks like Jerry Lewis and Mel Brooks loved his act so much, he was cast in films like The Big Mouth and High Anxiety just to play upon the recognizability of his stage act. On television, he was seen in The Monkees, The Flip Wilson Show and singer Bobby Vinton's short-lived series, in addition to a Carpenters special. He even popped up on an episode of The Love Boat and also provided the voice for the animated Elliot the Dragon in the Walt Disney film Pete's Dragon. If you are of my generation, you knew who Charlie Callas was. 

Well, I certainly knew who Charlie Callas was. And there he was, walking past me wearing dark glasses and a terrycloth bucket hat pulled down to his brow. Evidently, he was trying to conceal his identity, but there was no mistaking that it was indeed Charlie Callas. Curiously, not a single person pointed or whispered or acknowledged him in any way. No one but me. I smiled to myself a little wider.

Soon, Mrs. Pincus and Randi emerged from the ladies room. As we continued to walk to the parking lot, I mentioned that I had just seen Charlie Callas walk past me in the crowd. They both stopped, and with jaws agape, simultaneously exclaimed, "NO, YOU DID NOT!," as though they had rehearsed it. Now, I stopped... and scratched my head. 

"Why would I make that up?," I asked. "Do you think I'm trying to impress you? It's not like I said 'Hey, I just saw Frank Sinatra!' It was Charlie fucking Callas! The guy who sticks out his tongue and makes funny noises. That's not impressing anyone."

They both kind of sheepishly smiled. We found ourselves at the building's exit. I opened the tinted glass doors and we stepped outside. At a taxi stand, about ten feet away from us, wait for a cab, was Charlie Callas. I pointed at him. "See?," I said to my companions. Again, we were the only ones looking in his direction.

We didn't say "Hello" to him or ask for a picture (actually, in the days before cellphones, who carried a camera?) or even request an autograph. We just looked at him. And he was still Charlie Callas.

And then we went to find our car.

Sunday, January 9, 2022

I left my wallet in el segundo

Ever since I had paper money of my own, I carried it in a wallet. I may have even had a wallet before I was trusted with paper currency. I may have owned one of those vinyl wallets that could be picked off a supermarket toy rack alongside a jacks set, a toy stethoscope or a bag of molded green plastic army men. Maybe my mom bought one of those wallets to pacify a particularly relentless episode of unruliness I was known to exhibit in my youth.

I was taught to carry a wallet by my father, who held the unofficial title of "King of the Wallets." He was never without that solid hunk of worn leather creating a tumor-like bulge in the posterior of his pants. When he withdrew it to pay a check or file some sort of appointment card, it looked as though he had pulled a melting piece of chocolate layer cake from his pocket. The edges of dollar bills were visible along the top, along with some unidentified pieces of paper that could either be a recently-acquired business card or a coupon from a store that he would never set foot in again. Other assorted and unidentifiable bits and pieces sprouted from its knurled, browned edges. My father's wallet was like the Eagles' Hotel California — once something entered, it could never leave. When I met my father-in-law, I saw that his overstuffed wallet was secured with a thick rubber band. I had to tell my father about that! He'd love it. 

When my father passed away in 1993, we were tasked with cleaning out his house in preparation of putting it up for sale. My wife discovered a dresser drawer packed with a dozen or so wallets, unused and still in their packages, waiting for their turn to serve my father in all of his money, credit card and assorted important papers needs. My father bought wallets like some people buy Kleenex.

My first wallets were probably purchased for me at Sears, Klein's, Korvette's or one of the other stores that my parents frequented. They were faux leather and accessorized with a little folio in which to insert photographs. (Yes, kids, before we had cellphones that could hold the equivalent of a lifetime of vacation photos, we had to choose eight pictures to carry around of those people who meant to the most to us.) I filled my wallet with a couple of one dollar bills, my very own, real live social security card (that I still carry to this day, still sporting the childlike scrawled signature of ten-year old Josh Pincus), as well as my membership card in the Archie Andrews' Fan Club and a school photograph of yours truly. 

As I got older, of course, my driver's license took the first, most prominent position in the folio, or the separate little window to keep the most important item sequestered from the rest of the wallet's contents. I remember the 80s trend towards cool and colorful nylon wallets, available in bright colors. I jumped on that bandwagon, proudly toting my cash and identification in a neon pink and lime green rip-stop number with an awesome Velcro closure. I think that was followed by a Mickey Mouse/Pirates of the Caribbean wallet that I bought in Walt Disney World. As an adult, I wasn't the least bit embarrassed to wield that cartoon-emblazoned billfold in a public situation.

Switching wallets was always quite the undertaking. When I determined that my threadbare wallet was ready for replacement. I would empty its contents completely and weed through what was really important enough to warrant a transfer to a new leather home. receipts from out-of-business stores were the first to go. Followed closely by phone numbers with no notation as to who they would reach when dialed and business cards of people I don't' remember even meeting. My new wallet would be slightly — just slightly — thinner and lighter than the one that was just retired. However, it would soon be indistinguishable from its predecessor.

Just recently, I noticed it was time for a new wallet. The stitching along the edge of my current wallet was beginning to show the results of years of being sat on, dropped, opened and closed and opened and closed, as well as the stress of never-used credit cards and supermarket discount club cards pushing against its ancient seams. I searched online and was intrigued by several slim-line wallets I saw at one particular website. The money compartment was flanked on both sides by a few cantilever slots for cards. It was touted as being a mere .45" thick when filled. Plus, it features RFID blocking technology. I don't know what that is and I don't know how it will benefit me, but I'm pretty sure that all of my previous wallets would let RFID run rampant through my precious belongings. So, after a few clicks on this website, a brand new "Buffway Slim Minimalist Front Pocket RFID Blocking Leather Wallets for Men and Women" was on its way to me. 

In a few days, I found myself emptying another wallet and assessing the importance of its contents. While I have several credit cards, I use just one almost exclusively. I still have a twenty dollar bill and three singles that have been in my wallet for almost three years. I have two insurance identification cards and.... well.... that's about it. All my pictures are on my phone, along with any important phone numbers and other contact information. So, my new "Buffway Slim Minimalist Front Pocket RFID Blocking Leather Wallets for Men and Women" is considerably smaller, thinner and lighter than any wallet I have ever owned. Although I am pleased for taking the brave step towards severing any beholdeness to a wallet, I find myself constantly checking to see if my wallet is still in my pocket.

But it sure beats sitting on a misshapen petrified blob for eight hours.

Sunday, January 2, 2022

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.