i'm beginning to see the light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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

nightswimming

The 2016 Summer Olympics just wrapped up for another four years. My wife is a fan of the Olympics and looks forward to watching. I, on the other hand, am not a fan. However, this year I watched more Olympic competition than I had in my entire life. Every evening, beginning with the head-scratchingly odd opening ceremony, Mrs. P and I sat on the sofa opposite our new, high-definition, flat screen TV and watched every prime-time broadcast. Actually, it was on the television and we glanced up when we heard cheers or gasps. Mostly, we fiddled with our phones. She played Candy Crush and checked the status of her various eBay auctions. I checked Instagram and tweeted sarcastic observations about the Olympics. Mrs. Pincus went to visit family in Virginia Beach during the second week of the Olympics and I didn't watch a single second of the games, choosing instead to catch up on a few bad movies I had DVRed. However, when she returned, we again watched together until the closing ceremony.

I'll tumble 4 U.

I am fascinated by women's gymnastics. I can't figure out how a young lady, standing barely four-and-a-half feet tall, can exert enough power to bound on to a "horse," launch herself into the air a distance of twice her height, spin around in all directions and land gracefully on her feet. Only to have some judge knock off a few points because her right heel stepped back three inches. Hey, I'd like to see the judge try that. We marveled as 17 year-old British gymnast Ellie Downie flipped and fell on her neck during her floor exercise performance, her head crumpling underneath the full weight of her body. (Granted, it's only 117 pounds, but — jeez! — it's still 117 pounds!) Obviously shaken, Ellie attempted to continue her routine, but was soon helped off the mat by her coach. Moments later, she emerged from the training room to participate in the vault. Her coach cautioned her to try one vault. She waved him off, explaining, "If I can do one vault, I can do two." Ellie Downie, despite her petite stature, can kick your ass.

All together now.

One evening, Mrs. P and I watched something called "men's synchronized platform diving." an event I didn't know existed until I began watching it. Two toned young men in skimpy bathing suits leaped from a cement platform, twisting, flipping and turning all the way down until they broke the surface of the water, creating only the slightest of splashes. The whole display reminded me of the famous Groucho/Harpo "mirror scene" from the classic film Duck Soup, only not nearly as funny. I noticed when the divers emerged from the pool, they made a bee-line for the showers situated just behind the tall diving platforms. Every one of them. They stood for a long time under the rushing stream of water, making sure every inch of their exposed skin was rinsed. Some massaged their own scalps rather vigorously. I didn't think too much about this until I saw that, over the next few days, the pool used for diving had turned a bright and nauseating shade of green. The official cause was... actually, there were several explanations offered and several fingers pointed. Everything from improper chemical treatments, to lack of chemical treatments to contractor issues. This is the Olympics, for crissakes! The world's athletic stage. NBC is sinking nearly 11 billion dollars into this thing. International companies are paying top dollar for sponsorship. Can't you get a guy with one of those long-handled nets and a bucket of chlorine to clean that shit up?

...and it was all yellow.

While looking up "Olympic swimming" on Google (I was sort of getting into this), I came across a very disturbing article. Very, very disturbing. Several swimmers, divers and other water-sports athletes were asked if they "pee" in the pool. The overwhelming reply was "yes." Wait. Let me amend that. The overwhelming reply was "Of course!" As though it was the obvious answer with absolutely no alternative. They said there is no time to constantly get out of the pool for a bathroom visit. It would drastically cut into training time and be detrimental to their performance. One Olympian even went so far as to say, "If a swimmer tells you they don't pee in the pool, they're lying," Didn't they listen to Mom? Or the lifeguard? Or the code of decency? Or common-fucking-sense? The question was answered with pride. Like peeing in a swimming pool was some sort of "rite of passage." That's not all. I found out, later in the same article, that the unmistakable smell of "swimming pool" is not the natural scent of chlorine (as we have always been led to believe). No. That smell is chloramines, which is created from a reaction of chlorine mixing with urine. Yes sir! People have always been peeing in pools! Chlorine has no smell. It has to be pissed on in order to smell like chlorine. Also, that burning sensation you get in your eyes when you go under water in a pool? Yeah, that's chlorine's reaction to piss, too.

Lie detector.

Recently, Mrs. Pincus and I returned from our fourth cruise in four years. While packing for each of those trips, I never considered taking a bathing suit. Hell, I don't even own a bathing suit. I haven't set foot (or any other body part) in a public swimming pool in years. Years! My feeling was: I wouldn't want to bathe with a bunch of strangers. When you think about it, how different is swimming in a pool from bathing? Some people actually feel that the two concepts are interchangeable. I always shunned swimming with the excuse: "There ain't enough chlorine in the world to get me to go into a pool with a bunch of strangers." Now that I know chlorine is actually the tattletale for pool-pissers, I stand by my reasoning. Except now, the reason has changed.

Still think a dip in the pool is relaxing?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my shit's fucked up

Medicated!

In 1857, Joseph Gayetty introduced the public to "Gayetty's Medicated Paper for the Water-Closet." Prior to Mr. Gayetty's invention, people used some of the most primitive, unsanitary and barbaric methods of... of... well, cleaning up after themselves after using the bathroom. I'll skip the gory details and say that Mr. Gayetty doesn't nearly get the credit he deserves. His name, in my opinion should be spoken with the same reverence as Benjamin Franklin and that lying, thieving, claim-jumping bastard Thomas Edison. Gayetty's folded sheets of aloe-enhanced disposable cloths were the standard in bathroom cleanliness, remaining relatively unchanged for nearly four decades. Obviously, it was a vast improvement from the previous way of taking care of business and the public was duly satisfied. 

We're on a roll now!

Just before the turn of the twentieth century, paper manufacturing brothers Clarence and Irwin Scott made a slight improvement on Gayetty's medicated paper. Instead of neatly folded stacks, the Scotts put 1000 perforated sheets on a continuous roll. Once again, the bathroom tissue industry was revolutionized. The Scotts made a fortune and a new market standard was achieved. Over the years, many attempted improvements were developed and introduced, but they never caught on and were dismissed as fads and novelties.

In early 2001, paper giant Kimberly-Clark (who, six years earlier had acquired competitor Scott Paper), decided that it would try to improve upon the unimprovable commodity of toilet paper, despite extensive market research telling them otherwise. Against better judgement, they launched a product called "Cottonelle Fresh Rollwipes" in a very aggressive, nationwide campaign. They flooded every available advertising outlet — newspapers, television, magazines. They even got Jay Leno to give a live plug on the Tonight Show. Kimberly-Clark anticipated $150 million in sales the first year and America to change its collective approach to lavatory tidiness. Not surprisingly, it didn't pan out to the company's expectations. The $35 million media blitz was a bust, when a planned goodwill tour by a mobile restroom was cut short when the public's focus turned to personal safety rather than personal hygiene after the attacks on September 11th. However, Kimberly-Clark was determined to make this thing work goddammit! and production of Cottonelle Fresh Rollwipes continued, although company executives revealed that "sales are so small they aren't financially material."* (Cottonelle Fresh Rollwipes have since been reimagined and no longer come on a roll. They come in a tub and are known as Cottonelle Fresh. They are marketed the same as baby wipes. Sales are light.)

So, things stayed pretty much the same as they had been. People were satisfied with the post-number two cleaning process and all was good in the world. Other companies (oh, I'm looking at you, Nabisco!), not content with the unwavering success of their products, looked for unnecessary improvements, But, as far as the bathroom was concerned, it was business as usual.

W A R N I N G !
I was pretty discreet and restrained in the first part of this blog entry, but the gauntlet has been thrown, the gloves are off and — pardon my all-too-obvious pun — the shit is about to hit the fan.

Now, all of a sudden, someone thinks humans have been shitting the wrong way and they are determined to correct our misguided elimination process. Look, no one has to be taught how to shit. Cavemen shit. Primitive tribes shit. Babies shit without instruction. As they get older, they only have to be taught where to shit, not how to shit. Shitting is an instinct, like breathing. It's something we just do. And if we didn't, we'd die. See? It is a lot like breathing.

I got an email from Bed Bath and Beyond the other day. I get emails from them frequently because I bought a box of Keurig K-Cups from them four years ago and now I'm stuck on their mailing list. Actually, they were the inspiration of a blog entry, so I don't unsubscribe in hopes I can be inspired/pissed off again. Bingo! Payoff! This particular email touted a product called "Squatty Potty," a footstool that, evidently, the human race should have been using all along because we have no idea how to shit. Really? Really? According to the ad, the shrewd entrepreneurs on the show Shark Tank loved this. I guess, as smart as they are, they don't know the correct way to shit either. So, now they're shitting correctly and making even more money by investing in a combination footstool/shitting aid. No wonder I'm not rich. 

I can understand a garden hose that coils itself up after the water is turned off as an improvement on the standard green hose we've been sold for for years. I certainly understand the need for a microwave oven that can cook food faster than that big, bulky oven that takes up so much floor space your the kitchen. Phones without cords — great! A GPS over a road map or stopping to ask directions — absolutely! But, come on! Convincing me that, after thousands and thousands of years, someone has determined that people require a change in the way they shit? And that information doesn't come from the Surgeon General or some similar official? Instead, it comes from a couple of guys with a website, four rich investors with dollar signs in their eyes and a chain store that proudly accepts their own expired coupons?!?

You gotta be shittin' me!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*quote from an article in The Wall Street Journal

smokin' in the boys' room

The rules of public men's rooms are like the rules of Fight Club. The first rule is: "You don't talk about Public Men's Rooms." The second rule is: "You don't talk about Public Men's Rooms." In the interest of setting the record straight once and for all and to enlighten those who have been otherwise misinformed or have strayed from the accepted procedure, I will momentarily break the first two rules — if only for the greater good. I will reveal the unwritten rules of public men's rooms for those who have never entered the inner sanctum and for those who need a refresher course (no pun intended).

Rule 1. No talking. No fucking talking! Do I make myself clear? NO TALKING! Don't talk to me. Don't talk to yourself. Don't talk to anyone. If you must acknowledge my presence, then grunt. You know what I mean - the guttural male "hmrrmm." No actual, recognizable words. Don't tell me anything. Don't try to engage me in a conversation. I can guarantee you that there is nothing — absolutely nothing — that is so important that you need to tell me that can't wait until I'm on the other side of the entrance door. Nothing. I don't care if my goddamn head is on fire. Believe me, it can wait. I don't care if we are under alien attack and they are evacuating the building. It can wait. I swear, I'll be through in a minute. And, under those circumstances, another minute isn't going to make one bit of difference.

Rule 1a. (specific for sports and concert facilities) I don't care how drunk you are, how well your team is doing or how rocking the band is — the rules still apply.

Rule 2. Eyes forward. And keep 'em forward. No looking around. You came in there for a reason and one reason only. So did everyone else. And it ain't a fucking spectator sport.

Rule 3. Leave a buffer. Here's the basic etiquette: There are three urinals on the wall (we'll call them, from left to right, 1, 2 and 3). If you are alone, take position 1. If someone comes in while you are there, they should take 3, leaving 2 as a buffer. If you come in and, due to circumstances of previous poor time gauging, number 2 is taken, take the one closest to a wall. If there is only one available, obviously you have no choice. But, please, abide closely to Rules 1 and 2. I can't stress this enough. Do not make smart-ass comments of "Oh, full house today." Do not make comments of any kind.

If you are lucky enough to visit a men's room with more than three urinals, buffer rules still apply. Occupation of the far extreme right or left is preferred (leaving at least one buffer, as space permits).

Rule 4. Wash your hands. I hate to sound like your mother, but come on! I don't care what kind of pig you are at home, but this is a public bathroom and the public is watching. And if you ain't washing your hands, the public is talking about you. Three drops of liquid soap and a quick rinse under the faucet isn't going to kill you. It may even prove beneficial. Later, you can go back to your usual disgusting (or non-existent) hygiene habits when you're in the comfort of that shit hole you call "home."

There's one more that's not really a rule as much as it's common courtesy. Please. Please! Don't confuse a public bathroom stall with a phone booth. I know we all have cellphones and we think we need to have a non-stop, constant connection with the world. But, for Christ's sake, nobody in the bathroom wants to hear your loud phone conversation. Nobody on the other end of the line wants to hear you in the bathroom and you are not that important that you can't take two minutes out of your busy schedule to clear out your intestines. No one is that important. NOfuckingONE!

Well, that's it. I'm sure that these rules have absolutely no application in women's public bathrooms, but, of course, I have no frame of reference.

Now, if you'll excuse me...

www.joshpincusiscrying.com