get back to where you once belonged

Although we pay nearly three hundred dollars a month for cable service from the good folks at Xfinity, giving us access to a wide variety of entertainment options in the privacy of our home, Mrs. Pincus and I sometimes do venture out to a good old-fashioned movie theater. While I certainly love movies, I don't care for people. And that's exactly what we encountered last Saturday.

My wife and I made plans to meet my brother Max and my sister-in-law (no, not that one... the other one) for a rare "double date" night, My sister-in-law purchased discount tickets at a local Costco and was surprised by the "pick your seat" option that was available. From my recollection, movie theaters never offered reserved seating, but it certainly makes sense. Reserved seats are available at almost every other venue where public seating is offered — Broadway theaters, concerts, sporting events, you can even throw airline flights into that mix. Actually, now that I think of it, we previously purchased reserved seating for movies on our several, ill-fated visits to our nearby Movie Tavern. So maybe other movie theaters are just catching up. And it makes perfect sense, too! With reserved seats, you don't have to rush to the theater and scramble for choice seats — especially if you need to find more than two seats together. (That is, if you don't want to split up your party.) With reserved seating, your seat will be waiting for you when arrive, no matter what time you arrive.

My sister-in-law scored four seats at the end of a row, selecting a location midway up in a theater that offered stadium-style seating. Perfect! We could meet early for a leisurely dinner and then make our way to the theater at our own pace and not worry about the hassle of scanning a crowded theater for four seats together. Our chosen movie was "Yesterday," the latest Danny Boyle-directed fantasy tale of a young, struggling musician who, after waking from an accident, realizes he's the only one in the world who remembers the Beatles. The movie, after receiving a modest amount of pre-release hype, had opened the night before our little "family night at the movies" and the suburban multiplex would likely be crowded. But, we had no worries. At least not yet.

We met at a Ruby Tuesday's* that occupies a pad site in the parking lot of the theater. After dinner, as we exited the restaurant, my sister-in-law distributed the tickets and I tucked our pair safely in my wallet. We got in our respective cars and drove over to the larger lot nearer to the theater. We met at the front of the theater and entered. We determined which of the twenty-two auditoriums was our destination and headed down one of the long hallways that branched off from the main lobby. My wife and sister-in-law excused themselves for a quick visit to the ladies room, leaving my brother and me to meet them at our pre-determined seats.

Reserved!

Max and I entered the semi-darkened theater. The enormous screen was alight with commercials for the concession stand and other commerce-enticing information. We took note of the large, prominent aisle designations affixed to the base of the end seat of each row. We mentally ticked off each one until we arrived at Row H. The end seat — Seat 12 — was empty, its padded cushion in the upright position waiting to afford comfort to its rightful ticket holder for the 7:30 showing. The next three adjoining seats, however, were occupied by three women. As showtime was fast approaching, there were only a few single seats scattered throughout the near-capacity theater. My brother and I exchanged puzzled glances. He had an expression on his face with which I was very familiar. It was a combined expression of exasperation and annoyance. I had seen it regularly in our youth — and I was usually the cause.

I spoke first. I said to the woman closest to me, "I believe you are in our seats." I tried to have no inflection of anger or accusation in my voice. Perhaps it was an honest mistake. Perhaps they were not aware of the reserved seating policy. After all, we were not greeted by an usher of any kind. We were not asked for our tickets and then guided to our appointed accommodations for the evening. The woman furrowed her brow and, with a raised, sweeping hand, gestured to the rest of the theater. "Oh, you can just sit anywhere," she bluntly stated in reply to my indictment. I think I could hear my brother's blood actually boiling in his veins. I could feel the anxious adrenaline coursing through my system in anticipation of a confrontation I did not wish to happen. I hate confrontation. I'm not good at it and I would rather remain silent. My brother, on the other hand, has never been one to stand idle while shit is forced in his direction. Perennially athletic and physical, he has always stood his ground in a calm, authoritative, and somewhat menacing, manner.

I told my brother that I was going to speak to a member of the theater's management. I started down the steep steps with my destination being the lobby. I tracked down a man in a mismatched suit gripping a comically-large walkie-talkie that looked as though he filched it from the set of "M*A*S*H." He sported a name tag engraved with "MANAGER" pinned to his too-wide lapel. I explained the situation transpiring right now in Auditorium 3. He assured me that a security representative would be there to assist momentarily. I felt no sense of urgency in his promise and no authority in his authority. Unsatisfied, I reluctantly returned to check my brother's progress.

Not actually my brother.

Again, I entered the theater and ascended the steps towards Row H. There was my brother, my sister-in-law and Mrs. Pincus sitting in Seats 9 through 11... with Seat 12 on stand-by for my derriere. I took my seat and leaned over to ask Max to fill me in on the chapter of this story that I missed. In a totally unaffected tone, he said, after I left, he went back to the woman and calmly stated that she and her friends were in seats that they did not belong in. "I asked you once nicely," he said, most likely in a slow and deliberate timbre and through clenched teeth, "You need to get up and go to the seats that are printed on your ticket. These are not your seats." After a few seconds, the three women rose and pushed their way past my brother, not offering any sort of apology or even glancing in his direction. 

Mr. Movie Theater Manager's security never showed up. We didn't really need them. 

We brought our own.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*I still have not published my rant about my awful Ruby Tuesday's experience that I wrote four years ago. Maybe someday...

This is the 500th post to this blog. Thanks for reading!

sorry seems to be the hardest word

During the work week, my alarm is set to go off before the sun comes up. Not to say I actually get out of bed at that time, but that electronic buzz serves as a reminder of  my responsibility to my employer. So, after five long, grueling days at work, I look forward to the weekends.I sleep a little later. I lounge on the sofa. I leisurely sip a cup of coffee while watching an episode of Phineas & Ferb or an old rerun of The Monkees.

On Saturday morning, my weekend slumber was unceremoniously interrupted just before 7 am. From just outside my bedroom window came a series of high-pitched squeals and loud, mournful sobs, interspersed by a staccato repetition of "I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY." 

What the fuck!, I thought as I leaped from the warm confines of my quilt.

I scrambled to the window and parted two slats of Venetian blinds with my index finger. I peered out into the early sunlight. From my second-story vantage point, I could see my teenage neighbor parading up and down on the sidewalk in front of my house. Despite a typical late February morning temperature, he was wearing a tank top and warm-up pants. And he was barefoot. With one hand, he pressed a cellphone to his cheek while he flailed his free arm in unbridled anger. Every few seconds, he pulled the cellphone away from his ear, positioned it in front of his mouth and spewed his rapid-fire "I'M SORRY I'M SORRY" mantra to the person on the other end. His unintelligible dialogue was punctuated by the anguished cries of a wounded puppy.

My wife stirred. "What the hell is going on out there?"

"Alex., " I replied, "from next door."

She rolled her eyes and soon took her place at an adjacent window as a late spectator.

A car pulled across my neighbor's driveway, blocking the access apron. Alex stomped his bare feet on the pavement as he approached the vehicle. He grabbed the passenger-side door handle and pulled. It did nothing, so he pulled harder. Still no result. He screamed in a voice raised to cracking, "UNLOCK THE DOOR!" The driver, obscured by the dark tint of the windshield, did not oblige. Alex yelled louder, his voice strained and cracking in misery. The shadowy figure behind the steering wheel didn't budge. Alex stood in place, then did a brief "anger dance," bringing his knees up in alternating leg motions and rotating his body each time his foot smashed the pavement. Giving a final, exasperated moan, he marched up the front walk to his house. Although his front entrance is out of the line of vision from our bedroom window, we heard the unmistakable sound of his front door slam.

"Well, I'm getting coffee.," I said to Mrs. P. My morning had started, whether I liked it or not.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

meanwhile, back in the jungle

My wife and I were kind of in a hurry. We had to pick up a prescription for my mother-in-law and then rush back to their house for dinner. And we were already running late. My wife gathered a few requested dinner accoutrements, threw them into a bag and we hurried out the door.

We climbed into my wife's car and she slowly began to back out of our driveway, when suddenly a young man pushing a stroller with a baby and another small girl in tow emerged from the knot of overgrown vegetation that enshrouds and obscures my neighbor's driveway and sidewalk. Mrs. P hit the brakes. I leaned out the passenger side window, smiled and waved the Dad on, assuring him that we were allowing safe passage. He offered a silent wave of thanks, a return smile and they were on their way. The small family were never in danger, but had the sightlines been clear of the Amazonian rain forest that occupies my neighbor's adjacent property, there would have been no issue.

My neighbor is an inconsiderate, self-absorbed jerk. I don't want to say that she has no regard or respect for other people, because, as far as she's concerned, there are no other people. She perceives that she is alone in the world to do what she wants, when she wants, where she wants — with no consequence.

Several years ago, she split with her husband and he moved out. While they were still married, he — an old-school, tree-huggin' hippie landscaper — planted an array of exotic plants in their front yard. They were an odd assortment of growths, most looking like they'd be more at home in a Dr. Seuss book. However, he trimmed them and maintained them and when winter arrived, he uprooted them (or ate them or smoked them... whatever) because they were gone until they reappeared in the spring. Then, the whole ritual started again. The divorce must have finalized during growing season, because he left the greenery (and blue-ery and red-ery and yellow-ery) in mid-blossom. By the time autumn rolled around, those weeds were out of control, creeping along the driveway and making a devious reach across our property line. I was furious, but my wife — the level-headed member of the Pincus family — told me to curb my anger or pick my battles or some other cliche to ease my rising blood pressure. I said nothing and those trees and things grew until my neighbor's tiny front lawn was covered by a mismatched hodgepodge of fauna, wide floppy leaves, narrow twisting stems and and an intertwined tangle of sinewy vines. It is unkempt, unsightly, unruly and unnecessary.

And it all blocks my view of approaching traffic.

Maybe one day, if I wish hard enough, those plants will devour her like the stuff that covered Stephen King in Creepshow. And I hope it takes her barking dog, too.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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