sleeping with the television on

Ever since I was a little kid, I have had a wonderful relationship with television. I guess that's why I write about it so much. I love television. I love watching television. I love talking about television. I love reading about television. My parents weren't the type of parents who referred to television as "the boob tube." They never accused television of poisoning my young and impressionable mind. They never restricted my television watching. Hell, they watched nearly as much television as I did. 

I had some friends growing up whose parents insisted that a certain amount of educational programming be watched to counteract the mindless crap that dementated the children's viewing choice. I remember skipping right over the public television affiliate on my way to the channels that showed cartoons or game shows or silly sitcom. In junior high, I discovered Monty Python's Flying Circus which was the only time my family's television ever stopped on PBS for more that just a few seconds. Yes sir, my television watching consisted of some of the dumbest, lamest, mindless selections ever to delight a child's short attention span.

I was lucky enough to marry someone who shares my love of television. We both watched a lot of the same shows when we were younger. Of course, there were shows that she watched and shows that I watched. Mrs. Pincus watched Here Come The Brides featuring dreamy Bobby Sherman and Emergency! featuring dreamy Randolph Mantooth. I watched Lancelot Link: Secret Chimp on Saturday mornings, a spy spoof with an all-monkey cast. Ten-year old Mrs. P would never — never! — waste her precious time watching even a minute of monkeys in trench coats. Nevertheless, we both loved shows like The Brady Bunch, Room 222 and That Girl. Years of watching The Love Boat gave us a skewed view of what taking a cruise would be like, something we wouldn't experience until years later. Mrs. P gained a vast knowledge of medical lingo from watching Medical Center and Marcus Welby (and of course, Chad Everett's and James Brolin's good looks didn't hurt). I, on the other hand, acquired no viable life skills from Yogi Bear. Well, maybe stealing pic-a-nic baskets.

I vaguely recall some of the shows my parents watched. My dad loved the gritty, street-smart adventures of  Kojak. My mom leaned towards the more sophisticated tales presented on Columbo. Both of my parents — my liberal, free-thinking mom and my narrow-minded bigoted dad — watched and enjoyed All in the Family. My mom got the joke and my dad thought he was watching a documentary.

I'm not sure when exactly it started, but, I will walk into a room in my house and  — if there's a television in it — I turn the television on before I turn a light on. As a matter of fact, I cannot go to sleep unless the television is on. That's right. When Mrs. P and I decide to call it a night (which, by the way, gets earlier and earlier as the years go on), we fluff up the pillows, pull up the blankets and turn on the television. Not necessarily in that order. Actually, the television goes on first. Then the pillow and blanket prep. Then, the light goes out and our bedroom is bathed in the warm, comforting glow of my old pal television. I slowly (or quickly) slip into dreamland, lulled there by the calming tones of James Arness wielding his frontier justice on a 60-year old episode of Gunsmoke followed by Dale Robertson keeping things on the up-and-up on an even older installment of Tales of Wells Fargo (later knows as Tales of Xfinity Mobile ....that's a joke that only Philadelphians will get). While I am approaching the REM portion of my nighttime slumber, light-sleeper Mrs. Pincus switches channels to Storage Wars or something more recent, before switching back to an old Western. She just likes to know her options. Changing channels doesn't bother me. The TV going off — that's a problem!

Even though I am asleep, I know when the television goes off. Although my eyes are closed and I am deep into the third or fourth stage of shut-eye, I can sense when the room is immersed in total blackness... and that awakens me immediately. I don't know why. I don't know how. It just does.

The good folks at Xfinity, our cable provider (where — apparently — the WIFI is booming), regularly — and remotely — resets our cable box. Two or three times a week, at around two or three o'clock in the morning, Xfinity flashes a warning on our television screen informing my sound-asleep wife and me that our cable box needs a little routine maintenance. Then... BOOM... the TV goes off for a good long time. I don't know how long, but it's long. Long enough to wake me up. Through my thin eyelids, I suddenly realize that the TV is off. I shoot up in bed and fumble for my glasses so I can get a clear view of  this my TV screen...

It stays there for a while. Mocking me, keeping me awake, Withholding my nighttime viewing (or listening) schedule and holding me hostage. Those three little dots flicker. And flicker. And flicker. Well, now I'm really awake. I check my phone lying by my bedside for the time. I check it again. I try to go back to sleep. I close my eyes, but I know that the room is still dark. I know that glow is just the screen with the flickering dots. I open my eyes and turn my head only to see those dots. My frustration increases.

Then, suddenly, my TV screen is ablaze with horses and cowboys and a black & white episode of Laramie. 

Finally, I can get some sleep.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dreamin' is free

You know what you can add to the long list of things I hate? Dreams.

I look forward to going to sleep at night. I look forward to a restful night of sleep, but, it is usually disrupted by fleeting scenes of nonsensical, imagined narrative over which I have no control. I don't like that. Dreams are stupid and non-productive and frustrating and, lately, distressing. 

Over the past few months, I have had some fairly distressing dreams. Now, I'm not going to bore you with lengthy tales, detailing the disjointed and stupid scenarios of my dreams. I don't like to hear about other people's dreams, so I'm sure sure you don't want to hear about mine. Hell, I don't even want to hear about mine. Let's just say, my recent dreams have featured people I haven't thought about in years, and a series of frustrating situations that make no sense.

I hate when people start of a conversation by saying "I had a really weird dream last night" and then proceed to relate the made-up events that unfolded in their sleep-induced subconscious as though they were delivering an important news report..... and as though I care. I am not interested in hearing a fairy tale that has no resolution. Actual writers — those that make their living from telling stories — throw away stories like the ones I have heard from people who kicked things off with those eight dreaded words at the beginning of this paragraph. And I certainty am not interested in the meaningless analysis or interpretation of dreams. I don't know what they mean and neither do you,.

My wife has a friend who regularly makes online posts filled with multiple paragraphs expounding intricacies of a dream as though it was chapter of an autobiography. These stories are told in earnest, like they are accounts of real events, rather than ones that took place in her head the evening before. As Ebenezer Scrooge told the ghost of Jacob Marley: "You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato." That's about all dreams are worth, in my opinion.

I recently watched a 2023 film called Dream Scenario starring Nicolas Cage at his Nicolas Cage-iest. The movie presented an interesting premise — a boring college professor is suddenly (and unwelcomely) thrust into the public eye when he begins to show up in people's dreams. The movie was good... until it wasn't. It took a decidedly poor turn in the third act. Any solid and clever storytelling up to this point began to slowly unravel until it just became a disjointed, ridiculous mess.

Hmmm.... maybe it was a good movie, after all. Because, now that I think about it, doesn't that pretty much sum up dreams?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

jack, you're dead

In hindsight, it was pretty funny.

I had a particularly busy day at work. While I do like to keep busy, today was especially relentless. It was a day filled with one close deadline after another. Although the time flew by, I was quite happy to see my desk clock approach five o'clock. I shut down my computer and headed to the elevators. I dragged myself to the train station and when my train arrived, I quickly found a seat and conked out. When we lurched into the Elkins Park station, I stomped down to the platform and took the short walk to my house. Once inside, I scrambled upstairs, kicked off my shoes, plopped down on the sofa and, once again, I was out like a light. I was tired. Dead tired.

While I was at work, Mrs. Pincus made a point to go and close our safe deposit box. We have maintained a safe deposit box for over twenty-five years and, frankly, I have no clue what "treasures" are in it. I think I've seen it once and my swipe card, allowing me access, snapped in half in the late 90s. Mrs. P was subjected to a lengthy ordeal involving paperwork, signatures, identification, checks and double-checks. Finally, she was granted permission to empty the 5" x 21" metal fortress of its contents, including birth certificates, insurance policies and the title to our house. It also secured an expired passport, a canceled bank book and a yellowed newspaper clipping of our engagement announcement. She gathered our precious belongings and drove home.

As per usual, our home security system chirped when Mrs. P unlocked and opened the front door. However, it was unusual that I did not greet her in the living room as she deposited her purse on a chair and shuffled through the day's mail.

"Josh?," she called.

No reply.

"Josh?," she called again, this time a bit louder.

Again, no reply.

Figuring that I was sequestered away on the third floor, probably hunched over my computer's keyboard, entering another rant into one of my silly blogs, Mrs. P slowly ascended the stairs. She took each step gently, almost tip-toeing.

"Josh?"

Then, she thought I must have come home from work with a headache. Sure, I've done that many times and the best remedy is to stretch out on the bed and grab a quick, before-dinner nap. At the top of the stairs, Mrs. P craned her neck in the direction of our bedroom. Nothing. The bed was still crisply made and just as she had left it this morning. She took one more step, bringing her into the hallway. She saw me lying on the sofa. Quiet. Motionless.

"Josh?"

No answer. I did not stir in the least.

"Josh? Josh?" The tiniest bit of panic tinged her words. She crept closer. She created the only movement in our otherwise quiet house. 

For a brief moment, Mrs. P thought I was dead.

"Josh?" She was now standing over me, looking for any sign of life.

My eyes fluttered open.

"Hi.," I sputtered.

Mrs. P exhaled in relief. "Are you okay?," she asked.

"Yeah," I smiled, adjusting eyes to the world of the awake, "I'm fine."

"I thought you were dead.," Mrs. P said, very matter-of-factly.

"Well, I'm not.," I assured her.

"And, ironically," she reported, "I emptied out the safe deposit box today."

"Better now than later, I guess. What's for dinner?," I said, as I got up and kissed my wife's forehead, once again proving that I was not dead.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

oh oh the night comes down

Evidently, I snore.

I remember, when I was a kid, my mother would have to sleep with thick plugs wedged into the apertures of her ear canals to block out my father's snoring. Even though my parents' bedroom was one floor below mine, I could still hear his throaty sleep-grunts rattling the windows and echoing through the house.

Recently, I seem to have developed the same nocturnal caterwauling that kept my mother from enjoying an evening's rest. Only now the victim of my bedtime racket my poor spouse. Unfortunately for her, I sleep like a corpse. Many nights have found Mrs. P shaking and shoving my undisturbable carcass into a position that would realign my nasal passages and change my breathing pattern.... or cut off  my breathing, as the case may be. I have briefly stirred from heavy slumber to hear my wife's muffled sobs emerging from under her pillow. Other times, I have been jarred awake by the not-so-subtle screams of  "STOP THAT FUCKING SNORING!" My wife has always been very successful in getting her point across.

In a few weeks, I will be attending the first "work-related" conference in my nearly thirty years of employment. By chance, the conference — a two-day affair enlightening attendees on the power of social media — will take place in Orlando, Florida. As a matter of fact, it will be hosted by the Walt Disney World Resort. When the offer was made for me to attend, my boss suggested that I extend my stay and invite Mrs. P for the weekend following the conference. Everyone knows my affinity for Disney theme parks, so I sent a quick email to my wife just after I secured my travel arrangements with my employer.

That evening over dinner, we discussed the logistics of Mrs. P. joining me post-conference. She offered to drive her car while I flew on my company's dime, meet me in Orlando and we'd drive back together. Now, we live approximately 990 miles from Orlando and the thought of spending it in a car doesn't exactly thrill me — especially when I can make the trip in two hours on a plane that someone else is paying for. ("You used to like that trip!," my wife countered. Sure. Twenty years ago, when I was twenty years less cranky.) A few more scenarios were suggested, including one that involved my in-laws and a side trip to Miami. All were given the thumbs down and we decided that it would work out best for me to just go to the conference and come home. Quick, unobtrusive and I'd be back before you know it.

Mrs. P looked a little disappointed, but her expression soon changed to one of optimism.

"Well, at least I'll get a couple of good night's sleep.," she smiled.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com