Scenes from New York

When I told my brother we were coming to visit, the first thing he asked me was whether The Wife had been to New York before.

I said she had, and he asked what she had done on her first trip to the Big Apple. I told him she had done a lot of the typical tourist stuff. He said, “Oh, good, then we don’t have to go to the Statue of Liberty.”

Apparently, when you live in New York and a lot of your out-of-state relatives visit, you end up seeing a lot of the same attractions and standing in the same lines.

I’ve ridden the Staten Island Ferry to and from Manhattan dozens of times, and I still look to see the Lady in the harbor every time I go past. It’s one thing the French actually did right. (Remember Le Car? What a joke.)

Best Statue of Liberty moment: July 1986. My mom, my brother and I went to Battery Park early in the morning and camped out all day to get good seats for what was, at the time, the largest fireworks display in North America. There was an amazing parade of ships in New York Harbor for Lady Liberty’s 100th birthday.

Worst Statue of Liberty moment: Two years later, a couple of friends and I stood in a ridiculous line for hours and walked all the way to the top of the crown. Guess what, it’s hot, it’s cramped, and you can’t see much. If you go to the island, the best part is walking around on the outside and seeing the statue up close. The museum inside also is excellent.


Here is me, the Statue of Liberty and a lot of bird poop. I am the one on the far right.

Here is the first animal we saw at the Bronx Zoo. Sadly, it is fake.



Best part of the Bronx Zoo: Tiger Mountain.

The worst: Sparsely populated, outdoor penguin exhibit.



Several wild creatures landed on me during our trip to the zoo. This would be a much better story if they had been something more terrifying. I was a butterfly magnet that day. (There is an orange and black butterfly on my hood.) Coincidentally, we bought an actual butterfly magnet. It’s on the refrigerator.



Here is The Wife in front of an advertisement for "Saw II" in the New York subway. Horror fans will be glad to know that the flick, directed by The Wife’s cousin, was scarier than the subway.



We went to see the movie opening night. About the time I was thinking I hadn’t seen a really bloody scary movie in the theater since high school or college, The Wife hammered that thought home.

“You know, we are probably the oldest couple in this theater,” she said. “In fact, you are probably the oldest person here.”

See, it was scary.

My wife the terrorist

On our way to New York, I was stopped by airport security because there was a suspicious substance on one of my film canisters.

Security told me it happens a lot because anything with glycerin, including hand lotion, can cause a positive test. Luckily, my chapped hands didn’t cause us to miss our flight, and we eventually went on our way. I was not impressed with security, however, once we reached the Big Apple and The Wife started digging through her purse.

“Oh,” she said, “I have a fingernail file in my purse. I didn’t think you could bring those on planes anymore.”

You can’t.

“But I did,” she said. “Oh, I have matches, too. How did those get in there?”

Where did you get matches?

“I don’t know. Oh, I have a letter opener, too.”

A letter opener?

“Yes, and hey, how did this hand grenade get in here?”

OK, I made up the hand grenade, but how can security pick up a tiny trace of hand lotion, but the X-ray operator failed to notice three banned objects in one tiny purse?

Other Notes From New York:
1) If you get a chance to see “Avenue Q” on Broadway, I highly recommend it … unless you are offended by songs about porn and racism, adult language and puppet nudity.

Yes, I said puppet nudity.

2) When it rains, it really does pour. I have never seen so many broken umbrellas abandoned on sidewalks as I did in one windy, rainy week in New York.

3) On the flight home, we were stuck behind about 10 12-year-olds and a teacher returning from a class trip. I could tell the munchkins had the highest respect for the teacher, who let the little monsters do whatever they wanted, by the way they affectionately referred to her as, “Hey, Judy.”

We are doomed

Call it the day the music died.

No, I’m not talking about the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly. I’m talking about Wednesday’s report in USA Today that Ashlee Simpson is No. 1 on the billboard charts.

How can this be? This woman has no talent. At least her sister’s popularity is easily explained -- she’s hot. Ashlee “It’s my band’s fault” Simpson cannot sing, as proven on “Saturday Night Live.”

But this rant is not about untalented singers. There are too many (witness Rod Stewart at No. 2 on the charts). This is about the continued decline of intelligence and taste in the United States.

True, taste is a matter of opinion, and people are entitled to theirs. For example, it’s my opinion that Ashlee Simpson is No. 1 in record stores, in part, because her fans are too stupid to download her horrible songs off the Internet.

But bad choices aren’t limited to the radio. The No. 1 movie at the box office last week was “Doom." That’s right; the top movie in the country is a video-game ripoff starring a pro wrestler. This proves my theory that Hollywood has run out of original ideas. It seems every movie is based on a video game, an old TV show (“Bewitched”), an old movie (“The Longest Yard”), a comic book (“Batman”), a cartoon (hideous “Scooby Doo” flicks) or a book (“Seabiscuit”).

(Side note: Every movie not in this category stars moppet Dakota Fanning, who is expected to take over Hollywood sometime in 2008.)

I was pleasantly surprised to see that there was not a single reality show among the top 10 broadcast TV shows, and there was even one news program (“60 Minutes”) in the top 10. However, the top two cable shows were pro wrestling, which just proves we really are Doomed.

Free crap, Part II

Magazine Man, oh Magazine Man. Where for art thou, Magazine Man?

Actually, I don’t really care where Magazine Man is. I just want my free crap.

Magazine Man, author of the tremendously entertaining “Somewhere on the Masthead” on blogspot.com, recently had a free-crap giveaway. It gave the anonymous journalist a chance to clean out his junked-up basement and an opportunity to reward his loyal readers with free crap, and who doesn’t love that?

The Wife loves free crap. She sends money to worthy charities, in part, because they offer irresistible “free gifts” to people who make donations.

Question One: How can it be free if you have to pay for it?

Question Two: How bad do you really want a “free” tote bag?

I have to admit that I, too, have a great fondness for free crap. When I go the Kansas State Fair, I always walk through the commercial building for the free pencils, magnets, calendars and other cheap crap people hand out so that you will attend their college, buy their product or support their political candidate.

I read through Magazine Man’s vast array of free stuff before bidding on a delightful TV/radio/lantern/flashlight. I wrote him a heart-felt essay on my beloved lantern/flashlight that I lost (OK, I ran over it) one snowy day after my car went in a ditch on a country road.

Alas, the TV/radio/lantern/flashlight went to one Jessica Stover, an aspiring actress, writer and wannabe ninja.

Lesson learned: When men are handing out free stuff, hot, young actress/ninjas always get the best stuff.

I don’t know whether to hope Jessica accidentally runs over her TV/radio/lantern/flashlight or that she becomes wildly famous so that when she comes up in conversation I will have a Jessica Stover anecdote. I predict she will, in fact, become wildly famous. Check out jessicastover.com to find out why.

The news wasn’t all bad. Magazine Man e-mailed me and promised there were no losers in this contest. Let’s be honest, there were obviously losers, but his point was that everyone who participated would receive something. He even questioned me about possible consolation prizes.

That was 15 days ago.

I am still waiting.

I bet Jessica Stover is somewhere right now watching her awesome TV/radio/lantern/flashlight. It’s never good to keep a hot ninja waiting. They might come looking for you.

Every day I go to the mailbox wondering whether my free crap has arrived and what it will be. Yesterday I went to the mailbox, and my pulse actually raced at the sight of package. My free crap had finally arrived, I thought.

Nope. It was another “free” tote bag for The Wife.

Free crap, Part I

The Wife and I are saving for a new house, but I fear we will never actually be able to move.

It is not that we don’t have the money. We already have saved a lot more than many people spend on a down payment. And it’s not that we lack the ability to pack, though it is one of the few things that The Wife is incredibly bad at.

The big problem, as I see it, is that we have too many address labels. We have never bought address labels in the year and a half we’ve been married, but charitable organizations that allegedly are strapped for cash will not stop sending them to us.

Need new address labels? Send a donation to one charity. Every other charity in North America will send you free address labels in the hopes that such a grand gesture will touch your heart and prompt you to send them a check for $10.

The Wife has a soft spot for animals, so she made a modest donation to the Humane Society of the United States. Since then, we have heard from every animal charity you have ever heard of and several more. They always send address labels. They have taken over my desk.

Here are a few a sample conversations:

“Do we have any stamps?”

They’re under the address labels.

“Have you seen the calculator?”

Look under the address labels.

“Where is the cat?”

Look under the address labels.

OK, I made that last one up, but this is absolutely true: We have 462 free address labels. That unbelievable total of free address labels is in addition to the seemingly weekly shipment of plain black-and-white address labels we receive from our insurance company (which we actually do send money to). They have sent labels with just my name, just her name and both our names. The ones with just my name get used for paying bills because The Wife likes to save her free address labels with photos of dogs, cats and flowers for her personal mail, which – in this Internet age – is another reason we will never be able to use all the labels, which just keep coming.

If only there were 462 people we liked well enough to send Christmas cards … and in fact were ambitious enough to send Christmas cards to the people we actually like.

Famous last words

The Wife twisted my arm about starting a blog. I wasn't interested.

"It would be good writing practice," she said.

Eh. I write all the time. It's my job.

"Your family and friends would enjoy it," she said.

Hmm. I don't have time.

"Your writing could reach a whole new audience," she said.

Sigh. I fear the Internet.

"DO IT," she said.

Um, OK.

So I came up with some topics I could write about, but I told her she
would have to set up my account because I did not know where to go or
how to do it. She looked at me as if I were a child who should be old
enough to tie his own shoes but cannot.

She sat down and started my account.

Filled with great ideas, I choked on the details.

"What's your username?" she asked.

I don't know.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" she asked.

I'm drawing a blank.

"Pick something."

I threw out a variation of my name, but it already had been taken by
another blogger, an ominous sign of things to come. Have I mentioned
that I hate the Internet?

The Wife took my suggestion and added some numbers to it.

"Password?"

Umm ....

"Just pick something."

I threw out the name of someone I don't like and added an insult,
something that would be easy for me to remember. Alas, I cannot remember my username, which is a variation of my own name. Genius.

"What's the name of your blog?"

Huh?

"Your blog; you have to name it."

Why?

"You just do."

Oh. Umm ...

Complete writer's block had set in at this point, not to mention brain
lock. I could not have told her my own Social Security number.

"PICK SOMETHING!" she said, hard lines set in her forehead.

Mr. Clean, I said, a nickname she sometimes uses, alluding to my
sparseness of hair.

"That's not very original," she said.

Again, I threw out some variations of my name. They already had been
used. This process, which should have taken seconds, had dragged on for about 15 minutes.

The Wife's TV show was starting. She was not happy.

"Pick Some-Thing," she said.

Cereal Killer, I said, but with a C. The kind you eat.

I don't know where that came from. It just popped in my head. It sounded funny, and I love cereal.

"Cereal Killer?" she asked. "Are you sure?"

Yeah.

At this point, I could have said Bachelor Bob and the Sad Tale of the
Dusty Condom, and she would have typed it. She had endured enough of my foolishness.

I thought I had picked a good, original name. She knew I had not.

So my first item was posted on the Cereal Killer blog. It was not until
the next day, while doing a Google search, that I learned that Cereal
Killer was the name of a rap song, a British movie and an Australian
band. That's right, I'm out of touch on at least three different
continents.

This is what happens when you let your Entertainment Weekly subscription run out.

I was appalled. And it got worse. At least a few people had written
not-so-funny stories about their love of cereal with the title Cereal
Killer.

How could I have chosen so poorly?

I wrote The Wife an e-mail with the troubling news.

"Yeah, I knew that," she wrote back.

Thanks for telling me.

She did, however, offer to change the name for me.

If only I could think of something else, which I could not.

Finally, The Wife offered Pchit as the blog name.

Pchit and The Wife go back a few years to when she was The Girlfriend,
The Ex-Girlfriend, The Girlfriend (Again) and The Fiance.

When The Wife is having a bad day/week, she sometimes plays dead. I am not making this up.

She will say something like, "I don't want to go to work. Pchit." and
throw a pillow or blanket over her head. Pchit, you see, is the sound
she makes when she fakes death.

Dead people don't make noise, I argued, when this trend started.

"What do you mean? Didn't you hear me? I said, 'Pchit,'" she said,
straight face, eyes closed.

I said, dead people do sometimes make noise when air escapes their lungs or gas escapes their, um, bodies, but I don't think they actually say anything.

"Pchit," she said.

How can you argue with that?

Some people have five-star days. Today, my wife had a three Pchit day.
As in, I received three e-mails that said "I don't feel good, and I want to
go home. Pchit," or words to that effect. Yes, sometimes she dies at work. Sure it's unprofessional, but it is only pretend death.

So we changed the name of the blog. Then I realized I probably should
have Google searched the word to make sure it wasn't a Method Man song, a Brit movie or an Aussie band.

It wasn't.

It was, however, a French term, but I don't speak or read French. I took
half a semester of French in college before dropping the insufferable
class (I later passed four semesters of Spanish, most of which I quickly
forgot).

Pchit, in fact, showed up in numerous French postings. I typed the word
into two French-English dictionaries online and found no matches. I decided it must be slang.

I hit the "translate this page" option on a few of the posts and was
able to deduce that Pchit, in France (native habitat of the
cheese-eating surrender monkey) is some sort of bathroom-related sound.

I was somewhat distressed that I had just named my blog such an
inappropriate term, but then I remembered that The Wife had maintained Pchit was the sound dead people make.

As usual, she was right.

Pchit.

Down the drain

There are certain perks that come with renting a house from your in-laws. We don't have a lease, and we didn't have to pay a security deposit. We also know the in-laws don't want my wife to move home, so we're not too worried about eviction if we're a few days late with the rent.

It also helps that my father-in-law, Mr. Fix It, can fix just about anything. That's good because our house was built sometime around the signing of the Magna Carta. I'm about as handy as the Venus de Milo, so Mr. Fix It comes over on a semi-regular basis to unclog drains, do electrical work and fix leaky pipes. During these occassions, I help out with vital tasks such as, Holding the Ladder and Aiming the Flashlight. I do what I can, which is mostly staying out the way and trying not to embarrass myself.

The biggest problem with our house is that the basement floods. This isn't a huge deal because we don't use our basement for much, and the few insignificant things (ie, mine) stored there are on pallets. The basement has three floor drains, but the floor isn't level and the most efficient drain is on the side of the floor water runs away from.

Mr. Fix It came over a month ago and fixed one of the malfunctioning drains, but the third appeared to be a lost cause. A few days later he gave my wife a bottle of drain unclogger (I'm pretty sure that's the tecnical term for it) to give to me. I was about to go downstairs and pour the bottle in the drain when The Wife suggested I read the directions.

This was not your run-of-the-mill drain unclogger. It wasn't Drano or Liquid Plummer. No, this was hard-core poison. I won't mention the brand name of this heinous, ineffective product because I don't like to be sued, but I will share some of the fun facts from the back of this bottle of fun. It said things like:

Use in a ventilated are.
Wear protective eyewear.
Wear a facemask.
Wear rubber gloves.
Do not stand directly over drain because drain may erupt after use.
Put a dust pan or other protective covering over drain.
Do not taunt drain unclogger.

Strange, I forgot to use the drain unclogger until the next time Mr. Fix It stopped by. We went downstairs, and he poured the liquid into the drain. He did not wear a mask, protective eyewear or rubber gloves. It didn't really matter because the drain did not erupt. It also did not drain. It did fill up with poison, stopping at the top of the drain hole.

Then he left.

No big deal, I planned to flush it with water later, per the bottle's lengthy instructions.

I went back later and poured water into the drain, which was still full. As the water and poison merged, there was no eruption and no drainage. In a surprising twist, adding water to a full, clogged drain actually causes the drain to overflow.

Huh.

The water/poison mixture mocked me with a lingering hiss.

At this point, I had no idea what to do, possibly because I was breathing poison vapor. I did know that poison was bad for dogs and cats, and we have both. So I locked the basement and told The Wife not to let anyone down there. A week went by, and I guess I was hoping the poison would go down the drain, disappear or evaporate. It did not. I ignored it.

Another week went by.

I went back to visit the drain, hoping the problem had solved itself. Alas, the problem was multiplying. The pool of liquid poison that had overflowed the drain had mutated into something that looked like a pile of wet charcoal and old coffee grounds, and it was growing.

I ran away.

A few days later, I went back to visit the pile. It was bigger and appeared to be molding.

I asked Mr. Fix It what I should do.

"Dig it out," he said.

Armed with rubber gloves, a screwdriver and a putty knife, I did as I was told. As I put my screwdriver into the drain, I thought, "If this was a cartoon, my screwdriver would bend and melt." It did not.

I scooped the poison out of the drain, scraped as much of the crusted gunk off the cement floor as I could and threw it all in the trash outside.

Unfortunately, there is still quite a bit of poison residue on my basement floor, and I have no idea how to get rid of it. It probably will still be there the next time Mr. Fix it stops by.