Cheeky's Hideaway

Thursday Link Showdown

Tomorrow, as a representative of my new, fun company, I shall re-enter the belly of the beast to pitch my old company for business.  Although the prospect of doing business with the Empire chills my soul, I'm not above a little prostitution with a company that cleared $24.5 ba-billion dollars last year. 

I'm more than a little stressed about this, since I'm using some personal contacts to get my foot in the door, and with less than 24 hours to prepare I don't think we're ready.  So instead of my usual splendiferous pronuntiatio, here's some utter randomness instead:

• 2008 cannot come soon enough
• Need further evidence of the above?  Read this
• You may love your cars, with their air-conditioning and trunk space, but we New Yorkers prefer full sensory overload in our transportation
• Do you know what the best sound in the world is?  Children's laughter, you say?  No no no.  It's your wife asking this question:  "Can we turn off the Seahawks game?  They're winning 42-3."
• Like I needed more evidence of this
• What's creepier? T.M.X. Elmo or this little guy?
• They grow'em a special kinda crazy down south
• Go Limewire, go!!!!
• Follow the white rabbit, and you will see that Kermit is the Chosen One
• Yep, this pretty much sums us up
• I, for one, welcome our new insect overlords. I'd like to remind them as a trusted blogging personality, I can be helpful in rounding up others to toil in their underground sugar caves.
• If you got the above reference, you're going to LOVE this site.

I've been a piss-poor blog reader lately, which is a shame 'cause there's some fine bloggers out there and I'm falling behind.  But I've got to throw some love out to Arwen (to counteract her trolls), Thordora (who actually asked if porn was an acceptable birthday gift), Matthew (because he encountered the buzz-saw that is my fantasy football team last week), and Mom-101 (because she threw some love my way last week, and someone's got to talk her out of selling her soul for sunshine)

These Booties are Made for Walkin'

For the last four months we've been getting the same question over and over again:  "Is she walking?"

For the last four months we've been answering it the same way:  "Almost."

It's been more widely anticipated than Iraqi democracy, and more frequently delayed than Chinese Democracy. 

As of Friday, the answer to that question is now a definitive "Yes!"

Cheeky has been in no rush to master this skill.  She's been standing on her own for a while now, so we figured that her first steps were always a day or two away.  But, much like people on escalators, why walk when other methods will get you where you want to go?  In her case that was crawling (not standing slack-jawed while her muscles atrophy, like escalator people) and her thunderous four-limbed attack on our floorboards has been a constant accompaniment to our daily lives since April. 

I guess she finally got tired of staring at shoe-laces and dust-bunnies, because she's been pretty insistent on holding our hands and "walking" for a week or two now.  She'd bob and weave like Muhammad Ali after a fifth of vodka, but with our help she'd stay upright.  But when we let go she'd revert to quadrupedal form, leaving us shaking our heads. 

Then, as is probably always the case, she forgot she wasn't holding on to anyone and just started wobbling from place to place.  It ain't exactly a straight line, but she gets where she needs to go.

It's fun to watch, and she applauds whenever she does it (although she applauds at nearly everything, including farts).  We're looking forward to the positive impact this will have on our laundry as opposed to the negative impact it will have on our sanity.

Now, how soon can I train her to fetch Daddy a beer?

From 0 to Vomit in 6.5 Seconds

Last night I was the closer while Oodgie went to a late appointment.  I took over with a strong lead; Cheeky had been perky and chattering all day, and was pulling the driver out of her toy truck like a monster snatching it's prey.  Oodgie rushed out, leaving me with only one major activity before bedtime:  the tub.

Cheeky's tub skills have radically improved in the last few weeks.  She used to treat the water like lava, clutching and tugging my shirt screaming "IT BURNS!  IT BURNS!" (at least that's what I heard in my head) but now we can't get her out.  She splashes, drowns plastic farm animals, and sucks the urine-juice out of the washcloth forever.  Piece of cake for a solo parent, right?

We'd been in there a while, and it looked like she was ready to get out of the tub.  It seemed a reasonable assumption, what with her leg on the tub rim and her audible grunts to pull herself out.  I gave her my hand, and helped her over the edge.

Before I go on, I should mention that Cheeky has been channeling lately.  At inopportune moments, her eyes roll back in her head and the Tasmanian Devil starts speaking in tongues through her.  These episodes will last a few minutes, and can usually be arrested by the proper application of Big Bird.  She then instantly reverts to a placid, peace-loving creature.

At the moment her wet little feet hit the bathroom rug last night, the demonic possession began anew.  Refusing to acknowledge the supernatural nature of the attack, I assumed she actually wanted back in the tub.  WRONG!  OK, so let's get out of the tub.  WRONG!  No problem...I still outweigh her, and since she looked clean to me I wrapped her wailing body in a towel and stepped out of the bathroom. 

Suddenly her catecholamine level blew off the chart.  She started to vibrate down to her molecules, and the volume and pitch of her screams began to mimic shuttle launches.  Within moments she, her towel, and I were covered in half-digested lasagna.

I stood there holding my yelling, pasta-covered child in sheer awe at how rapidly the situation had deteriorated.  I have no idea what it would take for me to get so upset I'd blow chunks (perhaps this?) so you can bet I couldn't guess what was doing this to her.  I was more impressed with the speed and intensity of the event more than anything else.

I figured she was probably empty by now, so I walked back into the bathroom (where the tub was still full) and dunked her back in like I'd hit the bulls-eye at the carnival.  A couple furious scrubs and the chunks of meet and sauce were off.  I carried the twisting, dripping beast into the bedroom, yanked PJs over her head, and plotted my next move.

Do I call Oodgie?  Do I call Constantine?  Do I form blazing sword?  Do I continue putting a rapid succession of toys and books in front of her face, hoping one holds the magic key to calming her?

No.  I knew what I needed to do.  I grabbed the magic wand and summoned the Peacemaker.

That, my friends, is why it's important to have parental first-aid kit on hand.

The Circle of Life

I often find my morning shower to be a great place to clear my mind and consider life's deeper truths.  I also think it's a good place to shave.  I was having a moment of silent reflection this morning as the warm water coursed down my back when I realized something.

I really feel bad for Bert...Ernie can be a tough roommate.

After pondering this for a few seconds I decided to analyze just why something like that would cross my mind.  After all:

• He's sort of a dweeb
• He's been wearing the same ugly-ass shirt since 1969
• Bert doesn't really have feelings.  He's a piece of felt with someone's hand up its ass

Obviously the constant inundation of Sesame Street at Casa de Cheeky lately is a contributing factor.  But it also stems from my own childhood memories of Bert, with his pigeon dance and removable nose.  I've known that guy all my life!

I find it fascinating that many of the cultural references I had growing up are the same ones Cheeky is being exposed to now.  I look at some of these characters and think back to when Gordon used to be seen with his wife Susan, or when Kermit was a more important character than Slimey, and when Mr. Hooper ran the store and everyone thought Snuffleupagus was an imaginary friend.  At what point does caring about muppets stop being a statement of ironic Grup hipness and start becoming something that requires therapy?

Thanks to the wonders of modern technology Cheeky and I can sit down and watch the Muppet Show together, just like I did when I was a kid.  I marvel at the bad jokes and the guest stars (Sandy Duncan ?  Avery Schreiber?  Paul Williams?) while she does exactly what I did:  absorb Gonzo, Animal, and that guy who always blows things up like they're Apostles. 

It's a weird connection that I get to have with her that my parents didn't have with me.  When they were growing up they didn't have the persistent cultural touchstones we have now.  I assume their childhood entertainment revolved around plowing furrows, Kalispel tribal ceremonies and the annual holiday dance at Old Fezziwig's.  Talking picture boxes and horseless carriages must have frightened and confused them.  Granted, the primitive life they led as vassals to their lord lasted for hundreds of years, and they probably learned to grind barley into porridge and play with with wooden toys just like their parents did.  But the competing needs to sacrifice livestock to the harvest gods and mold pottery reduced the emotional investment.

I'm glad the generation gap has narrowed, and that I can share the things I loved with Cheeky.  And she likes them, too...it's not like they're being forced on her.  Sure, it might be a little dangerous to expose my dated entertainment choices to Cheeky, but I don't know of any kid outside of Utah who didn't freely reject the uncoolness of their parents and develop their own tastes (or at least blindly follow the tastes of the cooler kids in school) at some point.  I'm quite content to stock up on Pixar and Studio Ghibli movies for her, and consciously overlooking some of the more questionable favorites of my youth. 

Plus, it gives me a chance to be a bit of a kid again.  Sharing a laugh at Cookie Monster (for completely different reasons, I'm sure) and singing the "Ladybugs Picnic" together is a great experience that we both enjoy.  And if it leads to philosophical ponderings about the troubled home life of a pointy-headed puppet, that's a small price to pay.

Of Beautiful Weekends and their Jarring Conclusions

God bless September.  New York this time of year can be spectacular, and as evidence I submit this weekend's weather.  I wish we had weekends like this during the summer.  Instead we sweat like Connecticut teenagers in an Alabama jail for three months, praying that Labor Day weekend will kick off one final stretch of tolerable temperatures before the turning leaves and frost take over.

We followed the siren's call to the North Fork again, and thanks to yet another heroic performance by ECG got to chill out and actually enjoy ourselves for a bit. 

We took a road trip to paradise where we stared glassy-eyed at the toy section, hoping to find something--anything--which will keep Cheeky from watching Sesame Street like it's a porn movie (fast forward through the plot, stop and watch the anal threesomes singing muppets).

We shot up some EPO and took a spectacular ride down lush coastal roads, past wineries and mansions, and even out to an historic lighthouse.

We had a stellar dinner at a chichi restaurant (not a Chi-Chi restaurant), and actually spent an hour or two talking to each other between bites of corn & ricotta filled raviolis.

We toured a couple farm stands, devoured corn as sweet as candy and tomatoes as juicy and flavorful as a human brai...er, I mean a melon.

By mid-afternoon Sunday we actually felt...relaxed.

And then....

Just as we were packing up, Cheeky's brain exploded.  Apparently Grandma would not let her drown herself, and THAT WAS UNACCEPTABLE.  After five minutes of chest-wracking screams, you could almost hear her mentally trying to regain her sanity, thinking "My god, am I still crying?  Is that why I can't breathe?" while her body was stuck on a continuous loop of twisting, writhing agony.  After ten minutes, we were looking for a tranquilizer and running towards the car. 

But where were the keys?

Not in the house.  Not in our bags.  Not in our pockets.  Not in the same bags we just checked a couple minutes ago.  Not in the garbage.  We could not find them in a box.  We could not find them with a fox.  We could not find them in the rain.  We could not find them on a train.  We could not find the keys, god damn; we could not find them Sam I am.

No, they are STILL not in the bags.  WE JUST CHECKED THOSE!

I had a spare (thank god) and we opted to abandon Oodgie's key chain to which ever felon or bandit came across them first and see if we could make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs.  We turned on some porn a Sesame Street DVD and braced for the long drive home.

As I've mentioned previously, there's one stretch of our drive akin to waterboarding.  On an ill-advised whim, we decided to try an alternate route, breaking off from what looked like a Fuch's used car lot and taking a mysterious highway into the heart of Brooklyn instead.  Unfortunately, maps don't usually mention that the road you'll be taking instead was recently bombed by the Taliban, rendering the ride Cheeky-nap-proof.  It also passes right under the road we were trying to avoid which--of course--looked like the Utah Salt Flats.

By the end of the trip, carting bags and boxes up stairs while throwing microwaved pizza in Cheeky's general direction, most of the serenity we'd built up was replaced by something much more dangerous.  But I can still close my eyes and see the sun-dappled roads and smell the fresh ocean breezes.  I'll need that for the week ahead.

Maybe I Don't Need TV After All

You've probably noticed lately that I've been linking less and less to educational sites, useful new products, and nerdy pictures, and more and more to YouTube videos.  The fact is that I've become mildly obsessed with it.  I am constantly amazed by the video treasures people have captured, created and uploaded, and find myself spending an unhealthy amount of my spare time browsing the archives.  It's not like network television has offered me any stellar alternatives...

I've uncovered a lot of fun things in the last few months, and although I'd love to seamlessly weave them into some witty story about how Cheeky laughs when she farts, or how I beat the tar out of MetroDad in fantasy football this week, I'm going to take the lazy road and just dump a bunch of recommendations on you.

• My favorite commercial of all time
• My favorite music video of all time (although this is a close second)
• Evidence for why figure skating is NOT a sport
• Gods at play
• The illegitimate love-child of the Dust Brothers and Yahoo Serious
• Keith Olbermann saying what needs to be said, then doing it again
• William Shatner's finest hour
• The greatest moment in Boston's history (savor it, boys)
• Dirty Dancing circa 1923
• Everything I ever needed to know about dealing with the opposite sex, part one and part two
• Classic cinema
• Proof that there are such things as stupid answers
• A crash course in office discipline (I've posted this before, but it still makes me laugh)
• Something that worries me much more than rising gas prices
• Whenever I worry about what Cheeky's TV watching, I remember that I used to watch this, and this, and this, and I turned out OK (mostly).
• Even America's Got Talent would reject this
• The now famous journal of Darth Vader's less-successful brother
• One of my favorite foods, mocked.
• Awesome performances of awesome songs
• And finally, a visual representation of what's happening to this blog

I'm always looking for new and fun things to watch while I wait for the season premieres of Lost and Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, so if you've seen anything cool or unusual let me know!

The Greatest Reality Show Ever

So I have this idea for a pseudo-reality show which I think is AWESOME.

I call is "SLAP!!" ^TM

A camera crew follows you as you pursue an important goal.  It doesn't matter how you go about doing it--either by force, stealth, or deception--but you must perform the task in front of the camera for posterity.

The task is the same every time, but the victim is up to you.  You have to SLAP someone famous.

Open-handed.  Hard.

Points are scored based on the strength of the slap, the challenge/danger involved, and the entertainment value of the hunt. 

For example, Pauly Shore might be a fun slap, and you might score points for entertainment value, but since he's probably slapped all the time you'd get few points for the danger-factor.  But track down J.D. Salinger or Jennifer Lopez and give them an open-handed greeting and BOOM you're a star.

The best SLAPPERS ^TM would then be forced into a head-to-head championship battle.  To win, you must be the first to slap someone truly awesome.  It's like the final boss battle at the end of a video game.  The first person to SLAP ^TM to Dick Cheney, for example, or Oprah, would be the Ultimate SLAPPING ^TM Champion, and would immediately have to go into hiding (don't tell me Oprah wouldn't have you erased from the planet for that).

Maybe I'm a disturbed human being, but I'd watch that.  Hell, I'd sponsor a team if Paris Hilton and Billy Bush were early victims.  Mr. Murdoch, I'm awaiting your call.

Five Years On

Five years ago, this country witnessed the greatest act of aggression--and one of the most tragic losses of innocent life--it has ever seen. 

Here in New York, the tragedy is more than horrifying images.  It was pictures of missing hung on every fence in the city.  It was silently holding a candle in Union Square or Bryant Park with people you didn't know.  It was explaining to children why Daddy wouldn't be coming home again.  It was (and is) a giant hole in the earth that used to be shops, a bank, a fountain, a view of the city across it's rooftops.

It's tangible.  It's painful.  It still lingers.

My friend Mark was running across the Brooklyn Bridge that morning, and watched the second plane crash into the towers.  My colleague Michael spent countless minutes in uncertain darkness, trapped on a subway train beneath Lower Manhattan.  I called Puneet, who worked for me, while he was huddled in the lobby of a bank and clouds of dust and debris rolled by outside.  My secretary, Tracy, never came back to Manhattan after that day--I never saw her again.  Paul and Amy don't talk about what they saw.  My friend Utkarsh went to eight funerals over the following weeks.

Since that day people have learned to move on with their lives.  New York is as vibrant and lively as ever.  The rest of the country spends it's energy looking at pictures of baby Suri or remembering the Crocodile Hunter.  It's a natural and healthy part of our psychological make-up that we can.

But it's equally important that we not forget what happened that day, and that we learn from our experience so the lives lost will not be completely in vain. 

Our leaders have politicized September 11 for their political gain, claiming dubious powers in the name of "fighting terror" and using them to strengthen their interests and those of their wealthy allies.  Their arrogant and clumsy use of force, cloaked in the rhetoric of Christian values but sporting none of it's compassion, has deepened misunderstanding and hatred towards us, and cost the lives of those who would do what's right for our country and beliefs.  They have done little to protect us, because planning to do so would divert their attention, and continue to reward those who are loyal and discredit those competent few who may disagree.  They have squandered our trust and faith, and have permanently tarnished the values this country stands for.

These people will recall the memory of 9/11 in their rhetoric, and attempt once again to co-opt the horrific images of those days to promote their agendas.  Do not listen to them.  See them for who and what they are.  Instead, I ask that you ignore the flag-waving, the fear-mongering, and the brazen reminders of upcoming elections, and remember those people who lost spouses, parents and children but have no grave to visit. 

Think back to the innocence we all had on September 10, and the promise the future seemed to hold.  Give thanks that for all our mistakes, our ignorance, and our sometimes misguided but primarily good intentions, it is us individuals, who day-to-day work hard to make our lives and the lives of our children, friends and neighbors better, who made a difference in those shocking hours as the smoke rose over Ground Zero.  And remember that it is within each of us to do so again.

Short Attention Span Theater

Like many parents raised on television, we are were apprehensive about Cheeky's exposure to it 's glowing, warming glow.  We don't want her to turn into a drooling automoton who can only quote Gilligan's Island, Knight Rider, and The Simpsons (i.e. her father), but it's not completely without value.  After all there is some quality educational programming out there, and--let's be honest--the stillness that even fifteen minutes of Cookie Monster can buy you is worth it's weight in frankincense and myrrh. 

When Cheeky first showed interest in the TV, it was a welcome break from her attention requirements and destructive powers.  We'd watch a little TV, then quickly go back to her conditioning program or eating puzzle pieces. 

But TV is like Doritos:  once you get a taste, you crave more.  And more.  And more....and....*crunch* *crunch* *crunch* *crunch* *crunch*

Sorry, where was I?  Oh yeah...

There's been an alarming increase in TV demands, lately.  We know the signals:  the hand wave towards the armoire, a questioning "Bah?", and the obligatory fit if one of us doesn't move fast enough to turn it on.  But that's nothing...we can handle that.  The problem emerges later, once the TV is on.

The original formula was very simple:  Blues Clues or Sesame Street.  Turn one of them on and your done.  We even bought DVD's of both for emergency purposes.  Somewhere in that developing psyche, however, is an impatience which manifests itself in 2-3 minute intervals.  Not long after Baby Bear starts lisping his way through another life-lesson, or Tickety-Tock asks for help telling time (Dude, your a fucking clock...you EXIST to tell time!  And you're replaceable!) she demands change.  NOW!

We've tried to narrow down what she's asking for by eliminating options she responds poorly to.  So far we've eliminated:

1. changing the channel or program
2. not changing the channel or program
3. fast-forward
4. reverse
5. neither fast-forward nor reverse
6. turning off the TV
7. touching the remote
8. not touching the remote
9. holding a pillow over our heads to muffle the screams and, if we're lucky, pass out

A toddler's mind can be a mysterious place; who knows what patterns and urges are swirling around in there.

Something tells me that my DNA has to step up and take responsibility for this.  You see, I've got the itchy trigger finger, too.  My college roommate never heard a complete song, because the second it started to fade I hit the button to fast-forward.  I whip through channels with a dizzying dexterity, truncating plot-lines and maintaining perfect mental continuity between Sci-Fi and the Food Network.  I sometime forget that my iPod can do other things besides 'shuffle.'   My life has been threatened on several occasions for this, but that's how I roll.

I had always thought this was a developed skill, requiring years of expert surfing to sever the neural connections which demand patience in entertainment.  Now I wonder if there's some sequence of nucleotides floating in Cheeky's biological stew which drive her new psychotic behavior.  Perhaps a little self-examination can illuminate a strategy to deal with it. 

And if this is some warped mirror of my own behavior, what does that say about me?  When I complain that I can't watch the Colbert Report, does the outside observer see a purple-faced whiner slapping the TV cabinet?  And just because I only want to watch the funny parts of movies doesn't mean I have to immediately switch....

...wait, this is boring.  Let's talk about something else.  What's on channel 34?

Do You Scene What I Scene?

I was having a debate with some friends the other day about the difference between a good movie and a movie with a few good scenes.  Sometimes a great scene will make a movie memorable, even if the rest of it wasn't so hot.  My favorite example is A Few Good Men, which I personally think is an average and highly overrated movie with one absolutely riveting scene.  "You can't handle the truth!"

That's not to say great scenes and great movies are mutually exclusive.  It's no coincidence that the best movies often have the best scenes.  But for every "I know it was you, Fredo" or ripple of water in a plastic cup, there's a corresponding scene in Harley Davidson & the Marlboro Man or Billy Madison that elevates the surrounding material.  Think of John Belushi on the ladder in Animal House, or the crop duster scene in North by Northwest, or Bill Duke emptying his mini-gun into the jungle in Predator, moments which stick in your mind that you always wait for if you happen to catch it on HBO.

Anyway, it got me thinking, and I decided I'd throw together a list of my 25 favorite movie scenes ('cause the last time I did a list of 100 it took me all summer).  They are in no particular order, in no way reflect my all-time favorite movies (which I won't bore you with) and are hardly a comprehensive or permanent list. 

• "Adios, Sapito." - The theft of the idol at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark 
• "I'm sorry, did I break your concentration?" - Jules and Vincent interrogate Brett and friends in Pulp Fiction
• "Head!  Move!" - Charlie's father explains the Pentavirate and mocks a boys head-size in So I Married an Axe Murderer
• "I am not left-handed." - The sword fight in The Princess Bride
• "You got him?" "Yeah, I got him" - Showdown in the train station in The Untouchables
• "Hi, it's Mike..." - The most painful phone call in history from Swingers
• "I'll be takin' the Huggies and whatever cash you got." - The chase scene from Raising Arizona
• "Time's Up" - Everything blows up real good in Independence Day
• "Cuz you're gay, and you can tell who other gay people are?" - The "you know how I know you're gay" scene from The 40 Year-Old Virgin
• "Your skill is extraordinary" - Bruce Lee beats up about a thousand lackeys in Enter the Dragon
• "Stay away from the cans!" - Navin R. Johnson gets shot at in The Jerk
• "Oh, he was a little guy.  Kinda funny lookin'" - A random interview with a bar owner in Fargo
• "Redrum.  Redrum" - 'Tony' scares the bejesus out of me in The Shining
• "Oh man, how'd you get the beans above the franks?" - The worst prom night ever from There's Something About Mary
• "Yak dung!... hope tastes good - like a cigarette should!" - The brainwashing of the soldiers in the original Manchurian Candidate
• "You can come and play now!" - Danny invites some visitors to play in Close Encounters of the Third Kind  
• "My childhood was typical.  Summers in Rangoon...luge lessons" - Dr. Evil's support group from Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery
• "I think that the problem *may* have been, that there was a Stonehenge monument on the stage that was in danger of being *crushed* by a *dwarf*." - The band plays Stonehenge in This is Spinal Tap
• "You're gonna need a bigger boat" - Jaws.  Duh.
• "Any men don't wanna get killed better clear on out the back" - Bill Munny seeks vengeance at the end of Unforgiven
• "How would he know where we're going?" - Going the wrong way on the highway in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles
• "Fly you fools!" - The fellowship flees the Balrog in The Fellowship of the Ring
• "Hey Dad?  You wanna have a catch" - the scene that always always always makes me cry in Field of Dreams

And my three all time favorites:

• "What I want - what's most important to me - is that I have a guarantee: No more attempts on my father's life." - McCluskey & the Turk meet their end in The Godfather
• "'Domus'? Nominative? 'Go home' is motion towards, isn't it?" - A centurion corrects Brian's Latin grammar in Monty Python's Life of Brian
• "I am your father" - Vader?  Skywalker?  No.  Way!

Like I said, this is a highly subjective and incomplete list.  Consider this a mini-meme...what are your favorite scenes?