Cheeky's Hideaway

What Did I Miss?

It's felt like such an effort to log on and say anything these last few days.  We all spent most of the last week up to our eyelids in snot and phlegm, which isn't the most conducive condition for writing perky, upbeat stories.  Add to that a last minute trip to Chicago designed to test human endurance and you've got one seriously unmotivated blogger. 

Apparently I missed a lot.  First of all my fine city played host to the United Nations this week.  To the media it's a brief but ultimately silly distraction in the world of international politics.  To New Yorkers, it's an extra 3 hours on your commute.  I'm sure I'm not alone in wishing the UN relocated somewhere that would appreciate it more, say Detroit or Reykjavik.  Why should New York have the monopoly on world leaders making delusional statements or misnaming countries?

Of far more importance, however, is señors Clooney & Pitt wandering the fine streets of our neighborhood.  They've shrink-wrapped a townhouse down the street from us to film some new movie, and Oodgie and other local celebrities have been stalking them with laminated copies of their "lists" in their pockets.  Since Angelina doesn't seem to be in attendance, and the chances of Clooney inviting me to his Lake Como estate for darts and pool is pretty slim I haven't stressed too much about it.  I did think it might be nice if Cheeky were "discovered" and given a nice fat contract as "Cute Kid #1" in the film, but something tells me it doesn't work that way.

So this weekend we made up for lost time and went to three local festivals in search of nutritional meals and over-priced balloons shaped like cartoon characters.  We kept thinking we'd come across pony rides or some other kid-friendly activity, but mostly it was crowds of people getting their faces slapped by the balloons we were dragging behind us.  Cheeky got tired, we got cranky, and by the we got home I felt like I'd spent the day as Matt Damon's stunt-double.  Remind me next time we get an idea like to start drinking before we get there.

One thing I'm not sad I missed is the last 17 games the Mets played.  With all due respect to my Mets-lovin' compadre, no team that sucks that bad in September deserves to be in the playoffs.  It looks likes the Mets agree.  D'oh!

One thing I am sad I missed, though, was the 30th anniversary of Fonzie jumping the shark.  Network television has repeatedly tried to top this moment, but for my money this is still the gold standard of formerly good shows selling out and becoming completely ridiculous.  Just for fun, you might want to go back through my posts and see when I did the same.  Here's the original for your viewing enjoyment...

You Know Summer's Over at Casa de Cheeky When...

...the only food in the house is fruit and Lean Cuisines.

It happens every year:  we spend the summer sucking down enough carbs and dairy to send Jillian Michaels into catatonic depression, then compensate after Labor Day by starving ourselves.  The gravitational collapse of my stomach has created an event horizon threatening to make my body implode, but at least I feel a little less like a manatee.

...there's a panicked rush to watch a year's worth of TV in a week.

A couple years ago it was Battlestar Galactica.  Before that it was Alias.  This year's award for "show we originally ignored and belatedly decided to catch up on before the new season starts" is Heroes.  I remember thinking "that show is probably going to suck" last year, then had to listen to everyone's astonished gasps when I told them I wasn't watching.  I took a shot and bought season one on DVD, and Oodgie and I have been watching 2-3 episodes per night.  It's awesome!  I wonder what we'll be catching up on next summer.  My guess?  Reaper.

...my feet are freezing.

One day it's disgustingly muggy and hot out.  The next it's cold enough to fire-up the Zamboni.  Welcome to September!  The 900 lb window-unit that this weekend will probably be the only thing sparing us from drowning in our own perspiration is currently ushering meat-locker temperatures into our apartment.  My feet, in addition to being short and stubby, have zero thermal regulation, so I'm forced to wear ridiculous footwear to compensate.

...I'm lamenting the dearth of running backs on the waiver-wire

My fantasy football draft strategy this year included some key assumptions. 

1. The Saints would be good, and Reggie Bush would have a break-out season
2. Jacksonville would have a lousy passing game and have to run the ball
3. Other people could waste their picks on Randy Moss, Tony Romo, and Joseph Addai, 'cause none of them would live up to expectations.

It's too soon to panic, but it's not too soon to worry.

Welcome back, autumn!  Nobody on the road, nobody on the beach.  I feel it in the air...the summer's out of reach...

The Trough of Disillusionment

"Diaper backward spells repaid.  Think about it."
                                    -- Marshall Mcluhan

I'm in no rush for Cheeky to get older, but that doesn't stop us from gently encouraging her that some baby habits are worth breaking.  We've done a piss-poor job on the night-time pacifier and the morning bottle, but she's been studying in Defecation 101 and the other day it looked like she was ready for the final exam. 

Oodgie buys potty's the same way she buys shoes:  in bulk, with commitments to return most of them.  By my count we have at least three, none of which have been used for their intended purpose.  It's not for lack of trying; almost every activity includes tagging a potty like it was first-base.  Unfortunately every activity seems to be at least a double, if not an in-field home run, so there's not much lingering over the bowl.

That changed last week, though, when Oodgie finally convinced Cheeky it was time to try the "big girl potty."  The event, as related to me, went something like this.

1. Cheeky decides it's time to go potty
2. Cheeky uses her stool to climb onto the toilet
3. Cheeky instructs Oodgie to leave the room
4. Once she has privacy, Cheeky pees in the toilet
5. Cheeky climbs down, presumably to bask in her success
6. Cheeky poops on floor
7. Panic (sans the disco)

What has unfolded since then is classic hype-cycle.  Having reached the Peak of Inflated Expectations, Cheeky immediately plummeted into the Trough of Disillusionment, in which even mentioning the toilet creates shrieks which throw birds off their migration patterns. 

This leaves us at the infinitely more frustrating delicate stage, the Slope of Enlightenment.  We need to overcome her newly-minted fear/embarrassment with ever-more-creative ways to lure her onto the potty.  I've considered painting it to look like Dora (the bowl is the approximate shape of her head), coating it in chocolate (too easily confused with something else), and turning it into a game in which we pretend the toilet is our car and she's a pigeon.  I'm confident the Plateau of Productivity is still right around the corner.

Although I don't know why I'm in any hurry to hear, "Daddy, I have to go poddy" and pulling over every ten minutes.  Sometimes I think having the freedom to drop a load whenever/wherever you want has its advantages...

 

Farewell to FiDi

For most of my life in New York, I've been working in the FiDi*.  With the exception of a brief period in Queens, the shadowy canyons of Lower Manhattan have been my daytime home away from home.  I know it's 17th century streets well, and can point confused tourists looking for the Stock Exchange or Battery Park in the right direction.  So much of my history with this city has been there.

That all comes to an end today. 

Starting next week I'll be broadcasting live from the musty armpit beneath Grand Central Station, a location with all the charm of an industrial park, with the added bonus of being without trees.  I shouldn't complain much, since my new office does have an outdoor patio, a pool table, and an Xbox 360 (god help me) but I will definitely miss the storied streets I've called "work" for seven years.

Farewell short commute, which was sometimes so quick I arrived before I left.

Farewell Au Bon Pain, Cosi, Hale & Hearty Soup, and Quizno's.  You've been my sole form of nutrition for a long time now.  I'm sure the Au Bon Pain, Cosi, Hale & Hearty Soup and Quizno's in my new neighborhood won't be as charming.

Farewell Stone Street.  Seriously...you'll be missed.

Farewell narrow streets which blocked the sun, dropping temperatures by a dozen degrees.

Farewell stock brokers, with your pin-striped suits and annual bonuses bigger than my cumulative salary over the last four years.  I hope your helicopter crashes on the way to the Hamptons.

Farewell construction site outside my windows.  I LOVED the dynamiting you were doing last spring, but that crane is swinging those beams a little too close to my window for comfort.  May the new tenants have excellent insurance.

Farewell Starbucks in my building.  I can't believe I'll have to cross the street for coffee now...

Farewell empty streets after 7 PM.  You'd think we'd been hit by the superflu on the weekends...I half expect to see tumbleweeds roll by.

Farewell to all that.  It's been a good run, but it's time for me to find another neighborhood to mock.   As long as J & R is there, you know I'll always be back.

* "FiDi" is short for Financial District, a pathetic attempt to build cache for the a stodgy 'hood the same way Tribeca ("Triangle Beneath Canal") and Dumbo ("Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass") did.  Instead it just makes it sound like a rapper who wouldn't be caught dead there.

Remembered

Six years is a long time.  Most of us don't remember our emotional response to 9/11.  As often as not, our recollections are twisted and warped to fit with everything that's happened since.  Some are encouraging us to look forward, while others insist on looking back.

I was reminded the other day of the gulf between those who lost loved ones and those, like me, who did not.  I was having a casual conversation with a friend about movies, and I recommended United 93, which is one of the most emotionally wrenching, utterly horrific, and masterfully executed films I've ever seen.  My friend, who is a pretty relaxed guy, became visibly agitated, and began arguing that no matter how good the film might be it did a disservice.  People who saw it, he argued, would think they'd gain some connection to the events of that day and to those who suffered the worst of fates.

I began to argue, but I stopped.

I suddenly remembered this same friend's face in a dark bar in the East Village in mid-September, 2001. He and I had been working from home for two weeks, as our offices--across the street from Ground Zero--were inaccessible, horribly damaged and covered in the ashen remains of the two towers and their occupants.  I remember asking how he'd been, and he told me he'd been better.  That day he'd been to his sixth funeral in two weeks.

Many of his close friends coming out of college had promising careers at Cantor Fitzgerald, a powerful bond-trading firm on the 101st through 105th floors of Tower One, eight floors above the impact.  He spent weekends with them, knew their spouses, and had played with their kids.  He's spent two weeks with those people, coming to terms with the fact that they would never come home and sweep them into their arms again.

I watched the towers falls from the highway north of Ground Zero.  I hugged a woman who I haven't seen since as we watched the cloud rise over the site.  I spent the day frantically trying to reach friends, slowly but surely hearing from each of them that they were OK. 

But what I went through was nothing.

And as my friend pressed his point about the movie, I fell into silence.  True-life tragedy as entertainment, regardless of how it may inspire or move us, is not victimless.  The talking heads on TV or Capitol Hill may summon the date like some powerful ancient spirit to conjure fear and anger.  We can ask our friends, "Where were you?" or "Do you remember life before that?"  We can even pause, light a candle, and say a prayer.  But afterwards we will move on.  We will look forward.  We will rebuild.

But there are some that cannot.  Who will never be the same.  Who will always feel a pain and loss deeper than the rest of us can imagine.

It's with them that our thoughts should be today.

Ssssssssshhhhhhh!

Be very, very quiet

You might disturb it

It's resting in our holding facility right now.

The view screens are keeping it occupied

But if you touch it

or speak to it

or breathe near it

it could....EXPLODE

and destroy us all

It's been five days since the beast took possession of her

The survivors are holed-up in improvised shelters, scavenging for food and fearful that a sideways glance could wake it and unleash....

...the noise...

...my god, the ghastly, shrieking noise...

We don't know what it desires...what it responds to...or what its weaknesses are...

We just hope--and pray--for salvation

God have mercy on our souls

A Quick Message To...

...my body - I know I'm old as dirt, but must a hill-free bike ride and 15 minutes of tubing really make me feel like I'd gone eight rounds with Clubber Lang?

...to whomever is responsible for the corn crop at Harbes -- YUMMMMMMMMY

...to the people at Ft. Tryon Park Saturday night - It's a beautiful setting, with glorious views of the Palisades, and the weather was absolutely spectacular.  I don't blame you for wanting to wander around the park.  But do you think next time you see lines of well-dressed people in chairs in front of a chuppah, and hear the wedding march played by a small ensemble you might GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY??  There's a professional photographer trying to capture a once in a lifetime moment, but the ONLY bench you want to sit on is the one right behind the altar?  And what the hell, random blue-shirt old-guy with a book?  Was your view of the strangers getting married so obstructed that you had to grab an aisle seat near the front?  Thank god we all have a sense of humor, 'cause a less-pacifistic crowd might have kicked the snot out of you...

...the bugs at the beach - stop biting my daughter's face!

...my iPod - Today?  Today is the day you decide to die?  Knowing that I was flying to Chicago tomorrow and would be trapped on an airplane for hours?  We've been together so long...why would you do this to me?  Or did you know this was coming, and you performed pre-emptive seppuku so I'd have the excuse I needed to upgrade?

...the Hess station off the Long Island Expressway - sorry about the tree and the phone booth.  I don't know what the hell happened, but that accelerator sure felt like a brake.  Actually, I think I saw a....red Toyota...yeah, that's it!...speeding away from the scene.  And I think...er...um...Morgan Fairchild wad driving it!  Yeah, that's the ticket...