Cheeky's Hideaway

Rarely is the question asked, is our children learning?

This weekend, in a desperate attempt to find something--anything--to do that didn't involve squishing Playdough into our carpets, we visiting Packer, a local private school, for their annual "Pumpkin Patch."

Our main objective was to give Cheeky a chance to cram toothpicks into apples and squirt paint onto spinning paper, but the excursion had an unexpected effect on me.

As we walked through the wood-paneled halls of what looked like Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, and stepped out into that rarest of Brooklyn spaces--a giant, leafy yard--I was caught up in images of Cheeky prancing down the halls, storing her lunch-pail in a little nook and learning from a caring teacher whose best friend isn't a talking monkey.

The snide egalitarian in me turned to Oodgie and sarcastically asked, "Doesn't pre-school cost $25,000 per year here?"

"No, pre-school is only $13,000 per year.  Kindergarten is $25,000."

To put things in perspective, the MBA program at Stanford is only $20,000 per year.

WTF??????????????????

There's absolutely nothing I value more than a quality education (not even nachos).  It's so blindingly obvious to me that having access to caring teachers in a safe, nurturing environment is the key to long-term success in life that I'm perpetually astounded and enraged that it's not an inalienable right of every child in America.  The sheer arrogance of schools espousing the values of personal growth and diversity but restricting admission to investment bankers and trust-fund babies turns me makes my head want to explode.

Metrodad wrote a thoughtful entry on this a few days ago (and curse you, Pierre, for yet again beating me to the punch on a topic I've been planning for a while) but he and I have somewhat different perspectives on this.  He went to a private school and is consciously electing to send his daughter to a public school, for a wealth of very good and noble reasons.  I'm a product of public schools, and although I came out freakin' great and have no real issue with sending Cheeky to one, I'm furious that in the eyes of the New York education establish I'm apparently an unwashed peasant, and I therefore have no choice.

I'm the first to admit that I'm a Marxist towards the 'elites' in our society, who (with a handful of notable exceptions) seem to be primarily skilled at being well-connected and making me want to punch them in the face.  And our neighborhood is full of them!  Everybody is sending their kids to one of the local private grade schools, which means all of Cheeky's "friends" will be heading off to places with the words "academy" and "institute" in the title while she's choosing between home ec and auto shop.  Meanwhile, we're hearing rumors that there may even be a waiting list for the local public school. 

We're looking into good Islamic schools just in case.

This whole thing has got me freaked out.  I feel like we have to plan years in advance, bringing cupcakes to kindergarten administrators and wearing a shtreimel to interviews to impress the faculty.  It's even raising the specter of moving to the suburbs just so we have a fighting chance of giving our child the education she deserves. 

I whole-heartedly agree with MD that this whole mess would be better if public school teachers were paid something remotely resembling their worth.  With all the money going into blowing other people up, I don't see that changing much in my lifetime, and certainly not before Cheeky's giving her valedictory speech at graduation.  I'll do whatever it takes within my admittedly limited power to give Cheeky the best possible educational opportunities, and to compensate for what she lacks at school with the some first class tutoring at home. 

It just infuriates me that it has to be this way. 

Anyone have any words of encouragement or, better yet, vouchers?

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.

The Fruits of a Life in Politics

We have a good friend who lives in Washington D.C.  She was part of Oodgie's wedding party, and has always been able to make us laugh.  To be one of our friends, you have to be able to take a lot of teasing, and we incessantly tormented her about her vegetarianism, sobriety, and furniture (when we last visited her, she still had her "My First Stereo" next to her TV).  She always took it with a laugh and played it up.  But there was one topic about which she was always a little touchy.

She's a Republican. 

Now, I have lots of Republican friends, and we always get into spirited discussions around politics and issues.  But it's good-natured and respectful; we often agree on much more than the talking-heads would have you think.  I never let politics get in the way of a friendship.

But this particular friend is a little more active in politics than the rest of us.  She helped run the successful re-election campaign of a New England senator (who apparently is crazy and has a weird psychological aversion to staples).  Then she moved to Washington and worked for the EPA.  Then she worked in the communications department at Homeland Security.  While working there in late August 2005, she had planned to come visit us in New York, but things got a little busy at the office and she had to cancel.  Although she loves her career, she seems to have a knack for taking jobs that explode around her, and for some inexplicable reason (to me) she's now taken another local job in a slightly higher-profile department.

One the one hand, my sympathy for the catastrophes that happen to her is somewhat limited.  After all, I have loathed the current administration since day one.  I think they are incompetent liars who have always put personal or dogmatic interests ahead of logic, reason, compassion, or accountability.  I take great pleasure at watching the catastrophe's pile on top of them--it reinforces my sense of karmic justice. 

But I also see first hand the impacts that this has on the individuals who have to deal with it every day.  Our friend is a good person trapped in a tough place, trying very hard to make ends meet and do the right thing for this country because she believe in it.  She doesn't agree with the way things have been handled, but she's doing more than me...trying to repair the damage and keep the wheels moving so the benefits we all reap (and take for granted) are there when we need them.

Despite all the vitriol I spit towards our current government, she's a stark reminder that there are thousands of people like you and me who aren't evil, who have to not just shoulder the burden of protecting our way of life, but bear the hatred of people like me who curse their names and unfairly blame them for all that's wrong with the world.

So next time your knuckles get white over the state of our union and the decades it will take to undo the damage, take a moment to remember all the good people who are toiling away in the trenches of government, trying to do things right.

Did you have your moment? 

Good. 

Now let's get fired up to send the rest of those jokers packing in '08.  Let's hope the damage is reversible.

I Regret to Inform You You've Been Eliminated from the Race

Amazing Race fans may remember David & Lori, two self-proclaimed nerds who listed "good at taking tests" among their qualifications.  About mid-way through that season there was a challenge in Greece where each team had to assemble a sculpture like a giant 3-D puzzle, but what the racers didn't know was that there was two extra pieces in each pile.  I remember looking at Oodgie and saying, "Uh oh...this is going to kill the nerds!" 

Sure enough, as the frat boys, hippies, and abusive couples all completed their statues and shrugged off the extra pieces, the nerds struggled and lamented late into the night, because there cannot be extra pieces.  All variables in an equation have a purpose, all chips in a computer serve a function, and all pieces in a puzzle by definition must have a place.  That is the nerd world-view.  Sadly, that night they were Philiminated.

It's April 2007, and history repeats itself.  Cheeky's obsession with sticker-books has taken on dimensions that some would consider unhealthy (Dateline filmed her on "To Catch a Toddler" when Chris Hansen pretended to be a sticker-book online).  All day and all night she matches stickers to their logical place in the book, uncannily identifying shapes and colors and awkwardly placing the stickers sorta-kinda over the spot they belong.

I like to help Cheeky with this because I like playing with stickers I value the father-daughter time together.  It's my job to find the right page in the book to put the sticker on.  The other night she pulled off a sticker of a dog playing with a cat, so I quickly memorized the shape and flipped rapidly through the book looking for the page it belonged on.

Then I flipped through the book again.

Then a couple more times. 

Cheeky sat patiently, a sticker stuck to her index finger.

I page through again.

Nothing. 

"Hold on, Sweety...it's here somewhere..."

Now Cheeky is a pretty mellow child, but she had a sticker on her finger and dammit she was going to put it in her book.  The fact that her dad wouldn't slow down on a page was annoying. 

I page through again.  The spot it belong isn't there. 

That's OK with Cheeky, mind you.  She's willing to find something close, e.g. a dog playing with a ball, or a dog playing with another dog, or our coffee table, or my shirt.  But it had to belong somewhere.  It came out of the book, so there must be someplace in the book that it was supposed to go.

I pause for a second, muttering to myself like I'm pushing a frocery cart full of empty cans across Clark Street.  "Ragem fraggem goddamsticker ragem fraggem wherethehellisit ragem fraggem."

Cheeky puts the sticker in the middle of the page I'm open to.  Not a match. 

"Hold on, kiddo...Daddy will find it..."

But she'd moved on.  She was back on the sticker page looking for another sticker. 

So I go back to helping her find where the new sticker goes.  But I linger on every page, looking for that stupid dog playing with a cat.

Nothing. 

Soon it's dinner time, and Cheeky's off to eat ketchup.

I'm still on the couch.

Looking for the damn dog and cat.

Seriously, WTF?

I can barely focus on how angry I am that a children's book company would include stickers in their sticker-matching book that don't have a match--I assume just to torture children--because I am completely focused on how I can't find the damn thing.

Because it has to be in there.

It's day three.  The sticker is hanging from our counter.  I shall look again tonight.

It has to be in there.

Curse you, Phil...curse you....

There's One for You, Nineteen for Me...

I just got off the phone with the IRS.

A couple weeks ago we received a nice letter from them stating that the return we submitted last year didn't align with their records.  They wanted to give me the opportunity to review the information and make any "amendments" necessary to my 2005 return in case there were errors.

How nice of them!  I wonder if Texas oil billionaires get the same courtesy...

You see, last year I decided to do our taxes myself.  We fired our accountant when they tried to charge us for two separate returns by filing my wife and I individually as "single," and when the state of New York asked why we didn't file with them the same week the state of Connecticut asked why we'd sent them a check.  This looked like a job for TurboTax!

As it turns out, TurboTax is great for a single person who doesn't change jobs or have Cayman Island gambling winnings to worry about.  At one point, while filling out the questionnaire, I believe it said, "Your return is too complicated for our software.  Would you like to make shit up and hope for the best?  If 'yes' then click 'continue.'"

"Click"

We've got a new accountant now, and I sent him the notice and a copy of our taxes.  I imagined him reading them, chuckling, and saying "what a retard" under his breath.  But he's optimistic that we won't, in fact, have to pay $312,475 in back taxes, and since he's already uncovered some new deductions for us this year I'm hoping he'll figure something out.  (Did you know you that if you're a business owner and you drive across the Brooklyn Bridge you can deduct a portion of the depreciation and maintenance of the bridge?  Nice!)

I just hope that we don't get hit again with the "grab your ankles" tax targeted at wiping out the middle class so Haliburton executives can take government-funded helicopter rides to the country club without us complaining.  Every time I think about it I recall Lewis Black's observation of our tax code: "You'd have been better off if your Congressman just came to your door and pissed on your foot."

Maybe the Quakers are on to Something

Remember a month or two ago when Bill Gates tried to ruin my life?  I thought I'd finally defeated the enemy, and for the last month we've had a functioning computer in our den that didn't exude the stench of brimstone. 

Not so much.

A couple days ago, while it was turned off, it picked up the Solanum virus, and is now intent on eating my brain.  I've exhausted all my technical skills, have stumped computer über-geek who sits next to me, and have begun praying to every major religious totem I can find.  I'm now sure I'm being punished.

I think it's time to get a new computer.  I should hurry up while they're still on sale!

Memo to the Asshole in the Car in Front of Me

Dear Dickhead,

I can see you.  Don't think that staring forward makes you invisible.  And I know you can see me, because my headlights are lighting up your dashboard like it's at a Kiss concert. 

I know you watched me try to squeeze into the parking space behind you.  Maybe you didn't notice how carefully I was twisting my car so I didn't scrape yours.  Perhaps you missed the fact that I'm the most pathetic parallel parker in the history of humanity, so bad that the guy giving my licensing exam jumped into the back seat for protection both times I was tested.  I thought the twelve failed attempts were a dead give-away.

But would it kill you to move your ass couple inches to help a guy out?

Seriously, we all hate alternate-side parking rules, and getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to fight with a bunch of crazed neighbors for the 23 feet of available parking on our block isn't anyone's idea of a good time.  But you've got enough room in front of you to set up a grocery display of detergent (with browsing space); is it so hard to take your prick foot off the brake and roll forward a foot?  Is your front bumper that sensitive?  Will it feel crowded?

Are you conscious of the fact that I'm trying harder to avoid damaging your car than you are?  And do you realize that I'm driving a vehicle which would swallow and consume yours in the wild?  I could let my car follow it's instinct, and all that would be left of your would be it's bleached skeleton.

It would take so little effort to give in to the Dark Side of the Force and ram you so hard you'd wake up in the car in front of you.  It's taking all my muscle control to keep that from happening, because my id has got a giant rock and is threatening to brain my ego if it doesn't let it have it's way.  But unlike you, I actually give a shit about my neighbors, and recognize that living together in harmony means making space for those around you.

So enjoy that big fat chasm in front of your car while you can, buddy.  Plant a garden there or something.  Because next week we'll all be out here again, keeping ourselves warm in our idling cars, waiting for the witching hour when Johnny Law can no longer extort us with parking fines.  And if I see your piece-of-crap blue sedan roaming the streets looking for a spot, or there's a space that's just a liiiiitle bit too small behind me, you'd better hope I'm in a generous mood, 'cause I just might set out a lawn chair and a cooler and squat there with a big-ass grin on my face.

Sincerely,

The guy staring daggers into the back of your head.

Bill Gates Can Kiss My Big Hairy White Ass

It's been busy busy busy at Casa de Cheeky.  For the last few days The Girls were in town, promising endless hours of the hard-lovin' only Cheeky's cousins can give.  This week I'll be at a conference for three days, and several luminaries from my company are making a rare appearance in New York for this boondoggle golden opportunity to improve our offering.  We've spent numerous hours removing stickers from furniture and body parts around our apartment (a small price to pay to for shockingly effective toddler entertainment) and are working feverishly to get Oodgie's business up and running (I know I keep hinting at this, but I promised not to reveal it officially until just the right moment).  It's 11:15 and I should be in bed, getting my beauty sleep and recharging my batteries.

Instead, I'm reformatting our family computer.  For the second time today.

(At this moment I'm forced to pause, reconsider any urges I have to thrust my index finger into my optic nerve or crush the keyboard beneath my tiny, squarish feet.  Only because either would wake Cheeky and give her something else to try to eat.)

Our computer has been lumbering towards obsolescence for well over a year now.  You'd hit the START button, go make a sandwich, and by the time you'd eaten half of it the menu would appear.  I had to stop using some programs--like e-mail and minesweeper--altogether because they were too "resource-intensive" (which is tech-speak for "that which makes the fan on your hard-drive gasp and wheeze", like playing World of Warcraft on a VIC-20).  I was ready to give up and buy a new one (with money from some as yet unhatched scheme involving blackmail and/or kidnapping of one of the Bush twins) but I decided to suck it up, format the damn thing, and see if I couldn't breathe new life into the old thing.

For a few hours there, I thought I had it.  Everything was working great!  I reloaded the whole operating system, and it was cruising.  I downloaded all the updates necessary to get the computer up to snuff with all the newest gizmos and security protection.  I even took a break to watch Family Guy while the final update--the enigmatically named "Service Pack 2" from Microsoft--installed.  Ah, how relaxing it was to know that not all technology was doomed to failure.

Wrong.  WRONG!

I walked back in to find my computer in an endless loop, failing to launch Windows, rebooting, flashing an instantaneous blue screen, and periodically turning off the keyboard in an attempt to make me throw it out the window.  It hissed and spit at me as that final update ate away at it's insides, chewing up code and giving me the binary equivalent of the finger.

This is NOT a result of user-error.  I had that damn update on the hobbled version of my computer this morning, and at least I could get a pulse.  This is a malicious assault from Redmond, specifically designed to foil me and me alone.  Cyber-terrorism!  Where's Homeland Security!?!

(By the way, why do computer companies tell you to "just visit our website" or "download the latest patch" when YOUR COMPUTER ISN'T WORKING?   If I could get to your damn site do you think I'd be calling you?  And don't you EVER ask me if I rebooted again, you pencil-necked little shit.  I'm not one of those idiots who thinks their mouse is a foot-pedal, you know.)

And while I was typing the above paragraph, the second attempt to reinstall Windows failed, I assume because of a fail-safe to prevent me from maintaining a shred of sanity pirating the software which everybody on the planet already has and I wouldn't be needing if the damn thing worked right the first time.  GAH!

The only reason I'm able to share this with you is because I had the foresight to buy a Mac last year as the stumbling beast looked more and more like an endangered species.  Now I'm staring at the dead hulk in the other room--which this morning was on life support but alive, and earlier this evening looked like it would at least be playing murderball, if not full-contact rugby--and calculating the likelihood of getting the leaders of Microsoft and HP alone on an island where some black smoke and a mysterious band of "others" can wreak havoc on their psyches. 

In the meantime, if any of you have any functioning computers lying around you'd be willing to share, I'm taking offers.  I need something else to smash. 

Excuses, Excuses, Excuses

Pardon me for going off on a rant here and bringing up some serious topics, but in the last few weeks the world has depressed and angered me so much I just have to get some stuff off my chest.  If you're looking for something funny tune in next week.  If you care to indulge my berserker rage, then read on:

I am SICK and TIRED of everyone making excuses for their deplorable, despicable behavior.  Take some god damn responsibility for yourselves!!!  And don't fish for sympathy by cloaking yourself in the convenient guise of a victim.  You suck, you're pathetic, and you deserve to suffer for what you've done.

Alcohol is not an excuse for being a pedophile (or an anti-semite).  Perhaps with a little self-reflection and a lot less image-management you'd have come to terms with your homosexuality and entered into a healthy relationship with a partner instead of treating it like something dirty and shameful.  Or perhaps you believe that your power makes you immune to reproach, and that trolling the halls of congress for underage skin isn't an abuse of power, but a privilege of it.

Watching videos is not an excuse for beating someone to death.  Although I can't condone the stated purpose of the site you claim inspired you, how dare you lay blame for your pathetic, murderous behavior on them.  Did someone force you to watch the videos?  Does your browser not have a back button?  And did those videos drive you around looking for a man who's life was already sad and torturous so you could dehumanize him and ignore his cries for help?  The life you took that day will be on your head, and your head alone.

Although I grieve for you that you lost your infant daughter, grief is not an excuse to take the lives of innocent little girls who never did you any harm.  EVER.  There is NO EXCUSE FOR THAT.  How can such monstrous tendencies go unnoticed in our society?  Why is it so easy for people with twisted minds to access guns?  To plan an assault?  To be ignored?  You're a demon for taking those children away from their families, and you're a coward for taking your own life in the process.  You deserved much worse.

There's plenty of blame to go around for the deaths on 9/11 and those suffered in Afghanistan and Iraq (and London, Madrid, Bali, etc.) since.  But do not try to blame your predecessors for your negligence, your ignorance, your laziness, and your sloppiness for the problems you're wrought on the world.  Do not lie to us.  Do not think repetition will distract us.  Don't insult and mischaracterize your opponents because they're your opponents.  Why not reach across the aisle (like you promised in your campaign) and engage everyone in trying to find a solution.  All of this has happened on your watch, Mr. President...the buck stops with you.

And hey, Democrats--it's not enough to blame the administration for the world's problems, regardless of how squarely on them it lies.  You have to come up with a solution of your own, too.  One that works.  Otherwise you'll be the ones blamed next time around.

It disgusts and infuriates me that I have to raise my daughter in a world filled with spineless, ignorant, dangerous people who think their actions have no consequences.  And I'm angry that we let people get away with these things, that we enable their behavior, and are so self-absorbed that to lift a finger to engage/help/stop them would be an inconvenience we couldn't bear. 

As I was looking for a bright spot in all this nastiness, I found one in the most unlikely of places:

Last Sunday, a very violent sport (NFL football) got even more violent when Albert Haynesworth, a 320 lb. defensive tackle for the Tennessee Titans kicked Andre Gurode in the head--twice--with his big cleated foot--after his helmet had come off--on national television.  Gurode needed 30 stitches to close the gash on his head.  Here's what Albert had to say the next day:

"I'm very sorry," Haynesworth said Sunday. "I apologize to Andre. What I did was disgusting. I'm not a dirty player. I don't play dirty. What I feel like is I disgraced the game, disgraced my team and disgraced my last name."

At least...at the very least...he acknowledged what he did.  He didn't cop to being temporarily insane, or say Gurode insulted his mother.  He looked himself in the mirror and saw something he wasn't proud of.  And he's been suspended.

If this is the best we can hope to find among us, then god help us all.

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.