Cheeky's Hideaway

I Feel a Great Disturbance in the Force

...as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.

My boy Whit alerted me to an effort being spearheaded by Brian and Brave Humans and some of his compadres.  He's trying to organize 30,000 bloggers to "to act as a single voice for one moment in time" in response to what appears to be the ongoing marginalization of the voice of Americans in favor of their money or slack-jawed obedience.  I'm not sure what that act will be--perhaps to jump up and down at once in hopes of creating a tidal wave that will swamp Taiwan, or perhaps just to make a statement of protest in some vaguely coordinated manner. 

I'm not entirely sure I know why, but I signed up.  No change is being called for.  No agenda has been stated.  The trigger event that set this off isn't something that gets my dander up (it fell into the "Ann Coulter is a stupid bitch and should be ignored" file).  These things tend to be full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. 

But they can never be more than that if people like me take that attitude every time.

Sometimes it feels good to be a cell in an organism, or a soldier in an army, or a wing-nut holding Western Civilization together.  As much as I like to charge out on my own and single-handedly shoulder the burdens of the world, the thought of joining a collective whole striving for something momentous gives me an altogether different satisfaction.

Sure, it's probably better to come together to fight world hunger, reduce carbon emissions, or Jazzercise, but today, with my hangover, this will have to do. 

Get off my case, Bono...it's a start.

I Was So Much Older Then, I'm Younger Than That Now

While the Fourth Estate endlessly discusses the apocalyptic ramifications of Britney's trip(s) to rehab, the music nerds of the world have visions of sugarplums Andy Summers, Stewart Copeland, and Sting dancing in their heads.  During one of many arguments debates shouting matches discussions over whether the Police reunion is truly an historic event or a rapacious, geriatric attempt to clothe the increasingly AOR-friendly lead singer in the faded legitimacy of his youth (see:  The Who) it came up that the Police last recorded music together 20 years ago.

20 years ago.  When I was a kid Buddy Holly was making music "20 years ago."

Where does the time go?  For all the talk of grups and rejuveniles and alternadads desparately smugly proudly sporting their skateboard bruises and Arcade Fire CDs, time still marches on, and the weight of age and responsibility still hangs on us, whether we want to accept it or not.

I proudly brandish my grup credentials, mind you.  But I felt a twinge in my hip while retrieving Cheeky from her car seat the other day, and again while trying to negotiate a fossilized snow-bank without killing us both.  That stuff didn't use to happen.  Everyone my age in the NFL is either retiring or should be (sorry, Bledsoe...it's time).  And my 9 year old nephew got a Rubik's Cube and Optimus Prime for his birthday, providing irrefutable evidence that the circle of life has had time to do a complete lap around the track and christen those toys "cool" again.

Probably most shocking to me was this.  What you don't see in this picture is the bar I used to hang out in a lot when I first moved to New York, back when I was alive and still had the glitter of hope in my eye before I met Oodgie and began stressing out about annual performance reviews.  I've seen places come and go before, but the shock of turning that corner in Tribeca to see the vacant facade hit me with more force and clarity than I expected.

We may ignore it, or fight it, or slap a fresh coat of paint on it but time continues it's ponderous, inexorable steps forward whether we like it or not.

I'm not afraid of it.  I welcome it and accept it.  It's part of life, and the sooner I get used to it the better I'll adjust to it.  But I do sometimes find the weight of responsibility a struggle.  I try not to show it or let it get me down, but every once in a while the realization that I can't just hop on a plane and go to Sasquatch or SXSW for a weekend, or that being constantly more creative and diligent at work may be the only way to move up and keep paying the bills, drags me down.  I can't help wishing for the excitement I used to feel when I'd go tubing for the weekend with friends, or sneaking into the rooftop pool at a local resort.  Those moments of unfettered, selfish joy are fewer and farther between when you've got responsibilities like we all do.  But it's our obligation to ourselves and those we love to acknowledge that change is inevitable and good, and in the end there's nothing wrong with growing up.

I'm am optimist at heart, and even in those gloomy moments I know it's just a matter of time before they devise a pill that will make me as young and vigorous as a tiger at a water buffalo convention.  Then I'll be breakdancing at Cheeky's wedding, even if I have to shed my cryogenic suit to do it.  And in the mean time, although the moments of joy I experience now may not be as dramatic or spectacular as they used to be, I wouldn't trade them for anything.

But I'll tell you, I still wouldn't mind getting Optimus Prime and a Rubik's cube for my birthday.  Only 179 more shopping days to go...

Is it Bring Your Whining Daughter to Work Day?

Thankfully, the answer to that questions is no.  Cheeky was in a mood when I left this morning, possibly due to gas, possibly due to avian flu, possibly due to Darfur.  She's not saying.  She just sits on the living room carpet and makes noises like a drowning goat until someone picks her up. 

Gosh, would you look at the time?  I'm off to work!

It struck me this morning that Cheeky's influence is spreading beyond the confines of her bedroom and the obstacle course play area in the living room.  I was climbing into the shower, pulling the stocks we now use to bathe her out of the tub, and watching Nemo vomit the water into the basin. I like to light candles, pour some lavendar foaming milk bath, and kick back to the soothing sounds of Toto, but that's going to be hard to do with a floating family of plastic sea creatures digging into my back.

The irony is that Cheeky doesn't even like bathing anymore.  It used be her favorite part of the day, except for that moment at 5:30 AM when she's finally made enough noise so that one of us will come get her.  Now she's using Child Resistance Technique #7: Going Stiff to block any attempts to get near soap and water.  Maybe she likes smelling like cottage cheese, but Oodgie and I are still stonger than her, and eventually wrestle her into a position where she's just whimpering and clutching her rubber duck like it's some protective talisman.  And the toys just go floating by... 

I'm "lucky" in that I don't have to deal with this that often.  By the time I get home Oodgie's torn and mangled body is lying on the couch, with feet pre-positioned for rubbing.  But I quickly realize that even the couch has been infiltrated, as I usually sit on the pig pillow while getting comfortable in anticipation of watching Jack Bauer get uncomfortable.  Of course, it's not Cheeky who's out buying this stuff, so for all my complaints we have only ourselves to blame.  We just have to strike the right balance so our house doesn't turn into this.  At least not yet.