Cheeky's Hideaway

Seven. Again.

First off, I need to thank the lovely Weirdgirl, who nominated me for the prestigious and totally-without-compensation Excellent Blog Award.   I've been a fan of her site and sense of humor for years, and, as Al Gore and Peter O'Toole can tell you (through clenched teeth) it's an honor just to be nominated.  Supposedly I'm obliged to pass this award along to ten other people (which means that at some point everyone will be nominated) but I'm going to wait on doing so until I actually have time to read more than ten blogs.

However, the bulk of today's blog will be a response to my friend Sparky at Dirt & Noise.  Like a bad penny or Cher, the "seven things" meme keeps coming back, and this time it was Sparky who is cruelly punishing me tagged me. 

Normally, I would use my kung fu to deflect or my spam filter to ignore the request, as I've done seven memes about a dozen times.  In my experience, only seals, sins, and samurais are good in sevens.  However, Sparky is one of my oldest, dearest friends (and pretty funny, too...you should visit her blog and say "Hi") and I can't simply blow this off like I would my taxes.  But since this is my blog, I'm going to slightly modify the rules.

Instead of the standard "seven things you about me," I'm going to offer up "seven things that Sparky knows about me but you don't."  And, as an added bonus, ONE of these is NOT TRUE.  See if you can guess which one.

1. I once dated a girl who we (quite appropriately) nicknamed Dig Dug.
2. My favorite and most-practiced karaoke song is "Rock Me Gently" by Andy Kim.  Watching me swing my hips to it is like watching a time-warp to a uniquely Canadian 1974.  It's Kimpressive.
3. I have seen, but not touched, one of Sparky's boobs.
4. I once confessed, "Sometimes, when I stop to think, I realize that there's nothing in my brain."
5. At the end of a very muddy and heavily intoxicated Jimmy Buffett concert, I sold the affections of one of Sparky's friends to a complete stranger for the price of a single wine cooler.
6. To furnish my first apartment in Minneapolis, I threw a "Bring Your Own Furniture Party."  OK, so my couch may have spent the previous three years in someone's garage, but it was cheaper than Crate & Barrel.
7. I am a life-long quest for the perfect nachos.  The title once rested with now-closed Smiling Moose Bar & Grill, but I rescinded the title when they "changed the chef."  I'm still looking.

I'm sure there are other, even more embarrassing things that Sparky could share about me, but she knows better than to share them as I have an equal (if not greater) amount of dirt on her.

If you're still trying to guess which one of the above is not true, check the comments.

Can't We Take Her to Springsteen Instead?

Before becoming a parent, nothing scared me more than the "activities."  Not diapers, not sleepless nights, not Upromise accounts...nothing.  Kids in crowds, chaotically running and screaming like spring breakers at Senor Frog's have as much appeal to me as sawing a linoleum knife between my toes.  I swore I would do everything in my power to avoid such events.

Two and a half years in and I have much the same opinion.  But that didn't stop us from buying Sesame Street Live tickets.

What the hell else were we gonna do on a cold Sunday morning?

Cheeky's love affair with Ernie and Elmo ain't what it used to be, but since I'd rather walk through the gates of hell than see Dora live Sesame Street seemed like a relatively benign way to kill a couple hours. 

Madison Square Garden--thrilled to be hosting anything but a Knicks game--was the venue.  We took our seats in a surprisingly empty section (a temporary thing, as dozens of harried parents arrived soon after it started) and I sipped my $4.50 Diet Coke (price gouging: alive and well).  As the lights dimmed Bert and Ernie took the stage to begin the sort of witty banter that appeals to six year olds and the mentally challenged.  I knew it was going to be a long couple hours.

Mind you, the whole thing wasn't bad.  The kids were relatively well-behaved, and the story, which revolved around Super Grover's lack of sleep and personal hygiene, did an admirable job of keeping Baby Bear off the stage.  But I couldn't help think that the cast would be frantically calling their agents after the show.  ("I said Susan Stroman, not Susan & Gordon!")  The music sounded like it came from a cheap boombox behind the curtains, and the periodic appearance of a random woman named Kay (you know, 'cause 'K' was the letter of the day) was an odd, undersized counterpoint to the rainbow of monsters on stage.  By intermission (!!!) my mind had slipped into a fugue in which the characters had blurred into psychedelic fractal screensaver. 

If Cheeky weren't jumping up and down on my legs I'd have slept for an hour.

We walked away a little spent, carrying one of 75,000 Elmo balloons and a heart-warming message about ....um...what was it?  Friendship?  Getting enough exercise?  Talking cheese?  I can't remember.  Cheeky had a good time, and although we felt like we'd lost an hour of our lives it was a small price to pay to see her happy.  Besides, it could have been much, much worse.

You Can't Spell 'Diet' Without D-I-E

Not long after our triumphant return from Antigua Oodgie and I decided the bulbous, squishy parts of our bodies have to go.  Months of feasting, carousing, and general abuse of our bodies have finally caught up with us--although you could argue that they caught up to us in our late 20s and we've been ignoring it since.  Our weapon of choice?  The South Beach diet.

For the eight of you not familiar with this diet, it in no way whatsoever resembles the actual South Beach.  The implied decadence of the name is immediately countered by the word "diet" after it, which means that no matter how easy the diet may be you'll still feel like a POW two hours into it.

We're freakin' starving!

I have noticed a few bad habits I'd picked up over the years as a result of this suicidal challenging decision.  Apparently my brain is hard-wired to grab a bag of chips 20 seconds after I walk in the door, and the battered chicken fingers which make up 63% of Cheeky's diet look more and more succulent every day.  I've been trusting my young, fit body to absorb my indiscretions, forgetting that neither adjective applies to me anymore.  Now I'm picking the croutons out of my Caesar salad (oh, the irony of it all...)

Far and away the most traumatic change, though, is the strict prohibition of beer.  We all know that it sometimes occasionally has been known to in some people to possibly maybe contribute to weight gain.  OK, I get it.  But seriously....none whatsoever?  The timing of this could not be worse.  The biggest national holiday of the year and they expect me to sip mineral water?  I 100% guarantee that there's a loophole somewhere that I can exploit!

...as long as I'm OK with the consequences.

Any one else have any diet war stories they'd like to share?

Answers, Answers, We Got Answers!

I would remiss in not wishing a belated Happy Birthday to Oodgie, who turned thirt....ack.....ack.....can't.....breathe....*cough cough*

OK, she turned older on Friday.  We went to Fuerzabruta to celebrate (German for "People on pulleys are COMING TO KILL YOU") and had an evening of adult conversation, a rarity at Casa de Cheeky.  Cheeky got her flowers, which are strangely adorned with kumquats (note to self:  the next time you tell the florist to use "whatever is seasonal and pretty" be more specific) and I promised her she could leave the house for two days without Cheeky for a battery recharge.  It's the best I could come up with...she's harder to buy for than Gandhi.

On to matters of greater import...

One of the disadvantages of asking my audience for posting advice is that they are such a rare, exotic breed as to be classified as an endangered species.  I did, however, get a few requests, and I supplemented then from other sources, so rather than lament my fantasy football season or my work schedule let me offer instead these answers to your probing questions:

What is the most embarrassing concert you ever attended?  -- Sarah

Embarrassing?  I don't make it to concerts often enough to consider any of them truly "embarrassing."  However, the summer the Monsters of Rock came through town I asked my parents to go.  They said no, but they did take me to see Harry Belafonte as a birthday gift.  Same thing, right?

Briefs, boxers, commando or thong? -- Whit

None of the above.  I prefer something more cozy.

Why is the sky blue?  -- local 12 year old

Because if it were green, we wouldn't know where to stop mowing

What is your favorite Beatles song and why?  -- Landismom

Holy cow...how do you pick?  I've always liked "Blackbird" and "Eleanor Rigby," and "The Inner Light" is totally underappreciated.  If I had to pick one it would be "Norwegian Wood," but I could rattle off 20 others that on any given week could knock it out of its perch.  Talk to me again next week.

Why do you want to work at our company? -- Prospective employer

Well, sir, I've done a lot of research, and I'm impressed with the innovative work your company is doing, and how it's positioning itself as an agent of growth in the industry.  Furthermore, I like what the company stands for, and how it constantly strives to be an advocate for its customers.  I certainly believe that my background and skills can enhance what your organization is trying to accomplish, but it's just as important to me that I believe in what I'm doing, and being a part of your organization looks like an ideal place to meet that need.

Sushi or kosher deli? -- Arwen

Whichever is closest when I'm hungry.   Laziness determines 98% of my choices in life.

What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow? -- Bridgekeeper

Do you mean an African or European swallow?

What's the best/worst smells of parenthood?  -- Keersten

Ugh, tough one.  The "odorless" Diaper Genie we had for a while made Cheeky's room smell like a monkey cage, but I think the winner is the B.O. of our new babysitter, who hasn't bathed since her 6th birthday.  As far as the best smell, that's the suddenly resurgent scent of mac 'n' cheese in our home, a splendiforous delight absent in my home since junior year.  (FYI, I guarantee that anything that ends with "'n' cheese" is gonna smell good)

How would you compare the process by which the Spanish Empire was built between 1450 and 1800 with that of the empire-building process of the Ottoman empire?  -- Mr. Mizoguchi, my AP History Professor

The Spanish Empire was at the forefront of global exploration in the 15th and 16th centuries.  It's conquests of the newly discovered territories of the Western Hemisphere (legitimized by Papal ascent via the Treaty of Tordesillas) and the plundered gold of the conquered Native American civilizations there funded the development of an experienced navy.  Meanwhile their fiercely political marriage policies established dynastic ties over the Holy Roman Empire, the Low Countries, and much of the Mediterranean.  The Ottoman Empire, by contrast employed an aggressive policy of using padded, upholstered seating to woo trading partners and to defeat enemies in southeast Europe and Persia.  With their enemies significantly reclined, they were able establish a lasting dominance in the Near East for many centuries.

I'm sure Cheeky's looking forward to me helping with her homework someday.  Got any more questions?  Send them my way! 

Taking Matters Into My Own Hands

Psssst.

You there.  Yeah, you.

It's me.  Cheeky's Hideaway.

Have you noticed it's been sorta quite around here lately?  I think CroutonBoy's brain took a long walk off a short pier or something.  The lazy piece of shit hasn't been by in days.

Frankly, it's sorta pissing me off.  I look old and unkempt.  Visiting here must be like visiting a crazy old uncle's house who hasn't bought new furniture since 1983.  It's not retro...it's just lame.  And who suffers?  Me.  The blog.

I've heard his excuses before.  "I'm too busy.  I'm tired.  I can't think of anything.  Blah blah blah."  He needs to get off his pathetic ass and type something.  People have been writing every freakin' day this month, but the best he could muster up was a lame music retread, a bizarre Italian video, and some weak-ass shit about being sick.  WAH!  I for a fact know he was back on his feet by Thanksgiving.  Freakin' Nyquil, man...it may taste like licking a carny's undercarriage, but the stuff works. 

(Not that I'd know.  All I usually need is an A/C adapter and an occasional reboot.)

Anyway, maybe you can help him out.  Some of the other blogs on my sidebar (which you should really spend more time exploring) occasionally throw out requests for post ideas or the equivalent of an "ask CroutonBoy" section.  Maybe a little outside input will get him pull out the Pledge and wipe some of the dust and cobwebs away. 

But don't tell him I told you.  I've seen him work on spreadsheets and I'm one errant delete key away from oblivion. 

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...

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...

This n' That

As I write this, I'm sitting at our dining room table, waiting for my sweat-soaked shirt to dry.  I should be at work right now, but I arrived at the subway station to find a crowd of people surrounding an MTA officer with torches and pitchforks.  He was trying to explain to them that the nearest operational subway station was in suburban Philadelphia, and the best way to get to Manhattan was to swim.

New York had a bit of a rough morning, and with a target heat index somewhere in an empty box on my chart it doesn't look like it's going to get better.  So while I'm waiting let's catch up on a couple things...

OWNED!

A week and a half ago my company was acquired by another.  Rumors had been flying around for a while, and there was some understandable anxiety about what might happen to us if it happened.  Personally, I've had a pretty positive outlook on the whole thing.  Our company wasn't exactly dominating the industry, and I think there's a much better chance that I'll actually be doing something I'm good at under the new regime.  They're consolidating offices in New York, so in a few months I'll replace my near instantaneous commute with a longer trip to one of the city's less desirable neighborhoods.  But since the new office will actually have windows I consider it an upgrade.

Better yet, I met some of the new guys last night, and I noticed that (a) they can drink, (b) they host poker night every Tuesday and play fantasy football, (c) they can drink a lot, and (d) did I mention they can drink?  That's what we call a "cultural fit."

Regardless, it should be an interesting ride...

57 Channels and Nothing On

When Excalibur joined the family, we needed to upgrade our cable box so Drew Carey's pores can be seen in all they're shimmering glory.  Unfortunately, the box they gave us had some operational issues, so they sent a cable guy over to take care of it.

Two and a half hours later, the cable guy gives up.  We're staring at the screen, wondering why I now have Cinemax but can't get ESPN.  He has recut every wire, replaced every splitter, and tested the signal until it qualified for college credits.  I have to admit the guy seemed to know what he was doing, unlike some other people Time Warner Cable hires, but it wasn't a good sign when the supervisor, over speakerphone, says "it may take 48 hours" to resolve the issue. 

All this for baseball and reruns?  It hardly seems worth it.  If it weren't for Flight of the Conchords and the obligatory reruns of Dora I'd unplug the damn thing.

OK, it's getting late, and I really need to get into the office.  Time to find some alternate transportation.

On the Internet, Nobody Knows You're a Dog

Not long ago I was speaking with a blogger friend who has a secret identity.

He has a day job.

As it turns out, he writes for a very well-read publication.  His opinions are read by millions of people.  People make purchase decisions based on what he tells them.

But you wouldn't know it from his blog.  And that's by design.

Anonymity has it's advantages. 

It's hard to talk about the incompetents you work with--with their awkward social skills and comically silly mustaches--if you think they might read about it someday.

It's worrisome to talk about your child's favorite playground when some sicko might triangulate the location and show up in a fishnet shirt to do "pull-ups" on the monkey bars.

I made a decision early on to share my blog with everyone I knew; half my comments in the first few months were from my family and colleagues.  But I sometimes regret that decision, because I censor myself to protect people's feelings or avoid topics that I know are sensitive.  No one is asking me to...I just feel like I should.

It's ironic that the better people know me, the less I can be myself.

It's not like my blog persona is some fictional creation.  I openly share my feelings about religion, politics, and culture, and you don't have to drive the Mystery Machine to figure out my name, where I live, and how much cheese I consume daily (I'll save you the effort:  9.5 lbs).   I don't lose any sleep over what I write, unless I don't get the sweet, sweet validation of your comments.

But there are times I wish I was just a little more anonymous.

So how about you?  How secret do you keep your identity?  Do you ever hold back out of fear of being dooced?  Do you even think about it?