Cheeky's Hideaway

This Alone Makes Me Want to Buy Tide

I don't often watch commercials, let alone rave about them.  Up until a couple days ago, I could only remember laughing out loud twice at commercials:  for Terry Tate, Office Linebacker and for Sprite's "Sun Fizz" ad.  I swear to god, though, I nearly soiled myself at Tide's "talking stain" commercial.  Maybe it's because I have a history of spillage, but I crack up every time I see this.  So in lieu of actual creativity on my part, I'm posting it here for your enjoyment.

I wonder if I can get Proctor & Gamble to send me a check for this...

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...

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.

Please Don't Be The Phantom Menace Please Don't Be The Phantom Menace Please Don't Be The Phantom Menace

A good friend of mine scored me tickets to the sneak preview of The Simpsons Movie tonight.

WOO HOO!

As a TV show, The Simpsons towers above the tattered carcasses of lesser shows.  Only a handful of shows have ever approached it's brilliance, and most of them have been canceled well before their time.  Even the brilliance of Seinfeld and Cheers, the two shows which came closest to matching it's sophistication and humor in the last 25 years have begun to fade as TNT overplays the reruns.  The Simpsons still have some transcendence I can't put my four yellow fingers on.

The Simpsons is one of the cultural landmarks--on a par with  Star Wars  and Bruce Campbell --that is almost untouchable in it's awesomeness and geek street-cred.  Like many über-nerds, I quote it endlessly, own all the DVD's (at least through Season 9, when it started getting a little too zany), and can spot references to Season 4, Episode 7 on demand.  ("Hey, that's the Mr. Plow jacket!") 

And if I ever get to my list of Top 25 TV Characters of All Time I'll be forced to make a painful choice between Sideshow Bob and Apu. 

I haven't watched it much in the last few years because...well, let's just say the quality isn't what it used to be.  But even the sad, shuffling episodes I sporadically see nowadays are better than 90% of the pablum the networks offer up every year.  And I hold out hope--much like I did 8 years ago when I claimed, "George Lucas could put his big hairy white butt on the screen for two hours and I'd still love it"-- that tonight's movie will have all the wit and brilliance that I remember from the golden years. 

I couldn't stand to have yet another cherished show destroyed by Hollywood.

UPDATE: I just got back, and I'm please to report that it's freakin' hilarious! We're talking at least Season 7 quality (especially the first 20 minutes). For those of you keeping track via Star Wars analogies, that's like an Ewok-free Return of the Jedi. It's pretty much required viewing for fans, and even the laymen will not be disappointed. Go now!

BEHOLD EXCALIBUR!!!!

Plasma.  50 inches.  1080p.

The real reason I'm not blogging much.

Even America's Got Talent looks good in high def.

Say It Ain't So, Alec

I don't think anyone is surprised that you lost your mind and were a dick to your daughter.  There's been ample evidence that you're not the most stable guy anyway.  But please please PLEASE don't leave 30 Rock.  You're the heart of that show, the calm center around which craziness swirls, and presence which keeps everyone else funny (instead of annoying).  And there just isn't very much that's funny on TV anymore.

Remember when you were Jack Ryan?  You could have been the star of a successful movie franchise, but you turned it down and let some lesser-known actor carry it forward and take the glory.  You're a good actor who is single-handedly saving the reputation of talentless family.  Through all your missteps and triumphs, I've always loved ya, man. 

I can't begin to imagine or judge what's happened between you and your family, and what would cause you to say what you did.  I'm glad you've apologized and regret it (although do you really think Dr. Phil has the answer?)  But I also know that an acrimonious disintegration of a family can cause people to say and do stupid things.  And being in the entertainment industry means that sometimes things that are very private inadvertently become very public and are amplified by a 24-hour news cycle. 

Don't let the bastards drag you down.  You're better than them.  We need you.

Larry "Bud" Melman -- July 23, 1921 - March 19, 2007

RIP, Calvert...you will be missed.  And please enjoy this hot towel.

Happy Life Day!

Oodgie is going out tonight for overpriced seafood with a friend of hers, leaving me and Cheeky to ponder the creative possibilities of Duplo.  But once I scrub the crayon and dried blood off her arms and drop her into her crib, I'm forgoing the usual Xbox marathon and popping in a holiday classic:  the Star Wars Holiday Special.

After writing an homage to it last year, I decided I NEEDED a copy for myself, and thanks to the magic of eBay that's exactly what I have.  I've already watched Hardware Wars and the Donny & Marie Star Wars episode (also included), but I've been saving the pièce de résistance for the holiday season.  It's been sitting on top of our DVD player since last January waiting for just the right moment, and that time is tonight.

I had hoped to share it with other retro-junkies like myself, but they all have stupid commitments to families and loved ones.  Losers.  Oodgie likes cheesy 70s commercials and Harvey Korman as much as the next person, but even she may not be able to stomach a full-hour of wookies preparing dinner.  But since I must share this experience somehow, I'm proud to present the third in my series of holiday videos:  the climactic Life Day song, as performed by Princess Leia. 

I know you'll all be humming this tomorrow, and for that you'll hate thank me.  Enjoy, and wish me luck tonight....

Plinko Will Feel Empty Without You

For almost as long as I've been alive, Bob Barker has been hosting "The Price is Right."  He's an almost mythical figure to me, as eerily wholesome, freakishly worshiped, and shockingly dependable as any other television deity.  After a career that began in the pleistocene era, he's announced that 35 years is as close to the right amount of time (without going over) that a sane human can host a show that gives away grandfather clocks and Turtle Wax.  Bob's retiring.

When I was growing up I watched a LOT of TPIR.  It was on right after whatever kids shows were on, and since I shunned outdoor activities and sunlight I'd watch people run screaming down the aisles, gasping for breath with excitement, lean into that reed-like microphone, and bet $1 more than the guy next to them.  He was a daily constant during my summer vacations, and his loving cathode-tube glow warmed me until the sands of the hourglass informed me that TV was about to turn even more vacuous and I'd be forced to do something "productive."

Occasionally you'd see the guy who was grudgingly there with his wife, with his name ("STEVE") written on a giant yellow price-tag like he was on sale at Best Buy, who'd be utterly confused as to why he was guessing the price of tomato paste.  Or you'd have over-stimulated housewives who would shake and weep when touching the hem of Bob's garment, rubbing their breasts on his arm and bouncing uncontrollably, but unable to spin the Wheel of Doom a full rotation.  And periodically an unassuming person--who probably spent hours wandering through malls and mentally cataloging the price of Rice-a-Roni and washer/dryer sets--would show how pimp-tight their Cliff Hangers or Switcheroo skillz were and walk away with a lovely dinette set and a trip to San Diego.

Then there was Bob himself.  He kept $100 bills in his pocket.  He was tireless advocate of pet population control.  He had the greatest work-environment of any man in history.  He got to do something I've wanted to do for years.  And despite the hysteria, the endless rotation of spaghetti sauces, Drano, and gazebos, and the occasional moron he always sailed through with dignity and grace.

So here's to you, Bob!  Thanks for everything!  And don't forget to have your pets spayed or neutered.
 

(When was the last time you saw a TPIR audience that subdued?  Were drugs legal back then?)

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.