As the hundreds of underpaid interns who e-mail me trying to get me to plug products know by now, I don't really like schilling for The Man.]]> Fri, 13 Feb 2009 23:36:24 -0800 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/1087589 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/1067855

Remember when the Super Bowls were boring?]]> Tue, 03 Feb 2009 06:45:23 -0800 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/1067855 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/1044668

We interrupt the laziness that has defined this blog of late for an urgent message regarding an insidious evil which threatens the very fabric of Western civilization.

I'm not talking about cyberterrorism or the apparently unkillable Tony Almeida.]]> Wed, 21 Jan 2009 07:56:10 -0800 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/1044668 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/1019548 The question of today is...."Why?"


]]> Wed, 07 Jan 2009 20:16:52 -0800 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/1019548 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/1007378

It's time once again to look back at the year that was, and hand out our annual awards to those things that made us go "hmmm" during the year.]]> Wed, 31 Dec 2008 03:49:49 -0800 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/1007378 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/1000016

There's a curious dark-side to the generosity of the holidays here in New York.]]> Tue, 16 Dec 2008 01:00:30 -0800 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/984554 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/965534

There are some things in life that are just plain awesome.]]> Fri, 05 Dec 2008 01:28:47 -0800 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/965534 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/953392

I've been on a diet since last January, and I'm pleased to report that, despite many run-ins with rogue quesadillas and pale ales, I've actually managed to keep off a good 15-20 lbs since I first kicked carbs to the curb.

Tomorrow I predict I'll be starting over.]]> Fri, 28 Nov 2008 01:48:43 -0800 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/953392 http://virb.com/croutonboy/posts/text/938301

Our parental anxiety was at its peak last week as we stepped into Cheeky's pre-school classroom.  It was our first "parent-teacher conference," our preliminary exposure to the outside world's view of our child.  Having forcefully removed a wailing Cheeky from my leg when I dropped her off at school that morning, my expectations were low.

It should be of no surprise that we think Cheeky is the smartest, cutest, funniest child to ever grace this grim planet, and that the overpowering warmth of her personality will lift millions out of poverty and eventually lead to our collective ascension to a higher plane of existence.  We also suspect that we're smokin' crack, and that as first time parents it's entirely possible we've inflicted so much permanent damage that she'll be curled up in fetal position under her therapists' couch before she graduates high school. 

As we stepped into Cheeky's classroom, we took note of the art projects on the wall, most of which looked like bloody handprints or mustard stains, and nervously observed that few (if any) pictures of the kids showed Cheeky playing with anybody else.  Our level of angst intensified, and we wondered if she was off in a corner plotting world domination or just suffering from acute social retardation. 

The teachers beckoned us to take our seats.  We lowered ourselves down onto the tiny chairs, and with our knees resting against our earlobes began the discussion.

In other words we should chill out and stop worrying so much.  You could see the look in the teachers' eyes as we checked and double-checked all our assumptions; it said, "Please consider a steady regimen of Quaaludes before you give your child a complex that WE are going to have to deal with." 

We breathed a sigh of relief as we left the meeting, picked up Cheeky and took her out to buy a cookie.  So far, so good. 

Meanwhile, back in the classroom, Cheeky's teachers filled a report card on Oodgie and I.  "Hilariously funny, charming and attractive people, but highly stressed and easily prone to fits of irrational concern.  Continue to monitor and prep for potential intervention.  Consider holding back a grade and putting them into Cheeky's custody."

For a couple with virtually no friends save three plants and a remote control, we've had a pretty nice run of social activities lately.

Instead of the usual evening ritual--two hours of disappointing television and ineffective attempts to use the Jedi mind trick to send Oodgie to bed early enough for me to squeeze in a little Madden or Civ--we've actually found ourselves interacting with real live adults in settings other than public bathrooms and subway cars. I was starting to think adult conversation was a myth like unicorns and Atlantis, but it turns out other people are doing it all the time.

Weird.

The impetus for all this comes from, of course, Cheeky's friends. Since we're incapable of engaging in spontaneous conversation we've maintained an unhealthy proximity to other neighborhood parents, lingering at playgrounds and staring at them until they're so uncomfortable that they feel forced to talk to us (link to "you guys playing cards"). It takes time, and after a couple of restraining orders it's finally paying off.

So last Thursday night we found ourselves in Dumbo eating black bean and goat cheese quesadillas, watching Burt Sugarman's Midnight Special, and staring in shock at the celebration of "The Penis in Film" so visibly on display across the street with two dozen parents from Cheeky's school. (No, Hope couldn't make it, apparently having some Charlie Kaufman alternate reality to attend). Two nights later, we were dressed as Bender and Clair and dancing to Erasure at a famous local blogger's bar mitzvah 40th birthday party. We aggressively mingled at both, dazzling people with our dry wit and charming them with our eloquent fart jokes. We judged everyone, rating their conversational skills and assessing their worthiness to join our club.  We stayed just late enough to milk the hosts for free booze while leaving just in time to avoid having to clean up. 

We felt so popular!

Fast forward two days and we've got yet another party on the agenda. This one, however, had no open bar. It had pony rides.

Oodgie, Cheeky and I trudged to a birthday party for one of Cheeky's friends, something which on paper seemed like a great afternoon activity (after three continuous hours of "The Ladybug Game" sawing linoleum knives between your toes would seem like a 'great afternoon activity'). It was there the stark reality of our existence was cast into high relief.

Instead of an easy-going vibe and meandering conversations about politics and art, it was a cold, soulless event. While dozens of kids, shoved awkwardly into their new winter coats, spun around us in a glucose-fueled storm of noise, glassy-eyed parents shouldered each other for position in the pony line (the ponies, for their part, looked like they'd been kept awake for three weeks and would have gladly committed hara-kiri if they had opposable thumbs).  Worse, most of the attendees were people who hire other people to relate to their children (a common species in our neighborhood) and they'd occasionally condescend to talk to us while their kids shoved street garbage in their mouths.  And when they did speak it felt faintly, uncomfortably familiar....

(Granted, I'm sure that's what most of them were thinking about me, but suspension of belief in my own flaws is essential to my self-esteem)

Perhaps I'm overreacting to the vast difference in tone, but I couldn't shake the feeling that THAT is the typical social activity of our near future, not the boozy shindigs of last week.  Maybe not that exactly, but we're far more likely to be someplace serving cupcakes and apple juice than gin and tonics.  I like to pretend that I'm only a babysitter away from intriguing people and non-stop excitement, but in reality that babysitter costs $80 (plus car service) and is fencing Oodgie's jewelry as we speak.  And when we DO get one it usually means a crappy movie and forced drinks, just to make it "worth it." 

And kids parties should be fun, right?  All those happy faces and the games and the presents, right?  And how many adult parties have I been to where picking nose hairs would be more fun?  More than I can count.

This is the part where I should say, "I wouldn't change a thing."  But deep down, don't we all wish we could change it just a little?

So thanks to all the parents who collectively came together last week to give us--and each other--a respite from Dora-themed napkins and Laurie Berkner tunes.  Next time, it's our turn to host.

Got any babysitter numbers we can borrow?

Some event or something important I'm supposed to take care of...can't seem to remember....

Oh yeah!

I don't care who you vote for as long as you vote. 

Just don't be an idiot and vote for the wrong guy.  Again.

Also, don't forget that we have a robust democracy, and if you're not comfortable with the major party candidates there are numerous third-party candidates worth your consideration. 

It's a brand new day, and I'm dancing like the Ewoks at the end of Jedi.

So NOW what the hell are we supposed to talk about?

It's hard to believe that this is the fourth year we've forced Cheeky to mimic some anthropomorphic character for a night of loud noises, fake blood, and sucrose-induced hysteria.  It seems like just yesterday when she was a baby duck shoved helplessly into her exer-saucer, but the photographic evidence indeed shows that we've already been through bumblebee and kitty cat iterations.  This year, she wanted to do something different, and in a not so bold move insisted on being princess.  As long as she could be a ladybug, too. 

"Cupcake in hand" was a common theme in all our Halloween pictures. 

Not visible in this picture:  the searing pain in my shoulders from holding the world's heaviest ladybug over my head long enough for a good picture.

Generally I don't let bugs this size land on my head.  It reminds me too much of King Kong.

Not the perkiest princess I've ever seen.  Perhaps she's been stunned by the intense collage of colors in her outfit.

Before you make any comments on how her mouth looks a little too much like the Joker's, it's worth noting she has about 17 oz. of Tootsie Roll in her left cheek, presumably being stored there for the winter.

Of course these pictures do little justice to my costume, which was that of an aging dork trying to awkwardly recapture a hip youth he never actually had by wearing a hoodie, and Oodgie's costume of a bored, lonely housewife masking the emptiness of her existence with bunny ears.  I think we pulled both off fairly well.

I hope everyone had a great Halloween!  Now I have to rummage through the leftovers for any remaining peanut butter cups and Butterfingers...

We thought we could have them both.

For three years we've bathed them, fed them, and cared for them.  They've been part of the family.

But we feared that someday we couldn't afford them both.

We debated.  We discussed.  Must we choose?  Is there another way?  But in the end it was clear:  we had to pick one or the other.  Finally, grudgingly, we've made a choice.

We kept the kid.  We got rid of the car.

It wasn't an easy decision, mind you.  Both are expensive.  Both could break-down at any second.  Both, at one time or another, have been towed. 

But, at the end of the day, only one was a part of our lives every day.  And it wasn't the one with that cornered well or had ample storage space.

Besides, I've seen cars just like ours on the road.  I've never seen another Cheeky.

So yes, today I followed in the footsteps of so many New Yorkers unwilling to spend $350/month to park something they only use when their carless friends ask to borrow it.  We're turning it in, and living a auto-free life. 

It's a formality, really, since most of our driving involves loops of our neighborhood looking for spaces without hydrants.  But apple picking and the zoo just got a lot more complicated.

Cheeky better not get too cocky, though...we could change our minds.  I'm just not sure the return policy is quite so good...

I've been a bad poster again this week...I've got as much focus as Mr. Magoo in the Batcave.  But since you bothered to click a link to come here take a moment to enjoy a peak through a keyhole into our social life.

Dear Cheeky,

Remember how we went to the zoo this weekend?  You took my hand and said, "You're my buddy, Daddy!  Come with me, Buddy!"  We looked at the giraffes, fed the goats, rode on the slide, and "flew" in the gondola.  You were adorable, and it made me want to wrap myself around you and hold you forever.

Who was that kid, and what the hell have you done with her?

Look, I know you're three.  You're about as stable as a Mexican space shuttle.  No one is expecting reason or accountability from you.  But we need to talk about some of the more pronounced behavior that gives your mother that look in the morning.

In the morning, there's no need to slip into our bedroom like a ninja and declare, in your distinct, immodulated way, that "it's day time!"  First, please note that it is usually pitch black out.  This, by any rational definition is not "day time," Riddick.  The reason you're tired all the time is because you are not sleeping enough, so when we waltz you back to your bedroom it's not because of some Guantanamo cruelty, it's because we don't want you to be a whiny bitch all day you need energy.  If you really can't sleep, then at least let us sleep; you're exhausting, quite frankly.  That's why I taught you how to use Tivo.

And about the whining, you do not need Mommy to watch TV with you.  You've done a fine job watching it on your own, especially since it's the only medication to yank you out of those negative feedback loops that usually end with you puking and crying at the same time.  You also don't need Daddy to color with you, since my crayon is apparently always where your crayon wants to be, nor do you need one of us to fetch your water which you just threw on the floor 10 seconds earlier--especially when you scream "NO I WANT TO GET IT!" whenever we angrily grudgingly lean over to pick it up.  What you need is to pick one or the other, or your Mommy will stay locked in the bedroom until after you're in bed.

Oh, and one other thing.  Just take a shit already!  You think we don't see where you're ramming your hand?  All the pillows in the world won't keep the dookie in, kiddo, although I'm amazed at your sphincter's resistance Miralax.  You're uncomfortable, we're frustrated, and our neighbors think we're hosting the Taiwanese parliament.  I can understand not wanting to smell it (the porta-potties at Phish concerts smell better) but why in the name of god would you want to keep it in your body?  Against it's wishes?  Don't make me sprinkle Colon Blow onto your breakfast...

We still love you, sweety.  Don't be freaked out by our weird eye-twitches or the way our veins bulge when you refuse to go to bed.  Forgive us if we yell, or walk away, or threaten to inject you with rhinocerous tranquilizer.  We don't really mean it (mostly).  We know how sweet and wonderful your capable of being.  So feel free at any time to meet us halfway, and maybe dial down the crazy a tad.  I think we all want to make it to your graduation alive.

If you're a thoughtful, rational liberal you can be excused for being a little emotional and confused right now.  You're used to having your candidate lose to people with different beliefs or questionable values.  Things that seem logical and obvious to you are dismissed by a huge chunk of the population in favor of simplistic talking points and funny math.  You're tired of sputtering about the electoral college and Bin Laden vs. Hussein, because doing so hasn't made you feel any better about the downwardly spiraling economy.  And no matter how many polls come out supporting your guy, you just can't shake the feeling that something is going to come up and ruin it all.

You want to be open-minded.  You want to listen to other side, hear their arguments, even be willing to question your own assumptions.  The last think you want to be is an asshole about your beliefs.  But deep down, you still really really really want to win. 

There's a struggle inside, between reason and emotion, ego and id, Odysseus and Achilles, and you never know which one has the upper hand at any given time.  Let me see if I can help explain it to you:

Rationally, you legitimately like Obama's policies.  You believe in progressive taxation and think he's serious when he talks about middle-class tax cuts.  You think the Iraq war was a distraction, but have no problem with Afghanistan and wouldn't mind doing a little cave exploration in Pakistan.  You know oil is finite and are willing to make sacrifices to achieve energy independence.  And frankly, you like a candidate that doesn't talk to you like you're a four year old.

Irrationally, you're angry at McCain because you used to like him a little.  You did, didn't you?  Admit it.  You probably thought about voting for him a few years back, and laughed at him on Jon Stewart and SNL.  Remember how there was talk of him being Kerry's VP and you were sorta OK with that?  Then you look at all the flip-flopping and selling out he's done to the conservative wing of the Republican party over the last few years and are mystified at what happened to his principles.  And you know in your heart that if it were anyone else Obama would be wiping the floor with them, but McCain is actually making this a contest.  You've changed, man...you've changed.

Rationally, you're horrified at Sarah Palin's lack of experience.  You watch her interview with Katie Couric and are gripped with a mixture of shock and schadenfreude.  You're up in arms that the Republican ticket would risk putting someone a heartbeat away from the presidency with such a feeble grasp of basic policy issues. It's not about her being a former beauty queen or "sharing a maritime border" with Russia, it's about common sense choices for the most important jobs in the country.  If Obama is labeled inexperienced, then how can they say Palin is better?

irrationally, you're pissed off that her selection threw the race into a media tizzy and completely drowned out Obama's speech.  You know in your gut that picking her was a desparate but genius move, exciting the Republican base and throwing a wink at all those Hillary supporters who are still a little bitter.  You didn't see it coming, you were surprised she gave such a good speech at the convention, and you're terrified that all those People magazine cover articles might be enough to swing the election.  It's a crazy plan, but it just....might....work....

Rationally, you hunger for a change in tone in politics, and you believe that Obama legitimately represents this.  You applaud when he stays above the fray, cheer when he confronts tough issues, and sweat profusely when he gives one of his lofty, visionary speeches.  He just feels like a guy you want running things, who isn't going to rush headlong into anything but clearly knows what's broken (which is a lot) and plans to fix it. 

Irrationally, you're so mortified at the last eight years, and so angry that you totally voted for the right guy both times and still lost, that you'd vote for Jeffrey Dahmer or Jar Jar Binks if he was the Democratic nominee.  Sure you want a candidate who won't stoop to bending the truth or smearing his opponent, but you don't mind Obama throwing a few elbows now and then if it gets the job done.  Besides you don't trust Rove's henchman a bit, and have no problem using whatever means necessary, including conventional weapons, to take them on. 

So tonight you'll be watching the vice-presidential debate looking for policy differences and reassurances that Biden's foreign policy experience is as thoughtful and erudite as you hope.  But deep down you're really hoping that Palin looks like a complete moron and praying that Biden brings the smackdown and not the crazy.

It's OK...you can have it both ways.  Just drink lots of milk and take some anti-inflammatory medicine in the meantime.

Just before my freshman year in college I panicked.  I had an engineering scholarship to Gonzaga, and started to freak out about the possibility of doing math for the rest of my life.  I went back and forth with my adviser and parents on the topic, and eventually called up the financial aid office and turned down the scholarship.  Rather than hinge my college financing on a career designing bridges or circuit boards, I'd take my chances on flexibility.

A couple years later I was once again worried about paying for college, while also being pressed to declare a major.  A lot of my friends were pursuing admirable careers in biology, theater, even philosophy, but the FUN people--the ones pumping the kegs in the basement corners, holding plastic cups over their heads while singing the lyrics to "Blister in the Sun"--were all migrating to the business school.  In addition to having the computer lab and the hottest chicks, it also had a bevy of scholarship options, and lacking anything resembling a plan it was easy enough to fall in with that crowd.  I signed up, picked finance as a major (because it had the fewest requirements), and braced myself for a career in...math.

Even at the time this didn't feel like a great idea.  I had about as much interest in the topic as I do in eyeball tattoos, and I didn't get a sense that the giants of finance were much like me.  The math was much easier, but used in ways that made little sense.  I kept thinking I'd make a ton of money then retire young and start a second career, but I had a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that it didn't really work that way.  But did I mention that the girls were cuter?

Sixteen monotonous years later I found myself in Queens throwing my tchochke's in a box and bidding a fond, long-overdue farewell to the whole experiment.  I had toiled in the salt mines of Corporate America, forced myself to master the painfully boring details of retirement planning and options pricing, and still didn't have two dimes to rub together.  My investment acumen was abysmal, having made my last investment in the stock market on 9/10/2001.  I'd been lucky enough to leverage my mid-90s goatee and access to porn internet-savvy into a faux career as an interactive marketing specialist, and shoved a digital crowbar into the heavy doors blocking the exit from the tedium of financial services. 

Within days the overwhelming minutiae of investments, credit markets, and Excel spreadsheets had flushed from my system like THC after an Evian bender.  My mind cleared, I could operate heavy machinery again, and colors were brighter and more vibrant.  As time passed, I wouldn't say I looked back fondly on my days in the financial world, but I could at least say I learned a lot.  The business section of the paper was still a colossal bore (at least compared to sports or politics) but at least I could track what was going on without feeling like an idiot.

And thank god.

I've spent the last two weeks watching the news like it was football Sunday, refreshing my browser every ten minutes to see who was next to be lost for the season to injury.  When was the last time the Wall Street Journal read like the screenplay to Cloverfield?  I have absolutely no sympathy whatsoever for the clowns who invented these bogus financial instruments nor the CEO's who profited from them.  But I feel bad for all those average people whose 401(k)s were once fat with company stock now worth less than a Starbucks gift card.  Most of my old peeps are weathering the storm, but with every new headline someone else with a family and a mortgage is waiting to hear if he or she will be the newest trainee at the local Burger King.

It makes me grateful that I dodged the bullet, finding something I enjoy while avoiding the long, ugly disentanglement from this pointless, avoidable mess.  And it makes me angry as hell that somehow we're still all going to pay for it. 

I think back to those early days in finance class, calculating net present values and internal rates or return and wondering, "How can this work?  Why is this even important?" (and then wondering who the girl next to me was dating). For a long time I just figured I didn't get it, that I wasn't wired for it, that the system worked via arcane forces beyond my comprehension (also, ironically, like dating).  I realize now that maybe I was onto something.  I needed something tangible that I could value and understand, something more than a cascade of ratios and data points that formed the idea of something valuable.  Otherwise, how do you know what you have? 

You might actually not have much at all.

I'm switching to First CityWide...