Who's Your Daddy?

I have a three year old daughter. I have another daughter due to arrive on December 12th. I am a Dad. I am a Dad.

I had to say that twice because I still don't believe it.

Just yesterday I had purple hair (or hair for that matter), played in really shitty bands and had way too many things pierced. This morning I was rocking out to "The Wheels On The Bus" in the car. I was alone.

You always hear 80 year old people say, "I feel 17!" I always think, "Yeah, a 17 year old going on their second hip and third liver." But for the first time, I think I understand. Life is moving pretty fast.

What scares me more is that someone allowed me to be a dad. I didn't have to fill out an application or anything! When I bought my last car, the salesman went over it in such detail and I left with a huge instruction manual. When I left the hospital with A HUMAN BEING I got 2 complimentary diapers and a bill. I feel like I shoplifted something really expensive and just waltzed out of the store with nobody stopping me.

Several times throughout the day I have a mini outter body experience. I suddenly see myself from above and am able to take in the whole scene. Then I feel like an idiot.

This little flashes have occured when:

- I made Ella's Speak n' Spell Catepillar say fuck, damn and dick. (For the record, it substitutes a little giggle and a "Ooops, that tickles" rather than pronouncing the last syllable.) You know what that means - someone got there before me.

- I threw her on her bed. From 12 feet away.

- I made her stay in the bath an extra half hour, or at least until I could shoot three swishes from behind the toilet, over the shower rod and into her bath basketball net in row.

- I tried to pop a wheelie on her new tricycle. Still have the scar.

- I smeared mashed potatoes all over my face to make her eat. After she started eating I didn't stop. It was very liberating.

- I yelled at Ella because she walked in front of the TV while I was playing XBox. The Raiders were about to score their first touchdown in 2 seasons (this includes the real NFL team as well).

- I taught her how to break dance to the theme from "The Backyardigans."

- I jumped out of her closet and scared her so bad she almost took a dump taller than her.

- I taught her all the dirty words to Gwen Stephani's "Holla Back Girl."


Am I immature? Or am I a fun dad?

I don't know how to change the oil in my car. I was never in the army. I can't spackle. I can't throw a curve ball.

But I can tell you which member of the Justice League should sit at the head of the table (Superman, duh). I can tell you the actor that played Boba Fett (Jeremy Bulloch). I can tell you that Ringo Starr did in fact NOT play drums on the Beatles' first single, "Love Me Do" (it was a studio musician producer George Martin hired).

Are dads supposed to know that stuff?

People are always shocked when they hear I have a daughter. Maybe it was the "I Don't Give a Rat's Ass" T-shirt I had on, or my classic shell top addidas. They quickly accept that I do. Anyone can have one kid. A huge portion of the people that have one kid aren't even married.

But, now I am about to have 2 kids. That is serious business. We had one and then we CONSCIOUSLY DECIDED to have another. Adam Freeman doesn't have two kids. Mr. Cunningham has two kids (if you don't count Chuck, the mysterious brother who disappeared after season one).

But you know what? I like my XBox. I like my comic books. I like my "Free Katie Holmes" T-Shirt and I like my lightsaber-shaped tv remote control.

When you are a little boy you dream of having your own place. You imagine everything you will fill it with and that image ends up looking like Tom Hank's loft in "Big." I'll put the trampoline there, the pinball game their, the Coke machine there... Then you grow up and you can finally AFFORD all the cool toys you couldn't as a kid, and what do you do? You buy an amoire, you buy stackable photoboxes, you buy coordinated throw pillows.

Not this guy. I have three PS2s and 2 X-Boxes. I walked into a comic store after a 10 year absence and bought every issue I missed. I got the semi-hollow body Gretsch guitar I always dreamt of so I can play "Stairway to Heaven" really fucking loud while I jump up and down on my bed. All I need is the Yamaha electronic drumset and I will be all set...and probably divorced.

Sure it's immature. Sure it's fiscally irresponsible. But when we all of the neighborhood families get together for these massive playgroups - I'm the dad the kids want to play with.

And that's much cooler.

I Told You So...

On September 3rd I wrote a little blurb called "Inventors & Perverts." For those that didn't read it, it states that the SECOND use for every great invention is sex.

Case in point...

Last week Apple released the 405th version of the iPod. In my book the iPod just edges out the Heart Lung Machiine as the greatest invention in the history of man, but that's a discussion for another time.

Anyway, the new version of the iPod plays video and the same day it was released, the iTunes Music Store started selling episodes of TV shows such as "Lost" for $1.99. Great, cool. Miss ANOTHER episode of "Lost" where nothing really happens, and you can download it the next day and watch nothing happen while on the bus.

But alas...7 days later...SEVEN DAYS....

From CNET.com:
"Video iPod Gets A Little Bit Sexier

Independently produced content made for Apple's video iPod is beginning to appear online--and as with any new technology, it may be sex that sells first..."

So, there you have it. The Video iPod. First use - repurposing TV content. Second use (7 days later)....PORN!!!

I'm a God damned Nostrodamus.

What Is Your Earliest Memory?

Close your eyes. Think back, way back. What is the very first image or sound you remember?

How old were you? 4 years old? 3 years old?

I need to know.

I need to know because I have a sneaking suspicion that my wife is spending way too much cash on birthday parties my daughter will never fucking remember.

At least I am getting away cheaper this year - we're only throwing a WEST COAST birthday party as opposed to the bi-costal extravanzas the previous ones were.

Year One:
East Coast Party Only (at 1, Ella's extensive social circle didn't quite reach California yet)

A Private room in a restaurant. Full menu, full bar (for the adults stupid), we bought those interlocking puzzle mats to turn one corner of the room into a safe play area. My wife had a photo of Ella blown up as a sign in board like a freakin' batmitzvah.

We rented an "Elmo." My daughter loved Elmo. All kids love Elmo. All kids love 18 inch high Elmo they see on the television. A 6' tall red, hairy monster with huge eyes? Not so much.

Sesame Street Balloons: $55
Lifesize Elmo: $200
Kids screaming in terror and running for their life: Priceless.

Not to mention the party favors (I think they were Frabrige' Eggs or something). Ah, that was money well spent.

Year Two:
East Coast Party - My Gym. 30 kids. Dora the Explorer theme. Dora plates, Dora cups, Dora napkins, Dora table cloth, Dora center pieces, Dora balloons, Dora, Dora Dora and fucking Dora.

Snacks, pizza and soda for kids. A full Jewish deli spread for the adults.

We rented a "Dora." My daughter loves Dora. All kids love Dora. All kids love animated Dora they see on the television. A 6' tall woman, with a huge Mardi Gras sized head and a backpack with a creepy face painted on it? Not so much.

Full compliment of Dora accessories: $185
Lifesize Dora: $250
More kids screaming in terror and running for their life: Priceless.

West Coast Party - Playsource. Identicle to the East Coast party except for the cake. This one was a $75 cake handmade in the shape of Dora. This wasn't some fucking Carvel Fudgy the Whale that they flip upside down to make Santa every December - this was a honest to God Michelangelo Dora the Explorer made from angel food cake. I didn't know whether to eat it or use it to solve the DiVinci Code.

The other difference was the Dora. See, Dora has protection. She has her best friend Boots, she has the contents of her backpack, and she has a little thing called "copyright law." So, technically speaking, we didn't rent a "Dora," we rented "Adventure Girl" (not be confused their not-Barney, "Purple Dinoasaur"). We were assured, Adventure Girl was Dora, it was just a little precaution so the Nickelodeon cops wouldn't bust down his door and slime his ass.

I know Dora, and this my friend, was no Dora.

This was Dora from the wrong side of the tracks, this was Dora after a few divorces and alcoholism. Adventure Girl was so ghetto she didn't have a backpack, she had a plastic A&P bag.

She also came with her pimp, a magician. We told them we didn't want a magician. A magician is like the devil to 2 year olds. They don't appreciate the tradition of slight of hand mastery passed down through the ages. You made a fucking red sponge ball dissapear and pop out of my ear and that's fucking weird.

Dora Cake: $75
Adventure Girl: $200
My wife almost physically kicking Adventure Girl's foam ass while the magician begged me to hold her back: priceless.

So this year, its a Halloween theme. We rented out a freakin pumpkin farm complete with animals to feed, ponies to ride, a playground and a shit load of pumpkins. My wife spent 3 months scouring the internet for the perfect pumpkin bags to put party favors in. (She sent back two previous styles because they were not to her liking.) I don't know what the cake is yet but it's probably some life-sized statue of David or some shit.

My wife told me how much it is costing and I'm pretty sure she is lying.

I love my daughter, I mean I LOVE my daughter, but any smart business man needs to make sure he is getting a return on his investment. Will the 6' Elmo get me a "get out of jail free" card the first time I tell her she can't have another Malibu Barbie? Will it cut me a little slack when I punch her first boyfriend square in the face (and I will punch her first boyfriend square in the face)? And what about all those times I am planning on not wearing pants when her friends are over? Nada. Zip. All this ain't gonna buy me shit.

So people, before you get a second mortgage to throw a wedding sized birthday party for a kid who still shits in their pants, ask yourself?

Are they even going to remember this?

Then do yourself a favor. Go to McDonald's and get them a Happy Meal. They'll play with the plastic wrapper the toy comes in and be just as happy.

How did I Get Here?

For as long as I can remember I have wanted to work in Hollywood. Some people go their entire lives without ever knowing what they want to do with lives. I have always known. Of course at five years old I wanted to be a stuntman, but its in the same ballpark.

So, after sitting through "Battleship Potemkin" and "Intolerance" countless times, after studying the history, symbolism and cultural impact of film on the world - someone tell me how I ended up sitting in a room watching 30 girls in fishnets shake their ass?

Before I am hunted down and killed let me make one thing perfectly clear - I love what I do for a living. I love almost every part of it. I am paid well to work with talented people, to meet every celebrity known to man, to travel all around the country - I know I could be working on an assembliy line, I could be doing construction or any number of physically demanding, difficult jobs. I am well aware I am in no position to complain...

But I will.

Sometimes my job makes me feel downright scummy.

The first time was when I was in Cancun. Mexico (I know, already you're saying "Shut the fuck up you ungrateful bastard,") producing three episodes of the Jerry Springer Show for MTV's Spring Break. The creative was a "King & Queen" of Spring Break type thing. Basically an excuse for skin. Fine, it's what Spring Break is all about.

All my coworkers were teasing me constantly about having landed this assignment. Anyone who knows me knows I am not a "stripper" guy, I am not into sitting around watching porn, and I am not one to yell out "Hey baby," from a moving vehicle. My coworkers, on the other hand, were. Case in point - my school buddies threw me a bachelor party and knowing I wouldn't be into strippers and ho's, we spent the night gambling in Atlantic City. My work friends found the idea of a bachelor party without strippers so deplorable, two nights later they kidnapped me and dragged me to "Private Eyes." It's a long story but let's just say I got several lap dances from an openly anti-semetic stripper with a European accent. Oh joy.

So there I am in Cancun, and I am already sure I am going to hell for the stunts and games I have created for this show. I have dug deep and awakened the slumbering Frat Boy inside me. We are planning on making bikinis out of food, having guys write words in lipstick on their partner's behind, then having them press their ass up to glass to transfer the word so they can read it. I am going straight to hell. From a producing standpoint I do have a major concern - how the hell are we going to get students to actually do this stuff?

Well, DUH. At the auditions I would start things off by playing music and asking the kids (I was three years older, but they were still "kids") to dance. I wanted to see how inhibited they would be. Well, 4 seconds into the first audition I had 52 naked college students grinding each other and twisting into positions that would make Caligula blush. There was actual penetration. I swear to God, all I was thinking was, "Their parents paid for their daughters to have a nice week in Cancun and little do they know their little girls are a bunch of hobags doing a 69 in public on some guy they just met at Senior Frog's."

Needless to say, the show was the highest rated Spring Break show in 4 years.

So, back to the 30 girls shaking their asses...

My current project is producing a show called, "Nick Cannon Presents Wild n' Out." It is an improv comedy show - kind of a hip hop version of "Whose Line Is It, Anyway?"

Besides the cast of improv players there are 20 "Wild n' Out Girls." These are basically hot girls who function as cheerleaders, waitresses, Vanna Whites and Hooters girls all rolled into one. It is time to cast this season's girls.

Now, to me, the only thing creepier than innocent kids grinding on a beach for 6 seconds of airtime, is when men are completely objectifying women, and the women know it and it's why they are there. Another reason I am not a stripper guy - the fact that you are there to gauk at them and these women are there, with quiet contempt, to be gawked at - I don't know, it makes my skin crawl.

So we tell our casting director that we need "hot girls" and she lines up 42 of them. We bring them into the room 3 or 4 at a time. The first group comes in. They are all Asian, all looked used like the prostitutes from "Full Metal Jacket" and are wearing practically nothing. They speak with such thick accents if I imitated them you would think I was mocking all Asian people...and I would be. All of their "L's" are "R's" like the waiters in "A Christmas Story" - "Fa Rah Rah Rah Rah, Rah Rah, Rah Rah."

We talk them. What are their interests, do any of them haver acting experience, what do they like to do in their free time - WHY? WE ASKED THEM THERE BECAUSE THEY ARE "HOT," AND THEY KNOW THIS BUT WE BOTH PLAY THIS LITTLE GAME UNTIL WE ASK THEM TO DO WHAT THE JOB ENTAILS...

We put on a boombox and ask them to shake their asses.

I am sitting there, staring at these sad, sad, girls with fake boobs and stretch marks thinking, "One day my daughters are going to ask what I do for a living. Do I have to disclose this?"

With each group of girls I sank lower and lower in my seat. The obligatory 2 minutes of conversation, then they shake their ass. It's like asking a hooker, "So, do you, uh, go to school or anything?" cause you feel the need to be human in some way before you give her money to blow you...or so I imagine.

And to make matters worse, these girls are so dumb. Being objectified is the only shot they have. We asked each of them to tell us something about themselves. Here is a random sampling:

- If I look at polka dots I puke. My brother too. We are like, dot phobic or something.
- I can put my leg behind my head, you know, like, if you need me to.
- I sorry. What you say?
- I've seen your show. It's really awesome. You are hilarious. (She was talking to the casting assistant. Our host, Nick, was three feet away.)
- I take lots of classes about lots of important stuff.

Three hours of this. I was going to write socially conscious, deeply meaningful films (not movies, films), direct them myself and collect Oscars like others collect stamps. I was going to be an artist will a deep yearning to create, to make the world re-examine themselves and everything they believed in...

How did I get here?

Too Much Time

I just started a new job in downtown LA. I had never been to downtown LA before. Most of LA looks like Queens Blvd with Palm Trees - how can you tell what is downtown?

Now I know. I live in the valley - north west of LA. That puts downtown squarely as "fucking far from my house as is humanly possible" and still be in LA.

The last show I worked on was 15 minutes away from my house. My commute is now 1 hr. on a good day. My record for making it home stands at 3 hrs.

Needless to say, I have way too much time on my hands. On the way in I listen to Stern so that occupies my mind, but coming home - when the commute is the longest - I am shit out of luck.

But something positive has come out of all of this. I have time to develop a few ideas that I think could make everyone's commute more enjoyable.

First off, every single car should come with a built in phone...and that phone number should be the lisence plate so when some fucker cuts you off you could just call them up and ask them what the fuck were they thinking? Or tell the girl in the car next to you that you saw her insert her finger in her nose up to the knuckle. Or tell the guy in the Honda Civic that spinning rims, a rear spoiler, car phone antenna and racing stripes doesn't CHANGE THE FACT THAT IT IS A HONDA CIVIC.

Think of the possibilities! What would you say if you could just dial up anyone on the road? No doubt it would spawn a whole new dating pool. Construction workers wouldn't have to lay off the sexual harrassment just because they're not on the job site.

Next, I want to create a new touch sensitive drum machine. This drum machine would connect through your car speakers and the pads would be mounted on your steering wheel so when you bang away to Motorhead you could really go to town. I myself am an expert steering wheel drummer. Hi Hat - 2 o'clock. Snare drum - 10 o'clock. Bass Drum - 9 o'clock. Ride Cymbal - 3 o'clock. Crash symbol - 12 o'clock. That part on "In The Air Tonight" - when the drums come in? I got that shit nailed.

Did I tell you I have too much time?

And while we're on music - as an added feature, every car should have a LED screen on the roof that displays the song the driver is currently listening to because sometimes I see a rival steering wheel drummer going off, and I want to jump in and solo somewhere in the middle. Or you see someone belting out a song like Bette Midler and you just have to know what they're jamming to. The other day I saw a woman in my rear view mirror doing a completely choreographed routine. She had the head moves, the finger point - she was the best automobile dancer I have ever seen. See? That concert could have benefitted from the LED screen AND the phone. You go girl!

I would have an optional airbag feature on new cars where you could pay extra for the airbags to be shaped like a passenger. That way in really crazy traffic I could activate the airbag and get in the carpool lane.

I would like my front windows to have holograms of me looking straight ahead so I could really turn and check out the other drivers. The people watching is fascinating in bumper to bumper traffic. It's like that "Everybody Hurts" video from R.E.M. The holograms would also save me from accidentally locking eyes with a gangbanger in the lowrider next to me and having to take a different route home for fear of leading the Crips back to my house.

I would have each car given a frequency on the radio so you could tune a car in and hear the conversation. I have seen some wicked couple fights and an endless parade of folks talking to themselves. Haven't you been dying to know what they are saying?

And lastly, I would like the talking GPS system to tell me I look nice in the morning.

So I may be spending 60 bucks in gas a week, putting a plethora of miles on my car and missing dinner with my family - but I got a bunch of stuff to patent.