Dirty Daddy: The Chronicles of a Family Man Turned Filthy Comedian (29 page)

I wasn’t going to talk in this book about losing my virginity, but it’s come up recently, because my hymen grew back about six months ago. I can count the girls I came in contact with as a teenager on one hand. Exactly.

I had a girlfriend when I was thirteen and then another when I was seventeen, which is when I lost my virginity. I had no previous intention of sharing that information, except that my friend . . . drumroll . . . John Stamos did an Internet show for Yahoo! called
Losing It,
where he got me to talk about it.

The premise of his show was that he’d interview his friends about their losing-it stories. I was John’s second. On the show. And not unlike this book, if it’s on the Internet, it will live forever.

Which reminds me of the classic song “Forever” by Jesse and the Rippers, my favorite boy band ever. Oh my God, did you see them that time on
Late Night with Jimmy Fallon
? They were so good I peed myself. Mullets gone wild.

A’ight, I’m gonna start to wrap up this relationship rant. Everybody’s done some things they’re not proud of. Valentine’s Day has always been a point of contention for me. Not the movie. I love Garry Marshall no matter what . . . I’m talking about the holiday.

Every year when it rolls around, it hits hard. Sometimes it’s been the greatest day ever. Other times, not so good. Some call it a “Hallmark holiday.” I looked up Valentine’s Day on my source of sources, Wikipedia, and it said the following: “The most popular martyrology associated with Saint Valentine was that he was imprisoned for performing weddings for soldiers who were forbidden to marry and for ministering to Christians, who were persecuted under the Roman Empire.” Eggs-actly.

That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Gotta love martyrdom. The idea of being
forced
to show your love to someone on a certain day doesn’t seem right. I don’t think love should be forced. Unless you’re being paid handsomely for it.

Now I must refute the whole point I just made, because on that day that I’m waxing cynical about, I’ve also been in love. When that happens, due to the luck of the Irish, or some wonderful aligning of the planets, it’s the shit. It all works: the flowers, the gifts, the universal pat on the back you get: “Good for you, you’re in love, like you’re supposed to be. Like the
rest
of us.”

And hell, it was fun back when we were kids, when everyone exchanged Valentines and we passed out those little sugar-heart things we all rotted our teeth with. I remember being able to kiss the girls in class and they kissed me. Lucky I didn’t get kid herpes when I was five. Dear Lord, tell me there isn’t such a thing.

I used to have crushes on some of the girls on the kindergarten Hebrew school bus—again, I wasn’t even Jewish, I just knew at five that the hot girls were on the short bus to Hebrew school.

Sorry, yes, I am a Jewish man through insertion, once removed. As I type this, I’m looking at a picture of my father smiling. I do not want to be sitting with my mother when she reads this. Hi, Mom.

The first girl I had a crush on was named Chrissy. To the best of my recollection I was in second grade. Like seven or eight years old. I wasn’t held back but I was a precocious little weird thing. I was either really outgoing and always trying to get laughs and attention, or really shy and geeky. I know, you’re surprised only that I was shy. I was also a bit of a dirty little kid. I know, surprise again.

I got in trouble one time for looking up Chrissy’s dress. We were doing arts and crafts and there were eight kids to a table. We were using these little blunt scissors to cut construction paper with. So I kept pretending to drop the scissors under the table so I could look up Chrissy’s dress.

The teacher figured out what I was up to and told me to stop. To the best of my recollection, I did. Wherever Chrissy is today, I send my apologies for doing something so sleazy. I never repeated that behavior in my life—holding a pair of blunt scissors.

I am aware there’s a crossover between this chapter, “Relationships I’d Rather Not Talk About,” and the earlier chapter “Things I Shouldn’t Have Done.” I suppose if I hadn’t been raised Jewish, I’d be able to get all of this out in confession. But guilt is guilt. Honesty and truth can cut through guilt. And it helps to have a pair of blunt scissors.

When I was fifteen I lived in L.A. a couple years and fell in love with an older woman. She was sixteen. I invited her to Disneyland. She said no. I got
no
a lot.

The second girlfriend in my life, when I was seventeen, said yes. When I was seventeen it was a very good year . . . (
See:
Frank Sinatra.) We dated through the end of high school, through college, and off again and on again my first few years living out in L.A. Mostly on again. And then one night I was at the Comedy Store in La Jolla for the weekend. I was twenty-five. I was back at the comedy condo. And I was stoned. That’s what you do at a comedy condo.

I called my girlfriend back east and proposed to her. She said “yes.” And that, kids, once again, is the story of how I met your mother.

The relationships I’d rather not talk about are obviously all meaningful to me. I feel shitty notating them as plural. Breaking down the word itself—and we’ve all heard this one—it’s a “relation” and it’s compounded with a “ship”—which does makes sense when you think of two people staying afloat together for any length of time. It’s a lovely well-intended metaphor.

Swept away for a few weeks—what used to be called
an affair
—or together for a lifetime. The ship can set sail and have a beautiful journey, it can hit rough waters, and it can sink . . . it can go down. Although going down can save many a relationship.

And sometimes the people on the upper decks go below to hook up with the people on the lower decks. “I’ll never let go, Jack.” Wait, she did let go, didn’t she? And we all have had that same observation.

Right after I’d seen
Titanic
it came to mind and I spouted it soon after onstage—and I’ve heard it from and discussed it with many people since . . . Rose could’ve shared the door with Jack, right? If Leonardo DiCaprio had played a working stand-up comic, he would’ve asked for a piece of the door. Then Rose would’ve had to let him float for a while and the flash-forward could’ve ended with Rose as an old woman, not throwing the giant diamond into the ocean but taking it to a pawnshop and having to split its value with Jack in their impending divorce.

I think I just made one of my earlier points . . . If Jack hadn’t drowned, the idea of him and Rose as an older couple getting divorced—as the end of that movie—is worse than death. After three hours, you don’t want to see that great movie ending in divorce. Death is more satisfying. I can actually hear crickets outside as I’m writing this. The universe gives us all the answers.

A woman I had a good relationship with for a while helped teach me that “words matter.” Especially ones with four letters. I’m a person who has always needed to learn to be careful what I say. And I can’t stress this enough: “Be careful what you say.”

And in the present state of things, be even more careful what you text. Texting can ruin your relationship. So can cheating on the other person. I’m not saying one thing leads to the other, but these days, if you’ve accidentally read your betrayer’s texts, it does. Oh, so I
am
saying that.

In contradiction to what I’ve just said, a wise man I truly respect recently told me that “words mean very little.” It’s your actions behind them. You can say “I love you” to someone but we all know those words are not always connected to action. Or to feeling.

One of my biggest flaws is I can say “I love you” at the drop of a zipper. No, I did not just write that. I apologize. I love you.

A while back, I thought I’d just met the woman who was perfect for me. And I told her exactly what she wanted to hear—“Okay, two hundred dollars, fine.” That’s completely untrue. I have never paid for sex. I have only paid for everything leading up to sex . . . and everything that follows sex . . . but I’d rather not talk about it.

Chapter 12

FALLING UPWARD, OR WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE LOVED AND HATED

I’m always amazed when I go to do stand-up dates and the ad in the paper says, “For Mature Audiences Only.” Nothing could be more immature than my stand-up. It’s all derived from the silly humor my dad instilled in me. Poop and penis jokes. I really should be billed in perpetuity as “For Immature Audiences Only.” I’m in the process of evolving past that. Could take a while.

When you’re a comedian you can have a tendency to focus on even just one negative person in the audience who doesn’t laugh because “they’re just not that into you.” Not every comic is like this. The smart performer takes in the 99 percent of the people who are enjoying their work. I used to have more of the unhealthy neurotic performer gene. It’s a really good thing to get past.

I always admired the strength and self-belief in the work of Jerry Seinfeld and Bill Cosby. They never gave energy to people who did not like what they do.

I wasted a lot of years caring if someone didn’t find me funny. There’s nothing you can do about it. Well, there
is
something you can do about it, but I found out you’re not allowed to pump laughing gas into the air-conditioning system.

If you put yourself out there, people are always gonna take swipes at you. But life’s too short to waste it on the one guy in the audience with his arms folded who hates you before you even start.

I got interviewed about some article once that said I was the “best” and the “worst” comic alive. It wasn’t even an article, just some blog. It’s like how a news channel will do a split screen, that feels like self-parody, but it’s
the news—
where two people are interviewed: One side has a well-known director of our national security and the other side has a militant rebel whom no one knew anything about until the news channel gave him half of a split screen. Getting on television gives nobodies instant power.

Everyone is entitled to their opinion. That’s upsetting sometimes, isn’t it? I’m a sensitive guy who isn’t always able to hear a negative opinion. And if you don’t dig what I do, I can still respect you. But I don’t know how it propels me forward either. It’s not a positive thing for me or, I think, for the person saying it. I can’t do negative anymore.

It’s common for people on TV to have someone walk up to them and say, “I saw you on television last night.” And that’s it. They say nothing else. Not that they liked you or they didn’t like you. And then they just stand there and stare at you, waiting for your response. And they’re usually drunk. I can’t do drunk people anymore either.

I’ve figured out that a good response is, “Thanks . . . ???” And it’s usually followed by my texting my friend, “Let’s get outta here.” But my friend is standing right next to me, so I could’ve just told him. I can’t do negative drunk people while I’m texting anymore either.

But it all comes with the territory of being a performer. There’s the good and the bad. For example, I’ve always loved performing for college audiences. A joke from my newest stand-up special was that college girls often run up to me effusively and say, “Oh my God, I grew up watching you.” And I say, “Well, good, ’cause now you’re gonna go down watching me.”

That’s just a joke. I’ve got three daughters and I can’t date people younger than them. I’m not saying I don’t, I’m saying I can’t. The rule is, as an older man, it’s supposedly appropriate for you to date a woman seven years older than your oldest—or maybe it’s add up all your children’s ages, divide the total by two, and add seven? I dunno, their cumulative age is over seventy. I do have one rule though now when it comes to women: I won’t date anyone older than my mother.

I love college audiences because although as a group they may be collectively stoned, they are all in the mode of
receiving
information. They tend to be smarter and more open than the general audience. Although that does depend on what school you’re at. If you’re performing at Missionary Position Two-Year State Trade School College, you may be in for an audience with lower-skewing IQs. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never performed there.

I’m particularly fortunate to have a younger following. And part of what makes that so special is being able to be a parent to them in my own way. I get to tell young guys in the audience to stop getting all fucked-up on drugs and booze, and of course to stop having sex with animals. The two things go hand in hand—if you’re not fucked-up, likelihood is you won’t have sex with animals. I’m hoping that if I put that in print, people will believe it to be true. But I also believe that if you have sex with animals, you are not reading this book. Because odds are, you cannot read.

On the flipside, when I do stand-up, I get to tell young girls to stop giving it up and being young hos. I don’t think it works, but that’s actually my motivation through whatever morphing of hero worship I receive. I may say some nasty things, but my aim is true. It really disturbs me when I play a university or a rock and roll venue and girls flash their boobs at me. It disturbs me because there are barricades and I can’t cop a feel. That’s not true, I wouldn’t do it if I could. Even if I was Inspector Gadget and had extendable arms and could shoot my hands out real quick to touch a titty, I wouldn’t do it. I’m a father. And I don’t know where they’ve been.

Last year I played the music festival Bonnaroo and several large guys made the same move. I’m really not big on men flashing their tits at me. Or tattooing me onto their ass. Yes, it exists. I seen ’em.

Regarding the sex-with-animals thing, I’ve actually had some disturbing experiences when I’ve played a school—where the one guy who
has
possibly done something with a goat shouts out. And he’s so stoned and drunk he thinks I’m speaking
just
to him, and winds up taking his shirt off and trying to rush the stage.

I’ve learned to curtail that kind of behavior somewhat. I expect one day I’ll look down into the front row and see a dude sitting there with his arm around the prizewinning sheep. Yessir, yessir, three bags full.