Dirty Daddy: The Chronicles of a Family Man Turned Filthy Comedian (28 page)

Breakups are not fun and the worst part of every breakup I’ve had is how it involves my kids, as well as friends and family who are left in its wake. Okay,
that’s
who I have to dedicate this book to. Everyone who’s had to help me through the breakups and listen to my bullshit. I don’t want to go through it again. So I’m just gonna sit here in this Jacuzzi and type for the next thirty years. Don’t mind me. Add some carrots and potatoes, I’m gonna change my name to Stew. I think I heard that joke in third grade. “What do you call a leper in a Jacuzzi?” “Stew.” Yeah, I heard leper jokes in third grade.

When I was married at twenty-six I never thought my marriage would end when I was forty-one. I thought it was going to last our whole lives. I know most of you have been through this stuff in some way, either directly or with a farm animal. I dunno, I just wanted to check again if you’re still reading.

Things happen. Life happens. With three phenomenal daughters between us, my ex-wife and I have become friends. It wasn’t always easy. It took a while. A lot of my friends, both male and female, people I greatly respect, still haven’t been able to achieve that with their exes. Some had kids together and some didn’t. What they didn’t know until reading this book is that
I
am the biological father of all my friends’ kids. That’s not going to travel well.

It took years for my ex-wife and me to become friends. I am unfortunately not close with any of my other exes. I learned a lot from them and I appreciated our time together, and I send them all good wishes, but staying buddies with someone I was in love with is just not how I’m made. I can’t just “act” in my real life and change roles at the flip of a coin: “Okay, we’re not gonna live together—no more sex ever—and we’re gonna date other people, but let’s be
besties
! Pinkie swear, it’ll be great!!”

For me, once it’s over, it’s over. Anyway, that’s how I’ve been up to this point in my life as a Taurus alpha male. And I value everyone I’ve ever dated as a person. Well, almost everyone—there was this one girl who was part jackal . . . no, not gonna do that. That’s a relationship I’d rather not talk about.

I also enjoy
not
being in a relationship, the time alone. It’s fun sometimes to just “be” and work on yourself. But I do find it a dilemma that the only groceries I’ve had in the house this past month are bottled water and toilet paper. Maybe I should use it all to make a ten-foot papier-mâché head and stick it on my front lawn as a statement. Okay, I just creeped myself out again.

I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m far from an expert on relationships. I know most of you think I got it down. But I do believe you can look at
all
the people you’ve been in relationships with as a sort of a linear composite—as one long relationship, with lots of ups and downs—that can teach you about yourself.

This would be a good time to have the rehab guy in
Half Baked
stand up and yell: “
Relationships?
Man, this is some
bullshit
!”

I’m just proud of myself I wrote a chapter about relationships and decided, as a person with a modicum of dignity, to leave out the back-alley sex and not name names.

I haven’t brought up the term
soul mate
yet, because as much as part of me wants to believe in it, I find the whole idea to be something out of Hallmark, not based on reality. I’ve had this discussion with a lot of people. Romance, especially young romance, inspires this belief in something as idealistic and sweet as a soul mate. And I think it’s a
nice
thing to believe in. It’s definitely something I wish I wasn’t as cynical about. All of my relationships were
sole
mates of mine though, because they loved their shoes so very much.

I’m so happy for the few couples I’ve met and known over the years who are still in love, still growing, and not afraid to speak their truth to each other. Theirs are the rare relationships that just seem to
work
.

I have friends in Santa Fe, Terran and Bari Lovewave—yes, those are their names—who’ve been together for over thirty years. They’re funny, smart, and I guess you’d call them
new-age types
. They host a local show on Santa Fe public radio. And I’ve been friends with them for over thirty years. Met them at a comedy club in Houston. Stayed friends until now.

They’re best friends and love each other in that way that makes you sometimes want to leave a room to give them their privacy. I mean, they are
very
romantic with each other. Had sex right on my dining room table. During Thanksgiving. With all of us eating around them, nonplussed. Obviously not true, it was during Passover. But fact is, they are together and happy, and I don’t know enough couples who are.

It’s so fun when you’re in the groove with someone. You’re best friends, you share everything, you celebrate the successes, you make each other feel better when one of you is down . . . and then some real tough times come up, as they do for everyone, and . . . one of you leaves. No, I meant to end with, “ . . . and you get through those tough times.”

For me, the beginning of a relationship is always filled with great humor. If you’re a fifteen-year-old guy reading this, I’m not suggesting you meet someone and fart as loud as you can for them because that’s what you find funny. That’s a tenth-date hard laugh.

Again, if you’re a fifteen-year-old guy reading this, I’m hoping this information doesn’t bum you out. “Nice book, Bob, I can’t wait to fall in love and then be miserable. Thanks, Danny Tanner!” Every time I hear that name a chill goes up my butthole.

Sigmund Freud said, “We are never so helplessly unhappy as when we lose love.” But he also said, “Time spent with cats is never wasted,” proving once again that it’s all about the pussy. I’m allergic to cats, and apparently, at least in this past decade, allergic to pussy. If cats really are your problem, before you ask someone out, it helps to do a nice Benadryl/Viagra combo before the first date.

First dates . . . what are they? For some, they can be hopeful. They can be fun. They can also be a disaster. It’s rough when you have a friend fix you up with someone and you take her to dinner and soon as the first course comes you’re asked, “So are you thinking of having children again?” It’s not an unusual question for a guy like me who already has kids.

I trust my answer isn’t too snarky: “Right now I was hoping we’d just get through our beet salads.” I hate being rude. But I also find it weird that people can only find comfort in
the plan,
as in: “Let’s find out what ‘the plan’ is and then we can get on with this meal and see if I want to ever speak to you again.”

I understand. Everyone’s biological clock is ticking. No one wants to waste their time. And again, time is the most precious thing we have. That and a solid stool. I’m a true romantic.

I once knew a woman, someone I cared a lot about, who was a bit like that, wanted to know the plan, wanted everything in the order she’d fantasized that her whole life would follow. And she stuck to it. And that’s valid. But it’s tough to do because things in life happen that we aren’t prepared for. Like sharting your pants.

She had every right to believe in “the plan” she wanted. We all do. And hers wasn’t anything out of the ordinary: just to date a little, get engaged, plan the wedding, plan the pregnancies . . . and then plan my death, my funeral, and who she’d then spend the rest of her life with, a venture capitalist or a restaurant owner. That would be a hard choice for even me to make.

I wish happiness for everyone I’ve ever loved. Even the jackal.

If you find it challenging to be friends with exes, that’s actually a testament to how strongly you felt toward them at one time. It means you didn’t want to just shift roles and “act” a different way to keep them in your life.

The idea of being “friends with benefits” is the subject of many relationship comedies. I don’t get it. Wish I did. Back in the day I tried, but I can’t just have random sex. Unless you call or text me and tell me you want to. Then I’ll be right there. No, I’m not made that way. Okay, I’m in the car.

Actually, I used to be more like that a few years after my 1997 divorce, around the turn of the century, in the year 2000. When Conan O’Brien was on NBC he used to do this bit that I loved and did with him called “In the Year 2000.” That has nothing to do with relationships, but I just hadn’t name-dropped in so long I was getting anxious.

One relationship I’ve always admired is that of Howard Stern and his wife Beth. She understands his brilliance, his craziness, and embraces it. Romance aside, just to be able to have a man/woman relationship in the world of comedy that’s in sync like theirs is a feat in itself. I’ve also admired the friendship and working relationship of Howard and Robin Quivers. I used to go on Howard’s show quite a bit while I went through the years of being married, then through getting divorced, then through different stages of dating. It’s a scary show to do, because it’s early in the morning, and he’s brutally honest and so skilled at what he does. The personal part of life you may not want to hear about could end up being the featured subject for the day. “So, how bad
really
is your circumcision scar?”

Stamos told me that Howard and I have a lot in common: we both have three wonderful daughters, an ex-wife we were with for many years since we were young, then divorced, and Jewish parents who sound and feel like they were made from the same mold. Not that all Jewish parents have mold. John also said, “There’s one main difference between you and Howard—he has a billion dollars and you do not.”

I am fascinated by the way some rare fortunate people are able to find love once, and then it changes, or they lose that person, and then they are able to find love again and be even happier. Have a second life. I have faith I will one day find that love. And I know I will pay handsomely for it.

The several relationships I’ve had since my divorce lasted two to three years, with one to two years in between each one. When I do that math, I realize that I too, not unlike Edward James Olmos, am the Immortal. I am one hundred thirty-four years old, with the libido of a twenty-five-year-old man and the maturity of a nine-year-old boy. Not really—more like a thirteen-year-old boy, because that’s when most male humans can reproduce. I sometimes think how much more fun my Bar Mitzvah could’ve been if it had ended with getting my girlfriend at the time pregnant. All I got was a bike and a new stereo record player.

Throughout all of my relationships, I can say that I’ve tried and also that I’ve succeeded. My marriage was a successful one. And I believe that every relationship that came after it was successful as well, in the sense that I’ve learned a lot from every person I’ve had long relationships with. And I trust they feel the same way.

But excluding my children, the most consistent relationship in my life, for better or worse, as fucked-up as this is to say, has always been my relationship with my work. The work is always there. Sometimes I’m at my most comfortable when I’m standing in front of an audience. Or I’m in front of or behind a camera. Or I’m laying on my back to be X-rayed.

Stand-up is an interesting relationship. Every time I take the stage and I pull the mic out, it’s as if it’s in slow motion. It just feels so important to me. Like King Arthur pulling the sword out of the stone. It’s that moment when it’s just you and the audience. The moment that says, “Hello, friends. Thanks for always being there.” That’s the beautiful thing about stand-up. If you’re in a healthy place mentally, you can be lonely but you’re not alone. If you’re in the flow of it, stand-up
is
a relationship.

There have been times when I’ve been in a less healthy place in my life and I didn’t want to be alone. I was afraid of living alone after I had some knee surgery and was recuperating at home, and I wondered to myself, “What if I fall in the house and have to call 911?” For a while there I was going to bed clean-shaven and dressed up with my hair combed perfectly—just in case I fell and had to call an ambulance. Gotta look good for the hospital entrance. Can’t wear a baseball cap and sunglasses for something as important as a
TMZ
appearance.

Speaking of being in my home incapacitated, I must be honest about my situation at the moment . . . I’ve been writing this for a long time now, and, you may be shocked to know, not all in one sitting. Circling back to how this all began—this is tough to share and this is not a joke; this shit is real . . .

I believe my laptop has permanently cauterized my testicles. It’s as if they are now encased in a tortoiseshell cover. I’m afraid of even moving the computer right now and seeing what my sac looks like. A similar feeling, I’d imagine, to what Luke Skywalker felt when he took off Darth Vader’s helmet and exposed his father’s fucked-up face. You wanted to look, but you also didn’t want to. Oh, shit, I hope I didn’t just spoil
Return of the Jedi
for you.

So now it should come as no surprise to you that one of my best relationships this past year—due to this book—has been with my laptop. And as you’ve been reading, it’s not always a perfect thing. Sometimes, not unlike your significant other, it heats up, then it cools down . . . It goes to sleep . . . And then it wakes up. It can lose its memory . . . You get the metaphor. I heat up, I can’t cool down. Abracadabra.

I actually went to buy a new laptop before the completion of this book. It had a nine-hour battery life and didn’t need a fan, so it never heated up. Super light and cool.

I tried it for one day and returned it. This book could not be written without my older-school laptop providing the constant heat within my loins, motivating me. Waking up my nether regions. But I digress.