HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY

My daughter Liv is about to turn 3, and so we had a birthday bash for her preschool pals and their parents at a Toluca Lake arts and crafts establishment today. There was the usual spread: pizza, bagels, lox, cake, and the obligatory box of matzoh for schoolmates whose parents are sticking, tooth and nail, to the no-leavened-bread rule of Passover as it reaches its insufferable end. Liv had a good time, and why not -- she got to eat cake, chock full of eggs, flour and sugar (and kick-ass frosting). Though we actually hosted two pesach sedars (the first two nights; oy, don't get me started) last week, Carrie and I are of the school that while it's okay for the grownups to suffer through the holiday (though I certainly didn't), it's not really fair for kids to munch exclusively on matzoh for a week.

Still, today was a busy party day. We could done have three of them, including ours. But we skipped the last one -- it's a kid in Liv's preschool class who shows his affection by blindsiding classmates and knocking them into furniture. It would have been hypocritical, since I'm of the opinion the kid should be on a leash. Yet there were other families who attended all three parties, and some of them were keeping their kids away from Satan's cake in their solidarity with Moses' crew. Can you imagine, being in the 3- to 6-year-old range, watchng your friends eat yummy cake and not getting to eat it. Talk about Chinese water torture. I like being Jewish, but not that much.

But I digress. It was a joy to see Liv hit the big Oh-Three surrounded by her posse of girlfriends. It also made me sad, because the subject amongst some of the adults, as is always does, turned to where to put the kids in school once they hit kindergarten. Carrie and I decided to send soon-to-be-6-year-old Emmett to a Jewish private school. Although it keeps our bank account fairly low, we couldn't be happier with the school and the community (I'm even one of the younger members of the Synagogue's C-level softball team).

Some of our friends, though, are going through divorces, and they worry about the judgmental eyes of the conservative congregation pooh-poohing them. I don't think that will happen -- we have a lesbian rabbi, after all. And I'm as reformed as they come, yet I attend a monthly study group with the temple's Big Cheese Rabbi. It's a cool temple, and these are strong, cool moms, and I'm sure they'll be fine, and better off, than they are in their current situations.

At the same time, it got me thinking about my own situation. My mom was married three times, so I never really felt that full security blanket, but I do feel blessed for my own family situation. Though we've faced some taxing times recently, due primarily to external factors, the foundation is strong and we're built to last. And one thing I've taken with me from childhood is a commitment to my family and my kids. Only one of my mom's husbands, Grandpa Frank, shares this, and it's why I consider him my father. His obvious interest and love for Emmett and Liv just reinforce this. My biological dad? Forget about it. The less said, the better.

I recently spoke with my mother's third husband ("Doobie") about this, and he had the the most ridiculous copout ever -- two of them, actually. One, that he and biodad were "artists" and, two, that it was "the sixties." Now isn't that the biggest pile of shit you've ever heard? Either you're a committed parent or you're not. Everything else is just bullshit selfishness. No wonder his own kids don't speak with him. It's not about excuses. It's about love.

SMELL A RATT

I ventured south of Ventura Boulevard recently to check out Ratt at the House of Blues. But before I go on, here's some perspective -- the mother of one of my son's kindergarten friends lost her virginity to vocalist Stephen Pearcy. How cool is that? I don't know the details, but I imagine this woman in a long line of poodle-headed groupie girls waiting for their five minutes of infamy with the great singer of Ratt. When I mentioned this factoid to Pearcy during the course of the Ratt episode of Behind the Music I produced, he seemed genuinely curious about how she'd perceived the experience. It was kind of sweet actually.

I was the right age during the band's heyday 1980s, but I never had much of an appreciation for hair metal, not even in an ironic way. But after being exposed to them through Behind the Music, I developed a strange respect for the band that I can't really explain. I mean, it wasn't rocket science: They never met a cliche they couldn't turn into a song title: "Wanted Man," "Loving You's a DIrty Job," "Slip of the Lip," "Nobody Rides For Free." Guitarist Warren DiMartini has a pained facial expression for every single riff he (over) plays. And no one ever looked worse in vertically striped spandex jumpsuits than drummer Bobby Blotzer. What's not to love?

I guess I just wanted to see what I'd missed, since I hadn't seen the band before. And it was pretty awesome. The band still thinks they're headlining the Forum, even on the small stage at the House of Blues. It was cool that Pearcy mentioned that they were just getting started, even when they were two songs from finishing. He rubs a lot of folks the wrong way, but of all the guys in the band I got to know during the Behind the Music, I liked him the best; he seemed the most grounded in reality. Besides he's a Valley guy, a parent. Someone just trying to make a living.

They delivered exactly what was expected of them. Total pros. But I couldn't help but think about the dynamics of original members DiMartini, Pearcy and Blotzer. I could be way off base, but they made it pretty clear to me they are not the best of friends. I saw these old guys blazing their catalog purely for the cash and, just maybe, to recapture whatever it was that turned them into arena gods for a few years. These are guys that have serious contempt for one another yet can put differences aside to kick a fair degree of ass after 25 years.

I used to snob out about bands reuniting for less than the most creatively pure motives. But you know what? Fuck it. It's all rock history, for better or worse. Savor it while it's here, 'cause when it's gone, we'll only have Youtube videos.

JORDAN FARMAR: Member of the Tribe

When I'm in a funk -- and I've been in a horrific career funk lately -- I find an obsession to wrap myself around and forget about real life. For the past few months, it's been the Lakers. Sure, it's an exciting race, but I actually TiVo the games. I've been a fairly hardcore NBA fan since the 1979-1980 season, when Magic Johnson joined the team. And though I'll admit that I've lapsed into fair-weather Clippers fandom, I've been solidly loyal to the purple and gold. I was even a season ticket holder at the Forum during the first two post-Magic Johnson years.

It was tough to really love the Shaquille O'Neal-era team. Particularly after Phil Jackson took over, it was almost too easy. Devoid of drama (save the incredible Western Conference Finals vs. Portland in 2000 and the 2002 series vs. Sacramento), the team was just too good. And the Kobe vs. Shaq stuff got old and stupic pretty quick. Strangely, though, I was really into the 2003-04 team, primarily because I really began to appreciate the play of Karl Malone, and understood what a great teammate he was, particularly amid the Kobe rape stuff, Shaq's pay-me bullshit, and the unraveling of Gary Payton.

This season, of course, was a car crash waiting to happen, thanks to Kobe's offseason remarks. Yet as hard as it's been to truly embrace Kobe (aside from his pure greatness as a basketball player), I've seen in the years since Phil Jackson's returned, a guy who really wants to lead, a guy who wants his teammates to succeed. Unfortunately, they've basically sucked. I mean, how does a team that starts Kwame Brown, Smush Parker and Luke Walton make the playoffs (the 05-06 team). It was a miracle.

I'm not sure what makes this season's Lakers so compelling. Obviously, the maturation of Andrew Bynum and the Pao Gasol trade have been real blessings, but maybe it's the whole spiting of Kobe. He cries to the media, and the next thing you know, the Lakers are title contenders.

But I think the real reason is that the Lakers roster features superJew (and former Bruin) Jordan Farmar. Now, I'm not a fan of UCLA (I'm a Cal grad, after all; Twenty years later, I still talk about seeing former NBA star Kevin Johnson actually studying in the library while he was a Cal student). But for crying out loud, the guy was bar mitzvahed. How many current or former Lakers can say that? The icing on the cake, of course, is that Farmar's a Valley guy, a graduate of Taft.

Thank G-d, he's willing to roll on Shabbos.

SAD TIMES

My affiliation with the Los Angeles Times dates to (gulp) 1982, when, just out of high school, I worked in the sports department. I spent my weekend evenings taking prep sports scores, gathering fish reports and race results, and covering an occasional high school playoff game. I left the paper in 1984, just after the Summer Olympics in L.A., to attend college at UC Berkeley. I began writing again for the paper sporadically in 1993, for various sections. Most recently, I've been writing book reviews fairly regularly.

Having grown up with the Times, it's pretty clear it's not what it once was -- a paper so cushy and well-staffed it was known as the Velvet Coffin. Back then, the paper had national aspirations, and held its own with any daily that wasn't the Washington Post or the New York Times. I still have a soft spot for the paper and it's been an unrealized dream to land a steady gig there, but now I'm not so sure: After all these years and countless bylines, The Times actually misspelled my name in today's paper. It doesn't show up on this link (mainly because I bitched about it and it was changed), but it's there for readers to see in the print edition. I don't really know what to think. I was angry at first, particularly because the piece was edited by people I've worked with countless times. Now, I'm just sad.

Don't let the misspelling deter you from reading the piece, though -- it's a review of Instamatic Karma, May Pang's collection of photos of her one-time lover John Lennon.



In other personal hype, I also have a fairly extensive article on Harry Nilsson in this month's issue of Mojo, which you should buy on the newsstand, but can also see right here. There's another long story that goes with the publication of this piece, but the short version is that I turned it in to the Mojo editors in August of 2004, nearly four years ago. But I guess stories about dead guys are evergreen.

NOT BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S

My son, Emmett, is only pushing six, but he's quite the connoisseur of fine dining. He like to eat out for dinner -- and when we do, he often wants sushi. For breakfast, he's happy with Lego-shaped frozen waffles or cold cereal. But Carrie wanted to go out for breakfast Sunday, and we were clueless. We never go out for breakfast.

We wanted to keep it in the neighborhood, so we first cruised past a newish place called Eat on Magnolia in North Hollywood. It wasn't quite 9, but the place was dead as a doornail. A breakfast out is too precious an occasion to blow it on lousy chow. (Later, I read rave reviews on Yelp and was cursing myself for not risking it).

We pointed the car toward Ventura. Was it gonna be Jinky's or Good Neighbors? We turned left at Lankershim and headed toward the Cahuenga Pass toward Good Neighbors. I've seen it for years, since it's in the same L-shaped center as my favorite Poquito Mas location. And it's usually crowded. Truth is, the place was, at best, mediocre. Soulless menu, Ships-quality food, bad coffee, indifferent service. While were there, though, it inspired a who-has-the-best breakfast argument with Carrie. She will argue to the death for Zachary's in Santa Cruz, tossing in the fact that it was Jerry Garcia's favorite breakfast joint. As if that holds weight. This is a guy who lived on bacon cheeseburgers and milkshakes. What did he know about food? And where is he now, anyway?

I countered, as I have for the past 20 years with anyone who will listen, that the Homemade Cafe in Berkeley has the best breakfast vittles. Amazing french toast, and the homefry heaven -- to die for. We both stood our ground, but it was a painful reminder that Angelenos have no taste when it comes to breakfast. The Bay Area really has a respect and reverence for the day's first meal, and I'm rarely disappointed wherever I have breakfast up there. I'm big on well-made homefries and rich coffee, and I've yet to really find that combination in the Valley (or even in Silver Lake when I lived there -- sorry Millie's). Long Beach was the only SoCal region that seemed to have a clue about how to make a decent breakfast, but I haven't lived there since 1993, so it may have changed.

I think what summed up my Good Neighbors experience was the the star sighting I had when I was walking out the door: ex-Journey singer Steve Perry. The only good taste that guy's ever had was in avoiding a reunion with his old bandmates.

GET OUT THE SHOE POLISH

I can't say that I'm a big fan of Ann Powers' work in the L.A. Times (though she's exactly the sort of "critic" the Times deserves), but when I read her Grammy report this morning, I nearly spit my Apple Jacks across the table. While I kinda dig the fact that Amy Winehouse is a white-trashy British Jewess with soul (and substance abuse issues), Ms. Powers found it necessary to describe her via satellite performance as "off-key at times, her drawled syllables sometimes veering uncomfortably close to blackface." Blackface? I didn't see her down on one knee, blathering on about her dear old mammy. WTF? White artists have been pretending to be brothas and sistas since the beginning of time. Why the hate toward Amy? She's got enough problems. Besides, Powers' personal pinup boy, Justin Timberlake, is the biggest soul poseur on the planet, yet Annie has nary a discouraging word for the object of her personal girlcrush.

All I'm saying is that we need to call a spade a spade.

THINGS I DO WHEN I'M NOT STRESSING ABOUT FINDING A JOB

I reviewed a book called Comedy At the Edge in today's Los Angeles Times. Though a bit overreaching, it's still an entertaining read for everyone who memorized George Carlin's Seven Words You Can't Say on Television in 5th grade.