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.