Unemployment Diary: America, The Joke's On Us

I know this is a political entry, and not about Stella, but what's a blog for if not to spout somewhat informed opinions to the general masses that neither asked for nor desired them?

Which is why I am writing tonight, well that and insomnia.

I am in this state of mind, because I am thinking about our health care system once again, and the fact that as a newly unemployed father I have to do whatever it takes to keep my daughter and wife covered medically. That this is at best expensive, and at worst very expensive and inconvenient makes me not only sad, but angry. I feel we Americans have been sold a bill of goods in this department, and have let the rest of the civilized world blow right by us. As we fret about the ludicrous idea that a public option would somehow lead to a complete government-controlled health care monster that will pull the plug on grannie (even if she's not connected to anything!) the rest of the first world enjoys affordable, easy and efficient health care. Truly the joke's on us.

I could repeat some arguments and facts that are easily obtainable online, but that wouldn't make any sense. PBS' "Frontline" has already done it for me, with its program "Sick Around The World." Here's a link, I recommend you watch it. (The premise of the program is that correspondent TR Reid travels to five other capitalistic democracies to see how their health care systems work. Compared to ours they are all models of efficiency, humanity and excellence. They are also far cheaper than our own system, with administrative costs that are typically fractions of our own. Our so-called "capitalistic" system is revealed to be what it really is: an agreement, or cartel, among the large health care providers to not drive prices down. Hey guys, listen up: our three major health care providers really are just one big company, in effect if not in name. That's why everything here sucks so bad: it's a monopoly. The so-called "government" controlled systems actually introduce competition. Most tellingly no other government wants to even be remotely like us in this department, whereas we were once the envy of the world.)

I guess this topics been on my mind a lot lately because as we all know the majorly scary part about being laid off isn't the lack of money, unemployment mitigates that a little. It's the fear of lack of health care. My company-sponsored plan just ran out, one month after I was laid off. I wouldn't be surprised if the cost of my plan was WHY I was laid off, either.

Two weeks after getting laid off I was given the chance to enroll in COBRA, our national private plan for those who just lost their jobs. In one of the great and terrible ironies of modern life COBRA costs at least $1,100 a month for a family of three, with the main breadwinner, me, having just lost his job. This is expensive. But as we all know, if you think paying for health coverage is pricey, try not paying for it. Another irony: only in America could we have a health care system named for a poisonous snake.

Randi, unfortunately, can't get enough hours at her school to get us on her plan, which we would love. Teachers in NYC are actually totally badass, and fought, and won, a great health care plan that functions the way it should. Low premiums, a wide network of providers. You go to the doctor, you pay your $25 or whatever it is, and that's about it, you're covered.

But the fact is she can't get the additional work shifts at her school to get us on the plan. Why not? I have a theory. My theory is that times are so bad that teachers are putting off getting pregnant (which has been traditionally the major source of open teaching spots) because they are afraid their job won't be there when they would come back. I can't prove this, but things are much, much tighter at the school than they were two years ago when we decided Randi should stay home for the first year to raise our then unnamed baby. I wouldn't be surprised to hear that people are waiting for things to turn around before trying to get knocked up now.

So, I received my COBRA enrollment form from a firm called "Benefits Concepts" I believe. In the package there was at least a modest reason to cheer; of all the stimulus money being spent at least some of it was going to help mitigate COBRA payments. In fact if you qualified, which I did, your payments would be 35% of what they normally would be without this stimulus money. Criticize Obama all you want, but I think this is the one undeniably right thing I've seen from our government all year. Health care costs should not financially cripple those who can afford it least. This is just common sense. Because, guess what America, if we do get horribly sick over here in BBD Manor and we don't have health care/insurance you guys will still end up paying for us, except it will cost more. But we will go through the formality of being bankrupted first.

Cutting to the chase, I filled out my forms, and said that yes, in fact hell yes, I wanted to participate in this program. I mailed in my forms two weeks ago, hopeful and excited to take part in this program. My care still wouldn't be cheap. In fact our family's costs would still be $380 a month, but it would be much cheaper.

Well, I found out that my coverage hadn't started when I went to the pharmacy yesterday and they refused my insurance. Then I called Benefits Concepts to find out that they lost my paperwork and I wasn't eligible for the reduced rate. I went, to put it gently, batshit.

"I am pissed," I hissed to the pleasant-enough woman on the phone. "I sent this in and YOU GUYS lost it, either by accident or on purpose. I need this health care, I have a 19 month old daughter!"

I was so goddamned mad, and my choices were not appetizing. To be sure that my coverage didn't lapse I could pay the full price, and then hope they send me some kind of reimbursement when, or if, they find my paper work. Yea, right!

Or I could wait for them to mail a new form to me, because for some god-forsaken reason they could neither email it to me or fax it! Because, as you all know, we still live in the 19th century. They might even send it via carrier pigeon I suppose.

I told them to get me a supervisor, like now, like five minutes ago. They said they will. Now I had to face a scary thought. Until this gets straightened out, however long it takes, we ARE NOT COVERED AT ALL.

You do not want to be NOT COVERED AT ALL, in America, the land of the free the home of the heartless. Where I guess we're all supposed to hold charity car washes and bake sales to make up for the shortfall in coverage for our citizens in this once-great nation. No, should lightening strike, figuratively or literally and someone in this house get very hurt or sick until this clears up we are screwed, we are people in the next Michael Moore movie, we will have fallen through the cracks. How quickly I felt the difference now that my ass was on the line, and my daughter's ass and my wife's. This is what America has become. A place where you better pray you don't get fired, because you literally live and die at the mercy of your health care provider. It's not nice, but it's a fact.

No supervisor called, a shocker. Randi and I discussed what to do. She was calm, cool and magnificent. She said we will work it out, and that if I wanted I could put her on the phone with "them" and she would get all southern on them. Trust me, she's not kidding. When rising to the defense of her brood Randi is the fiercest creature in nature, worse than a mama polar bear, honey badger or wolverine. I thought about this, but wanted to do my best first. And I can be pretty fierce myself.

In addition to letting me know she would be happy to put the fear of god into them, Randi also reassured me that health-wise we will be fine for the next few days until this is cleared up. I said okay, okay, you're right. Let's just take this one step at a time.

I called back and spoke to a second person at Benefits Concepts, Joel. He told me that yes, they could fax me the form, and they would, but they had to be sure that they hadn't lost our paperwork first. As for the supervisor, who still hadn't called, he said they will get back to me within 24 hours. Because this is how they express urgency.

He was a nice enough guy, and seemed to listen to my issues, even if he couldn't do much about it. So I said, okay, look, and then call me.

Then we waited. About two hours later, when I was playing with Stella right before dinner the first person I spoke to called back. She told me they'd found the paperwork, and I could in fact GET the reduced government-sponsored rate after all. I asked where the paperwork had been. She said she didn't know, it just kind of turned up. She then said I could even pay for our coverage now, over the phone, to ensure it didn't lapse, as long as I had a checking or savings account.

I did, and we did the business over the phone, much to my relief. Let me tell you, I was never so happy to spend $380 as I was right then.

But can I also say ... how stupid, utterly ridiculous and inhumane all this is? Why should I have to beg for the "bargain" price of $380 a month at all? Why can't we simply live in a nation where we understand that even as our right-wing brothers continue to blather on about the right to life that providing health care insurance for all actually does more to guarantee that right than ANYTHING? Why do we continue to bow to the anti-government zealots, who are either in the thrall of big business or simply professing an ideal that has passed its sell-by date?

Okay, MAYBE you could make the claim in 1994 that a government sponsored plan, as proposed by the Clintons, would be relatively inefficient and pricey versus private industry. Maybe. But back then a visit to your doctor probably would cost you $70 out of pocket if you didn't have insurance. Today it is multiples of that. Hell, I've had tests that have cost multiples of that.

The truth is our health care system as it currently slouches is making America LESS competitive with the rest of the world. If you were a smart, qualified, coveted white-collar professional from, say, Britain why oh why would you come here? If you lose your job once you get here you are screwed big boy, whereas if you stay in safe, sane England you and your family remain covered for pennies on our dollar? Even greed can't trump family, most of the time at least.

I've spoken to a lot of people in our financial services industry about this, because that's what I did for a living before getting laid off. NO ONE likes our current system. It's bad for doctors, bad for patients and bad for our nation. You know who likes it? Health care providers and the various middle men that make money off the fat margins this cartel generates. That's it, them. And they have controlled the entire debate, and they're still trying to control it. And yet somehow they get nice, middle-Americans to worry about chimerical scenarios and "death panels." You know what a death panel really is? It's the insurance company board that decides your new disease is a "pre-existing condition" and then cuts you off. It's Tom DeLay and his cronies kowtowing to big pharma in 2005, guaranteeing the government's right to NOT negotiate prices with these firms. As a result they've pocketed $500 billion in profits, and counting since then. Seriously, how can you believe in a capitalistic system and ensure that the government, which has more leverage to negotiate than ANYONE, not be allowed to bargain to drive down prices?

Again, I say our current health care system has to be reformed, it is hurting America too much. The best and brightest are not going to want to come here any more when they see that other nations offer them far more protection should something bad happen, like, say the world's economies melting down. Their own desire for material gain is not going to trump the fear of their kid getting a terrible disease. It's just not. (And it's not just people from other first world nations that are leaving. I spoke with one financial services pro who said an acquaintance of her's moved back to not Western but EASTERN Europe after being laid off from his white collar job. Why? For better health care. Meaning that not only is the US system not the envy of the world, it's not even the envy of the former Eastern bloc!)

We've rested on our laurels for a long, long time in this nation. We've been brainwashed since we were children to believe that America is the best nation in the world, with the best of everything. When it comes to health care this is true. We do have the best health care system in the world. The third world. Because that's basically how our system functions, it is the world's largest and most expensive third world style plan, where the wealthy are totally covered with the best of everything, and everyone else had better scramble and pray they don't lose their jobs.

I'm sorry, but the jokes on us. As we've patted ourselves on the backs the health care firms have built a cartel system that has become extremely hard to break up. And they were aided and abetted every step of the way by right wing zealots who care more for their rhetoric and partisan victories than their fellow man. Oh, and the cash from big pharma that keeps the wheels moving. They care about that too.

Unemployment Diary: The Department of Labor

Being an unemployed baby daddy means being at the beck and call of the government should they need to see you. Since they are doing me the favor of allowing me to collect the unemployment money I already paid for they want to make sure I am not slacking off. You know, that I'm taking this stuff seriously and have things together like, say, a resume.

So, the other day I trotted down to downtown Brooklyn, right off Flatbush Ave and Atlantic to see the New York State Labor Department. It was raining pretty heavily and was cold, an archetypal New York November day. I didn't have a hat, or an umbrella, but I looked pretty dynamite because I had just gotten out of an interview, natch.

Before going in however I took a quick pitstop at the Fulton Street mall, to buy an umbrella and get a quick bite. To get the umbrella I walked up to a guy with a storefront open to the street. I asked him how much, he said $3. Sounded good, especially as it was freezing cold and wet. So I handed him a $20, and he gave me one of THOSE looks.

"Okay, hold on," he said. And then he vanished into another building for about three minutes, while I held my newest acquisition. After not too long he came back with the change, after hassling another merchant inside to make change for him. Seriously, I know the economy is bad, but how hard up do you have to be to not have change for a $20 ... when you're a store?

After that I walked into the local Burger King, to order a coke and order of fries. There was a cop inside. Typically this isn't a good sign. But I got my order just the same, and sat down at the window. There wasn't much to see, just the teeming masses, huddling here and there. Some smoking, some eating, most looking to get out of the rain, like me.

Following that I walked into a pawn shop that looked like it was going out of business. Again, not a good sign for the economy when even pawn shops look like they need a pawn shop.

Anyway, the line at the Labor Department building was pretty long, though it moved somewhat quickly. Once inside I was made to go through what they described in advance as an airport-grade security check. Meaning I had to take off my coat, empty my pockets, take off my belt and all that. I was allowed, however, to keep on my shoes. Take that terrorists!

(Sidenote: The terrorists might not have exactly "won," it's true--after all on the orders of our ex-commander in chief we still had the freedom and, nigh obligation, to go shopping. But with the gynecological-grade security checks we now have to go through every time we get on or off an airplane--which doesn't make me feel any more safe anyway--I still wonder sometimes if they didn't kind of win. At least a little. After all, how many billions have been wasted in an effort to make it look like we're "doing something" about airport security, when all we're really doing is not allowing people to bring 7-UP onto an airplane? And then we invaded Iraq ... )

Once inside, and cleared of any substances that would presumably sabotage the New York Dept. of Labor I waited in a room that had classroom style desks, with the seat and desk attached.

I filled out a questionnaire, explaining my experience and special skills, which meant I found about six different ways to say I know how to write and edit, and that's about it. For the millionth time in my life I also got to reflect on the fact that, yes, I only speak English fluently and never served in the military. It all made me wonder how qualified I really was for, well, anything.

Before not too long I followed an man in a yarmulke, schlepping all my gear, to another room down the hall and met my counselor. She was very pleasant, and almost certainly from China, as her English was spotty, but we understood one another fairly well.

She explained that I should email her my resume, although I had just handed it to her, and that there are various programs I could take advantage of. (Oh, I almost forgot about this, inside the first room I was handed a flyer about free or cheap healthcare for families through Medicare. I might have to look this up.) She also explained that I could speak with other counselors about whatever job related stuff it was I was thinking about.

"We see alot of people like you, editors, from newspapers and magazines," she said. I sighed, tell me about it.

Our conversation was going so well, in fact that I thought, hey, maybe she has a job that's worth considering, maybe for down the line. Helping people find their mission in life, working to make them happier. It sounded interesting.

"Can I ask you something? Do you like YOUR job?"

She paused for a moment.

"It's okay," she said. "The best thing is when it's over I go home and forget about it."

Well, alrighty then.

Although I had been ordered down there by the state (seriously on their letter they wrote that if I didn't make the meeting "MY BENEFITS COULD BE DELAYED") I am still glad I went. It made me feel not quite so alone, or hopeless in this quest.

I do believe what I do with my life, and my enjoyment of doing this, is important. To me and to the betterment of the planet. In some small way perhaps, yes, but still. Sometimes I feel some faint stirrings to pursue ideas that I hadn't done before, and the people down there really do want to help. It can be good to remember that there are people that are not only interested in helping you, they are paid to do so, even if it's through my taxes.

I walked out, feeling good. It was still raining, but I had my umbrella. And some leads to pursue.

Unemployment Diary: I Am The Man?

No, I Am Not The Boss, An Attorney Or A Stockbroker. Just Another Job Hunter

One of the great ironies of the modern job hunt is that while most work places have long since gone "business casual" those seeking employment still must dress for their interviews as if they are going to attend either a very fancy wedding or funeral as soon as the interview is done. So, you often have a situation where someone dressed well, and neatly, but in normal biz caz attire, is interviewing someone who looks like he just got out of a Brooks Brothers tag sale.

They say always dress for the job you want, not the job you have. I guess when you're unemployed dressing for the job you have is not an option. But am I dressing for the job I want? Because I've come to notice that while I might, or might not, look dynamite in my cleaned and pressed pin-striped suit (made for me in Thailand for the princely sum of $150 ten years ago), I still don't want to be a banker, politician, attorney or, I guess, hit man. And that's just about a complete list of the only people in 2009 who still wear neat, cashmere (they claimed in Thailand) pin striped suits.

And I'm happy to do it. I am serious about getting a new job. Deadly serious. I am waiting to make my interviewees an offer they can't refuse and ... hey maybe these pin stripes are getting to my head!

But, in reality, I do need a new job, and I want one very much. But I just think it's so strange to go into a modern, non-hierarchical workplace and feel like I look over-eager, perhaps, because I'm pretty much the only one there wearing a tie. In today's business world the status has flown the other way. When a guy like Steve Jobs leads one of the world's great companies without ever, ever seeming to take off a black turtleneck a suit and tie is no real sign of power. Rather it is a sign that you are the one who wants something.

The other irony, of course, is that this hardly matters to the people you see on the subway and on the street as you either go to or leave your interview. All they see is ... SUIT! And that's not a good thing. In an age where our financial system was pretty much destroyed by an army of guys from Wall Street wearing nice, neat suits wearing one raises more than a few eyebrows. In fact I kind of feel like wearing a sandwich board around my chest and shoulders that reads: "I'm NOT The Man." Needless to say I would take it off in advance of my actual interview, because I need them to in turn believe I AM The Man. Or at least the man they need.

The other thing about wearing a suit is that it makes it a lot harder, at least superficially, to not give money to homeless folks. Because I don't know about you but when I'm dressed to the nines they go right for me. In fact after one interview this week I had a guy seek me out and tell me a terrible story about how he just got out of Rikers and needs $23 to get home, and he only has $12, and ... I cut him off.

"Here you go, sir, I can give you $1," I said. "I was just laid off two weeks ago, and have a wife and child to support."

His eyes got wide ... the tables, to my shock, had been turned.

"I'm so sorry to hear about that brother, I'm so sorry," he said. "We've got to help each other out!"

"I know, I know," I said, as he took the dollar just the same. "Thank you. You take care."

He patted me on the back telling me how sorry he was for my own sorry state. I walked away feeling like even if I looked like $1 million, maybe, I sure didn't feel like it. But even so I probably felt better than he did that night in my own warm bed.

None of this is to say that I'm not going to continue wearing my suits and trying to wow those who interview me. I am for real. I mean, well, business. And I will keep wearing them until someone, somewhere hires me. And at that point I will take them off and put them in my closet, until, god willing, our next wedding.

Diary Of An Unemployed Baby Daddy

Just another cute photo of the Brooklyn Baby, I mean Brooklyn Toddler!

The storytime was just getting started today at the Windsor Terrace branch of the Brooklyn library. The room was filled with children, of course, but also moms, nannies and at least a few dads.

It was my first time here, at least solo. Since I was laid off two weeks ago I have more time for this stuff now.

The leader of the singalong, I believe her name was Miss Cindy, started the program off by having everyone say their name. We were sitting right in the middle, so it took her a little while to get to us.

"And who's that?" she asked.

"This is Stella," I said, "and I'm David."

"Oh, Stella!" she said. "I know Stella! It's just that I'm so used to seeing her with her mom."

That was interesting. The sight of my daughter in public with just her dad is so unusual people didn't recognize her. It's amazing what a little context can do.

One thing I noticed after the naming ritual was completed is that none of the kids had what I would consider "normal" names. It seems names like John, Robert, Jennifer, Mary, even David are all real, real over. At least in this part of Brooklyn. No, all the kids had names that either sounded like they belonged on a library at Harvard (Bennet, for example), or were just kind of inexplicable. You might hear a kid named Bram, or Eliza, or Elvira, but not Jane. Which means, of course, that all those humdrum, uncool names will be "hip" again when little Quentin has his own kids.

(Some names, btw, never come back. Mildred, for example is deader than disco and always will be. But don't take my word for it, just use this handy-dandy name tracker.)

I took a good look at the other dads, there were three of them. I had an immediate and visceral dislike for them all. Probably because we were all clones of one another. The other guys also had beards, glasses, "hip" sneakers and hoodie sweatshirts, just like I did. Christ, we all so damn predictable. One day you put something on that looks just a hair more contemporary, in my case a hoodie, only to see that you are joining the crowd too late.

Another thought: maybe this is just the de-facto "unemployment" uniform for us guys? Because I had to wonder: where any of us likely to be at this singalong three months ago? The answer: probably not so much.

I've wondered about this kind of thing a lot, actually, ever since getting my walking papers. Because I've had a lot more time to take Stella to the playground, the various singalongs, to daycare, to pick her up from daycare, to hang with her during the day when she's either not eating or napping (which she does now, thank god!).

I go to the playground, and there's always three to five dads there, whereas I imagine they used to come mostly on weekends. I go to singalongs and I see a couple of dads, along with some moms, and a few nannies. I could be hypersensitive to this, but I always suspect that when a dad's spending time with a young child during the day it's because he's got nowhere else to go these days. Not because he's "freelancing," "working from home" or "rich."

Don't get me wrong, it's been fun. I haven't gotten to spend this much time with Stella since our last vacation, and I love being with her. But it's still a bit disconcerting. All these people told me I'd finally have some time to myself, to think things over. Nope. Instead Stella's need for attention and love kind of has the properties of a liquid: it expands to fit the size of her container. And now both mom and dad are around, so her needs have expanded to fit into all the free time both of us have. Seriously. Meaning that if one of us leaves to run an errand she cries. Or if one of us is working in the apartment, or in my case looking for work in the apartment, that's the one she'll gravitate too. (The cats do this too, btw!) If Randi is all set up and ready to play with her, or barring that, watch a "Sesame Street" DVD with her, and I'm editing my resume: bingo! She goes right to Dada, and wants to steal all my pens and paper, get into the trash can at my feet, grab a few loose wires, turn on my amp, make this kind of whining unhappy sound while doing it all, and if that fails spill some water or whole milk either on herself or me.

So then I'll pick her up, put her on my lap, maybe play her a video on Youtube, in order to pacify her. Not a good plan. Because then she'll want another one, and another one, and another one. Seriously, Randi once played the "All The Single Ladies" video for this kid four times in a row, and then clicked on all the videos derived from that one, including one of a three year old girl dancing to the video. So they were watching a video of a kid watching a video. Stella, of course, loved it.

Meaning that being laid off isn't quite the relaxing, reflective time I had imagined it could be. One where I take several moments, breathe deep and accurately and smartly plot the course of the rest of my life. A time where I can calmly and sagely apply my hard fought wisdom to the key question of what I should do when I grow up some more.

No, instead it's kind of like any weekend day with Stella, except it's every day. Fun, a riot, filled with love, I wouldn't miss it, and kind of draining. It's work, even as I should be looking for work. And I'm not certain this approach is working.

Ladies And Gentlemen ... Ms. Stella Rae Serchuk!

We shot this about a week ago, and I think it's just hilarious -- BBD

The Problem With Naked Playtime

Thank god toddler piss doesn't stain no-wax floors.

We've evolved this little ritual called naked playtime, which would be a lot more fun if it just involved two consenting adults. But, no, it's for the Brooklyn Baby Baby so she doesn't get diaper rash. Every night for about 30 to 45 minutes she runs around sans diaper, starkers, going hither and yon, having a great time. More or less.

But recently, however, it's turned into a bit of a minefield, for reasons that are probably all too obvious. Today, for example, I got home from work, and greeted Randi, and saw the little girl, naked, as it was naked playtime. She smiled at me and then ran away, which is about how things seem to work around here. Never, under any circumstances will she snuggle. But a smile and some laughter works for me, so I wasn't disappointed.

Randi was getting ready to participate in The Moth storytelling show, or to try and participate, so I took over kid watching patrol. I followed her to the guitar, on its stand, and saw her hit it over and over again. Getting the hint I was glad to oblige my number one fan, and started to play something fun, I'd hoped, yes, I remember now. It was "Deal" by the Grateful Dead, a jumpy upbeat tune, if you can believe a band named the Grateful Dead have any jumpy upbeat tunes. Stella kind of danced around for two seconds and then went between our coffee table and couch and began to make crying sounds. After a while I put the guitar down and looked to see what was going on.

I found -- much to my irritation, but not to my surprise -- that she had just let loose a big stream of pee, and was sitting in it on the floor.

"Oh god!" I sighed/shouted, and picked her up. Randi was still doing her thing so I grabbed a mop and cleaned it up. The acidic powers of urine made the floors sparkly clean, although I worry that it will strip off the polyurethane finish eventually.

Then I returned the mop, and Stella made a beeline for where she had just so gracefully voided her bladder. The floor was still a little damp so she took this opportunity to slip in it, going ass over tea kettle, and bonking her little head. If I didn't before now I surely felt like Dad Of The Year: my daughter hits her head, because she stepped barefoot into her own pee, and it got away from her.

"That's it!" I said, irritated, "no more naked playtime." I just didn't see how it could be worth it.

Randi then took off for the show, I was upset by recent events so my wife got a distracted "break a leg" from me. (I called later to wish it with more oomph.) Then I picked up the guitar once she was out, to entertain the now wailing Stella. I started to play "April, Come She Will" by Simon and Garfunkle and she got a big smile across her face and started to dance, although the song is so slow that the only dance you could do to it would be the waltz. And not a fast waltz.

Then, still smiling, she walked over to the TV and stood before it. Then she squatted and squeezed out two perfect little turds right on the floor.

"Oh my god, not again," I said, scooping her up and placing her on her potty, which was only TWO FEET from where she had just so gracefully pooped. Putting her on her potty proved very upsetting to the girl, and she screamed and wailed while I held her by her armpit, hoping that she would keep pooping in the receptacle designed for just such occasions. No such luck, instead she just complained a lot. Okay, you win this time, Golden Child.

The rest of the night proceeded with further incident, but I do have to admit this naked playtime thing is simply starting to make less and less sense to yours truly.

Yesterday we were having naked playtime and disaster struck in a different way. I had taken off my pants in order to put some Ben-Gay on my knee. (I had been at the Tot Lot with the child when I pulled a slightly athletic maneuver and felt something rip inside the knee. It still hurts, by the way.) So, in my underwear I was once again trying to soothe the savage toddler with music. This might sound vain to you guys, but I swear to you I only play this much because she likes it!

This time she showed her appreciation by walking over to me, sitting on my lap and then peeing all over my leg. Although I'm leaving out a crucial detail: first she smiled.

Horrified I got up, and ran to the bathroom to clean off. Randi was inside putting on makeup. "Ugh," I said, "she just, she just peed all over me!" Randi looked at me, and then kept on doing what she was doing, although a few minutes later she said was really sorry that Stella had just gone to the bathroom on my leg.

Except she doesn't actually GO to the bathroom, she goes to dad. I am a Port-a-daddy, a receptacle. It's getting kind of old. I know she likes running around naked, and I know that diaper rash is a terrible thing, and I am concerned about her tender tushie skin, but something has simply got to give. I am running out of clean pants.

That's Showbiz

Thursday night in Stately Brooklyn Baby Daddy Mansions. The crew is asleep, the apartment has heat, thank god. I just did a bunch of dishes and watched a little TV. I watched "Weekend Update," "Parks & Recreation" and "The Office."

Now, this might sound like a passive night on the couch, but TV will never be exactly the same for me as it was 10 years ago, before I did improv. Because it can be guaranteed that in almost every hip, edgy comedy show, and in many of the commercial breaks for such shows, I will see someone featured that I either knew, met or saw perform live many times in New York. All this is because from 2000 to 2003 or so I was fairly immersed in New York's improv comedy scene, specifically through the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater, The PIT and, later, The Magnet Theater.

The UCBT was first. I went to it in late 1999, having been a fan of the TV show. I called the theater and they told me there was something called "Harold Night" going on, which I learned, over the phone was a form of improv. I had no idea what that meant, as my only experience with improv was in college, and that was from watching it.

But I had nothing doing, it was a Thursday, and the show as cheap, maybe $7. I showed up to a shoebox theater that was at most half full. Then a bunch of teams got on stage and blew my mind. I can't remember all the performers I saw that night, but I do remember one named Rob, though I didn't know his name then, because he was so much larger and more commanding than the other people on stage. But I thought all of it was amazingly funny and, like magic, I just couldn't understand how these people could pull off these amazing connections. They seemed impossible.

After the show they announced that you could take classes for this stuff. Sign me up!

I went to Level 1 in early 2000 and right away felt I was terrible at this thing. The people in the class were nice enough, but the talent gap was wide. I enjoyed it, and thought our graduation show went really well, and I performed well, but I didn't go right into Level II, I just didn't feel any urgency about it.

But go into Level II I did. This level almost made me swear off improv altogether. Our instructor was a caustic man named Pat who scared the crap out of me, and the class was filled with talents. We even had an actual stage and film actor in our class, named Fred. He had credits I had heard of, and he seemed very confident on stage.

Others were confident on stage too, while I felt rusty. One was named Ed and even though he had no more experience than I had he immediately took charge, seemingly on sheer confidence. I remember the first scene I saw him do was as a hillbilly gay rapist, and he killed it. Even Pat loved it, and this was a guy, Pat, who once threw an empty coffee cup at me after a particularly craptacular scene. Ed, it should be said, was fairly soft-spoken and approachable off stage.

This might sound like revisionist history, but what made Ed stand out to me, even then, was that he had some kind of aura, an intensity. I knew he was in this, this comedy, all the way. He was in it for the career. At that point he had no career, but I could see that he was going to go for it hard, with all he had.

This was driven home to me one day when I asked what he did outside of class. He did some standup at the Boston Comedy Club, but his main paying gig was as a voiceover guy. In fact he did voiceovers for Burger King. I asked him to do the Burger King voice, and he did. It was instantly recognizable, warm, confident, The Whopper.

I asked him how the whole voice over thing worked, vaguely interested in it, as I was all things related to comedy. He said that if Burger King, for example, hired you for a gig they might call at any time to ask you to come back. There really was no set schedule. So you had to be around, in case they called. If you couldn't make it they gave the gig to someone else, pop, like that. This sunk in: this meant Ed never left the city?

He answered that, yeah, that was pretty much it, he never went anywhere, because he had to be there when the phone rang.

What about leaving town? Trips? Vacations? He looked at me, no, the work was more important. I was stunned. This was Burger King after all, not Shakespeare. But right then I knew that he and I saw this comedy thing very differently. He wasn't just having fun. He wasn't "trying things out" to see if he "liked it." He knew.

There were also other strong and noteworthy improvisers in the class like Dave Lombard and Kevin Hines, both of whom have my admiration to this day.

By contrast I felt at sea for the first half of the class, and wasn't sure, yet again, if I was "cut out" for this whole thing. But again the graduation show was good, and so I went onto Level III. This time something clicked. I loved my class, and felt I was finally starting to get what some of this was all about.

Gradually the UCBT became my life. When I wasn't taking classes, or practicing with my practice group, which became a team, I was seeing shows. And here's where things would impact my television life down the road.

Eight years ago if you went to the UCBT four nights a week, as I sometimes did, you would be almost guaranteed to see, for example, Paul Scheer on stage two to three of those nights. Then I would see that big burly guy as much. Rob Riggle, I learned was his name. There was a sketch team called Naked Babies, who were all astonishing, and always in other stuff. One guy on the team was named Rob Cordry, although they were all amazing. (My favorite was and is Brian Huskey.)

And then on the weekends there was ASSSSSSSCAT, the all-star show featuring the team the Upright Citizens Brigade itself: Amy Poehler, Matt Besser, Matt Walsh and Ian Roberts. Sitting in with them might be Tina Fey, or Rachel Dratch. Or others who wrote for SNL, Conan or what have you. These guys were like The Beatles to me.

This might seem hard to believe but just eight or nine years ago none of these people were really known yet. Tina Fey was almost unrecognizable without her glasses and in a gray sweatshirt. Amy Poehler wasn't yet on SNL. You could catch any of them for less than the cost of a movie, and I sure did.

And while the UCB itself was on its own level, at least to me, there was so much talent at that theater. If you wanted to play spot the future star there were a good 20 names you could have chosen that would have had as much of a chance of becoming showbiz stars as the ones that already have. (Of course many of the people from that era still will.)

I had brushes with many who now are making it. I had a show called "Storytime" and one of the people who signed my mailing list later ended up on "The Office" as their new secretary, replacing Pam. At another show at The Pit I volunteered from the audience and got to do a goofy little scene with Kristen Schaal, later of "Flight Of The Concords." Here there and everywhere I got to either meet, or see perform so many people that later became either stars or at least TV and movie presences. It's made watching the idiot box a bit more personal and a lot more surreal.

Believe me, I am not bragging, it wasn't about me. I just happened to be there, like one of those lucky stiffs who hung around CBGB's back in 1978. Maybe my band never really quite made it but I still am glad I made the scene. It was just that time.

The thing was, I could feel something was happening, I knew things were going to come from this scene. I would try to guess who would go on to do what, but I was mostly wrong. It's like a farmer trying to pick which seed will sprout, it's impossible. (Although I will say the first time I saw Jack McBreyer perform with the team Optimists International I knew, knew, knew he was headed for bigger things. He was just that amazing to watch, that fun, and made it seem so effortless.)

Now all this time later I see Ed, on my TV, every week. He's also on "The Office," and starred in the summer's breakout comedy hit "The Hangover." His last name's Helms of course, and he deserves every bit of his success.

Me? I did a lot of improv but decided that while I may have been more cut out for comedy than I originally thought -- I did end up getting better at it with practice, which is how these things work -- I knew I WASN'T cut out for a life in showbiz. It was too stressful, and I started to become bitter about all the breaks I wasn't getting. This, of course, was ludicrous, because improv owed me nothing. The only way to succeed is to simply become very, very good at it. And to do that you have to be at the theater every night, performing, getting better, having fun. Not because you are worried about the career you don't have, but because you simply love to perform that much. I loved it much less than that, although love it I did.

But from another perspective even if I didn't become an improv, or showbiz, star it gave me everything.

I met Randi through improv in late 2001, and the rest is history, my history. When we got married maybe we should have said "yes and" instead of "I do" on the bima.