famous for the very first time.


[After the phenomenal success of our recent film, Truth or Untruth, which Amazon reviewers called "an engaging behind-the-scenes look at the pop stars' Blind Amphibian tour," we have decided, despite the violent objections of Warren Beatty, to write a book documenting every waking minute of our lives. The following is an excerpt.]


So, I'm thinking the kids* deserve more in a babysitter than someone who'll show them all the movies their dad won't let them see, and I drive them out to the Burke-Gilman trail to ride bikes. Two minutes into the ride, Gene, who has the habit of veering wildly left without looking, is hit by a rollerblader and crashes to the ground. Before I can skid to a stop, he's already screaming that he can't feel his right leg or move his right pinky. The leg thing turns out to be an exaggeration--soon he's limping well enough back to the car--but his pinky does look swollen. I don't feel qualified to decide what to do, and since we're just a few blocks from the church where his dad works, we stop by to get Mitch's advice.

Mitch, a Reverend Lovejoy-type pastor with no tolerance for hysterical Ned Flanderses, is not alarmed--he knows as well as I do that Gene will jump at any chance for attention--but he, too, thinks the pinky looks swollen, and that it's worth having checked out. He draws me a map to their pediatrician, and the whole time he's giving directions, Gene is saying, "Dad. Dad. Dad. See, look--Dad. When I try to go like this . . ."

Mitch gives me Gene's insurance card and, at the last minute, scribbles a note for the receptionist at the top of the map, giving his permission for me to take his son to the doctor. I'm thinking, What the hell kind of jerk would refuse to treat an injured child without a parent's permission? But I take the note and we leave.

The receptionist accepts the insurance card and says the doctor will see us next. Sure enough, she doesn't ask for a permission slip. We sit down to wait, and since the only magazines are the usual kind (existing merely as vehicles for their sponsors and, therefore, containing only articles geared toward making you want to buy the products they advertise), I pass the time writing notes to myself. I'm thinking, as I have been all week, about this tribe I just found out about where people--get this--insult each other for fun. I know, I know--it sounds incredible, but cred it--it's true. In particular, I'm thinking about that tribe's self-description, which warns that you'll be insulted for your race, age, etc., and I start wondering about other qualities and thinking, What about this? What about that? On and on. Being obsessive, I decide to make a list of everything not mentioned in the warning, so I turn over the superfluous permission slip and write the following:

"Income; social status (including number of friends {and not just on Tribe}); IQ; mental and physical disabilities; height; weight; ratio of body fat to lean body mass; whiteness of teeth; color of hair; personal freshness; personal habits (including addictions and sexual practices); baldness; difficulty getting high, getting laid, getting off . . ."

And that's as far as I get before the doctor calls us in. He wraps the leg in an Ace bandage and orders an x-ray for the pinky, which means we have to go back downstairs and into another office, where they take the insurance card and verify Gene's address and date of birth all over again. Then, finding out that I'm not the parent--DOH!--they demand a permission slip.

So I hand them the note, assuming they only need to glance at the signature and praying they won't turn it over (while trying to remember whether or not I included "number of times you've had sex with someone who wasn't drunk"). The receptionist (stereotypically snotty, impatient kind) looks irritated that it's scrawled on the same page as the map, but decides it will do and starts to paperclip it to Gene's other paperwork. When I tell her I need it back, she says she'll make a copy. I assume she means a copy for THEM, but, no, she means for me.

Trying to make it sound like a normal request, I ask if I can have it back for just one moment. While she waits impatiently, I turn it over and cross out everything I've written, scribbling extra hard over the words "Genital odor, butt-eating skill, number of times you've offered your leg to a dog and the dog has refused."


[End of excerpt.]


*Eric, 8, and Gene, 13: these kids we babysit. (Yes, of course: I'm too old to be babysitting and Gene is too old for a babysitter. The answer in both cases is that we're troubled--him emotionally, me financially, what with the Warner Music lawsuit and getting ripped off by my art consultant.)