Going to sleep time.

I don’t know which one said it… We’ll say Julianna (she’s nine):

J: Daddy, you have to go to bed too.

Isabella (she’s 6): Yeah, because you’re old.

Me: I’m really not that old.

J: Really you are.

Iz: But, you should finish your hamburger first.

Me: Yes, my cardiologist approves.

So, I’m stuck in traffic. Welcome to LA. Up ahead, I notice police/ambulance/fire truck lights.

“Oh, good,” I think. This will be over soon.

My brain whirls. Isn’t there a good German term for “I’m sorry for your misery, but it is an inconvenience to me.” Not quite “Schadenfreude,” because I don’t relish in your suffering. But, your suffering will make me late to the dentist.

Surely, there’s a term for this.

So, there is a marathon on the TV about the competition to be the next LA Lakers Dance Squad. I’m not a fan of basketball. But, attractive young women dancing in their underwear? Dancing?

Who would watch this?

Oh. Wait…

Saturdays suck.

Things keep falling out of her head. In two weeks, Isabella has “lost” (we found them) THREE teeth.

Leon Spinks, hell yeah!

(That’s a way-too-dated reference, right? How old am I?)

By the way, the Tooth Fairy has taken up a second job at the local CVS Pharmacy. ’cause this is getting crazy.

One of my favorite cable TV channels is Palladia (an MTV/VH1 off-shoot) that primarily shows live rock concerts with the occasional documentary (I recently saw Dave Grohl’s “Sound City.” Highly, highly recommended, by the way.)

Tonight’s concert was the Glastonbury 2013 Festival (which is a rock-fest in England. Like Coachella. Except in English.) I LOVED Elvis Costello & the Imposters as well as Mumford & Sons.

Here’s where they lose me…

Every other guy in the audience has lifted his girlfriend (slash boyfriend, I don’t care) onto his shoulders.

I’m not a doctor (though I played one on TV. Literally.) Please don’t do that.

You are going to crush your back. (Your 25-year-old self may not care, but your 45-year-old self would like to kick your ass.)

The last time I put someone on my shoulders, I was at Disneyland. With my 40 pound daughter on her fifth birthday. Watching Mickey’s Parade and singing “It’s a Small World,” or something. It was as Magical as promised.

Two days later, I’m in the Emergency Room at Cedars-Sinai being pumped up with enough Dilaudid and Fentanil to sink a Battleship full of elephants.

As far as the whole Glastonbury Fest’s audience: Everyone brings a flag from their home town/soccer club/country/political sphere. The best one:

“God Hates Flags!”

Love that.

But, back to me…

Doctor: Any recent injuries?

Me: Nothing specific. We went to Disneyland. With flags.

Doc: Oh… Disneyland. Flags. Her voice trails away….

Like most men, I don’t like constantly being trotted out like a show horse. What with the catcalls and the leers. I’m not just window dressing, here. I’m a real, live person. Especially, when I am taking part in some sort of store-front display. Seriously, this is my work, my craft.

Finally, one store manager has taken a brave step:

Do, some people actually try on a Display’s men? Size? Fit? Comfort? Resilience?… Longevity? How depraved! Decorum, ladies, decorum.

So, please people. Respect the apostrophe. So that everyone will know what you mean to say. Instead of what you actually say.

(Hint: Plural is different than Possessive…. Also, I’m not a store-front model. Full disclosure. And, my resilience is dubious at best.)

Note to self: Don’t dare post any political rants, travel schedules, meal plans, pictures from Disneyland, religious aphorisms, or humorous anecdotes to Facebook or your blog on Mother’s Day. Unless they are Mother’s Day related. Because, they will be BURIED in the countless tributes to Mothers. By the way: Mom, I love you. And, thank you for everything.

I took the girls to Costco the other day here in Los Angeles. They have a fast-food-style Pizza/Hot Dog/Chicken Wrap window.

It’s truly the best deal in town by far: the Quarter Pound Hot Dog with toppings and unlimited soft drinks for $1.50.

At Dodger Stadium, that will run you easily, like, 12 bucks.

And, like at Dodger Stadium, you aren’t likely to see much quality baseball.

(I’m up to Leno-quality jokes, at least… Yes?)

I lived in West Hollywood, Los Angeles for about 15 years. If you follow popular culture at all, then you know I’ve probably met a gay or two. Boy gays. Girl gays. In-between gays. Lots of gays. More gays in a day than you can shake a stick at. … Bad analogy.

My dear friend “The Gays” are actually good, friendly, loving people. I have many truly gay friends. Great friends. Awesome friends. Godparent-worthy friends. They’ve even gotten married. They aren’t “they.” They are “us.” Why do people still refer to “The Gays?” Fuck that.

And, I have been in the locker-room at the YMCA. Naked. In Hollywood. Naked. Totally naked. In the shower. Among gay people.

Let me tell you. I have never had a single issue. And, if I ever got a glance from someone, then a polite “No Thanks” would more than suffice. People are actually more courteous that your darkest fantasy.

So, to my NBA, NFL, MLB friends: He doesn’t care about your sudsy junk in the shower. He missed the 3-pointer, dropped the Bomb, and struck-out with two-men on. He’s kicking himself.

He’s not thinking about your dick.