I’m fifty-seven years old. My parents have been dead twelve years. Emily and I have been married eight years. My daughter, Moxie, is coming up on her seventh birthday and my son, Zolten, is knocking on six. This is my first marriage and these are my only children. I started late. Way late, almost Letterman late. When Moxie is my age, I’ll be 107 years old and I’m sure we all really will have flying cars, world peace, and a cooler song for twelve-year-old boys than “Stairway to Heaven.” I don’t know if Mox and Zz will have things to do before they let me meet my grandchildren, or if they’ll even have children. I don’t know jackshit. That’s another reason I cry. Another reason to be joyful and sad.
It’s not natural to have one’s children this late in life. My body wanted to reproduce when I was fifteen. My body really, really wanted to reproduce when I was fifteen. I loved fooling my body into thinking I was reproducing with girlfriends at fifteen. It took a lot of civilization, socialization, willpower, and some emulsion polymerization technology for me not to reproduce at fifteen. When I was fifty, it took much more technology for us to get started reproducing. Moxie was a test tube baby. My wife, Emily, was thirty-nine when Moxie was born. The ticking clock was deafening, and even though trying naturally was a blast, we turned to science for Moxie. After that kick start, we conceived our son Zolten naturally. Naturally is cheaper and way more fun than IVF. But with IVF we did get to sing the Velvet Underground’s “Heroin” together while I used a real hypodermic needle to give Emily her hormone shots (we both felt exactly “like Jesus’ son”). It was kind of fun to see her moods change crazy fast. I’d shoot her up and she’d start crying and we’d have a good laugh together at how much our feelings are just chemicals.
We were going through IVF about the time I was on The West Wing. One of the actors on there (I won’t say which one, because I’m not sure he ever made his IVF public) called the sample room at the IVF clinic “The Masturbatorium.” I love that term and wanted to give him credit without outing his children. The masturbatorium is a little room at the clinic where you go in to whack out the baby-batter to give to the nurse so they can make the baby in the test tube. Oh dear, I just called the embryo “the baby.” That’s not a big deal, right? No one is going to argue over when an embryo becomes a baby. Emily had to go into stirrups while they got invasive on her ass or right near her ass; I just had to jack off. She did her part fine, and I fucked up jacking off.
I walked into the masturbatorium and there were three posters on the wall to help me get off. They were swimsuit pictures of three women—Pamela Anderson, Elle Macpherson, and Gena Lee Nolin—all of whom I had made cry in public at one time or another. I was supposed to whack off to women I had pissed off. I needed to jack to women who hated me. Some get turned on thinking about hatefucks but that never worked for me. Says a lot about the taste of our Middle Eastern fertility doctor. Pamela Anderson: made her cry over animal rights and a joke I made to her face on TV. Elle Macpherson: made fun of her hair care products and her husband’s dickey (not dick, dickey, the fake turtleneck thing, I’m guessing his dick was fine) on live radio. And I professionally trash talked Gena until she cracked on Fear Factor. They’re all good people, and they all forgave me (maybe not Elle), but I still didn’t want to whack to them. The masturbatorium had videos too, but they were way too vanilla for a Boston cream pie guy like me. The DVDs were the swimsuit edition TV special, not like latex enema nurses in bondage. The idea that there were real nurses right behind the wall to where I was jacking should have been hot, but it wasn’t. I don’t know why. Maybe because we were dealing with making children, which is so much less sexy than fooling my body into thinking I was making children. Emily suggested at the desk that maybe we could send in a couple hookers, and I just got embarrassed. On libertarianism, atheism and transgressive humor my wife is the hard-core one in the family. I couldn’t jack off in front of pictures of women I’d made cry and if that makes me less of a man, so be it. We finally got our “sample” at home working together and then Emily drove to the doctor’s like she was trying to get hot pizza home to her future family.
For Zolten, we just fucked. That’s why he gets $35,000 more in his trust fund.
Lots of people are having children later in life. Everyone is living longer, and now that we have electric lights there’s other stuff to do at night. A lot of older parents worry about being older parents. I hear people say, “I don’t want to be too old to play baseball with my son.” They worry that their kids will be embarrassed by their parents’ age. I worry about that less, because I grew up with older parents. My parents were the best parents in the world, and they were old. They were older for their generation than I am for mine. My mom was forty-five years old when I was born. My dad was a couple years younger. My only sibling, my sister, was twenty-three years old when I was born. Now that I think about it, I might not have been planned. After Jack Nicholson and Bobby Darin found out that their sisters were really their moms, I thought I might have a similar surprise coming, but I’ve seen pre-Photoshop pictures of my mom in the maternity ward and my sister gave me her Girl Scout’s honor. There were no deathbed confessions from anyone.
When my mom got pregnant, she went to the doctor. She was freaking out. She said she was too old to have another baby. She said she wouldn’t live to see her baby go to kindergarten. The doctor told her that there were lots of older moms. This was 1954 and he went to his files. See? Here’s a mom who was thirty-two… and here’s one who was thirty… and… he didn’t find anyone over forty. Mom was very freaked. Bud Trillin at The New Yorker did a big profile on Penn & Teller while we were Off-Broadway and it also showed up in a book of his. He did a lot research and went to Philly to talk to Teller’s parents and teachers and went all the way to Greenfield to interview my parents. My mom was very straightforward with Bud. Bud is good, but my mom also didn’t know another way to be. She confessed that she was very worried about birth defects. She worried that I might be born with Down syndrome, for which there were no tests at the time. I don’t know if she would have gotten the tests if they were available, my mom may have believed that love starts at conception. I never asked her directly. She said to Bud that she heard that babies born to old mothers were either retarded or geniuses. (“Retarded” being the only word people used at the time to describe mental disabilities.) She then paused for one of those Dean Martin comedy pauses that go forever, shrugged, paused and thought some more and then said, “I guess he’s a genius.” She got Bud to laughing, but… I don’t think it was as much of a joke as Bud thought. My mom knew I wasn’t a genius, but I think she had decided that besides being worthy of her complete unconditional love just for being born, I might have also been okay. I could make her laugh. I could make her laugh harder than anyone in the world had ever made her laugh. You tell me, am I crying now with sadness or joy?
I grew up with parents who were just a few years younger than Moxie and Zolten’s dad will be. My dad didn’t play much baseball with me, but age had nothing to do with it. I was on the A&W Little League team. The other children said A&W stood for Ass Wipes, ignoring the ampersand and making me crazy. With P&T the ampersand matters. You can say P&T stands for “Pisshead & Twat” but don’t you dare say it stands for Pecker Tards, that’ll just piss me off. I was thrown off the Ass Wipes for not understanding why we were supposed to think that our arbitrary team was the best (the same reason I was thrown off The Celebrity Apprentice—jocks like Trump never change). Before I was thrown off the Ass Wipes, the best Little League team that ever existed, my mom and dad came to every game. My dad would sit in the stands, saying proudly to the other dads, “See that big boy out in the outfield daydreaming—that’s my boy, he doesn’t care about the game.” My whole family is missing the sports gene and the military gene. During a war (they’re all the same), my dad was a security guard and then a jail guard. I hope I didn’t screw up the Jillette family genes by marrying a great golfer with a Navy dad. If I did, I can teach them to juggle and be
medics.
The other children in grade school did ask why I spent so much time with my grandparents, and I guess that embarrassed me a little, but there was never any trauma. I just told them they were my mom and dad and they were wicked old. My parents were always proud of me and I was proud of them. It seemed that my mom and dad didn’t have any problems other than mine. They loved me and they loved each other. I never heard them raise their voices except in jest or in an emergency, to one another or to me. As a very young child, I ran into the street and my mom screamed “Penn!” like Roger Daltrey screams “yeah!” in “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” I never ran into the street again. I guess we also yelled as a joke, but not when we meant it. When the Jillettes mean it, the Jillettes pout.
Way back in the nineties, we did a TV show in Britain called The Unpleasant World of Penn & Teller. We did a lot of bits from our American show and also did most of our TV bits from Letterman and SNL. We had amazing guest hosts, like Stephen Fry and John Cleese. Stephen and John are both just a little bit smaller than me, but we’re all big guys. It was the first time I met John, and during lighting and just hanging out backstage, John was chatting with me: “Penn, when you’re angry, do you yell?”
“Nope. Never.”
“Me neither. Did your family yell?”
“Nope, never. I can’t recall my parents ever yelling at one another except when they were kidding.”
“My family never did either. We sulk.”
“Yes, we are pouters.”
“And yet we’ve both discovered there’s nothing funnier than a big guy yelling.”
I guess that’s true. For eight years on Penn & Teller: Bullshit! I screamed “Fuck you, asshole!” at the fucking top of my fucking lungs. In our live show, I yell several times, but not at home. I was taught if you’re yelling, you’re joking. That hasn’t served me that well. I’ve had people like Lou Ferrigno scream right in my face because he couldn’t understand something, and it’s so hard for me to believe he was really serious. It seemed like he was going to turn green and do a cartoon show.
There must be older parents who scream at one another and at their children, but it did seem like my parents’ wisdom and measured actions were related somewhat to their age. Older parents are wonderful until they croak. They both died when I was forty-five. I was with my mom and dad for about half of their lives, and vice versa. I will have to live to a hundred for Mox, Zz and I to share half our lives.
I hope I’ve learned something from being alive this long that will make me a better dad. I know I will be an embarrassment. I’m an embarrassment to everyone who loves and/or works with me. Moxie and Zolten have already been asked if I’m their grandfather, but that’ll be the least of their embarrassments. They’ll also have a dad with a stupid beard and hair down his back talking atheism at the PTA meeting and calling an almost-saint Motherfucking Teresa on TV. If they say the name of their dad’s TV show in school, they’ll be punished. They have a dad who lost on Dancing with the Stars to Adam Carolla and lost on The Celebrity Apprentice to Clay Aiken. They may hang their heads in shame.
They have a dad who’s a goddamn Las Vegas magician, and that’s embarrassing whatever age he is.
I better buy them two ponies each.
Listening to: “I Want My Mommy”—NRBQ
Penn & Teller and Zz & Mox at the AFAN charity walk for people suffering from AIDS. My children are sometimes forced to wear pictures of their dad and his business partner on their shirts.
GRADUATION DAY—NOTHING IS FUNNY BUT PENN JILLETTE
I GOT OUT OF HIGH SCHOOL IN THE EARLY SEVENTIES. I avoid writing “graduated.” I did technically graduate, but I sure lettered and not spirited. I test wicked good, and as soon as I got my stupid high SAT scores, I went to the principal. I told him that if this gifted student didn’t graduate, this gifted student would talk to the school board about how this gifted student was let down by the not-so-gifted principal. I had his gift hanging. He asked if I were threatening him. I answered I was, and I didn’t go to school much after that. The threat took and he made sure I graduated at the very bottom of my class. That was his gift to the gifted student.
I had an English teacher at Greenfield High School who is still a friend, but GHS was a terrible place to learn. I lived in a dead factory town that was a half-hour drive from the University of Massachusetts in Amherst. That meant that every acid-head education major who wanted to try some farkakte new pedagogical system could just get a grant (it was the seventies; you could get grants to condescend to rural students) and try it at a real no-kidding school. The worst hippies didn’t want to go too far from their drug dealers, so Greenfield was perfect. The college students could patronize us, use us for one paper, and be able to drive home nights to bang the tripping undergrads.
They tried “open campus,” “open study,” open everything but a fucking book. I had hair down my back, elephant bells, fringe jackets, and eye makeup, but I wasn’t a very good hippie. I like the sex and some of the rock and roll (I could never stand the Grateful Dead), but I didn’t try the drugs. I’ve been told by professional drug users that if I did the drugs, I would like the Dead. It seems like the most effective PSA against drugs could just play some Dead jams and say, “If you do drugs, you will like this kind of music.” What other deterrent would one need? I don’t understand PSAs. If we have a marketplace of ideas in this country, isn’t our government just the ref? Wouldn’t the marketplace of ideas allow billboards that read, “Try Heroin,” and “Beat Your Spouse, Eventually He’ll Dig It”? How do they justify taking tax money, received at gun point, and use it to put TV ads and billboards that tell parents to talk to their children about drugs? My mom and dad never once spoke to me about drugs or alcohol. They never even said that they didn’t use them and never had. I could see that, what’s to talk about? Why would the government tell us what to talk about? There was a billboard on my way to the Penn & Teller Theater at the Rio All-Suite Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada, that read something about stopping spousal abuse. Has there ever been a person who was driving home, planning on beating the shit out of her husband, who read that billboard and thought, “No, maybe I’ll go talk to my children about drugs instead?” I noticed while reading a few smart-guy books like Daniel Kahneman’s wicked smart one, that the author who didn’t want to use “their” incorrectly when he needed a pronoun and didn’t know the sex, didn’t use “he,” “his,” and “him” but to be modern used “she,” “her” and hers,” so I decided I wanted to be like a smart-guy author and have it be an imaginary woman beating her imaginary husband reading my imaginary billboard. We don’t know what sex a husband or wife is anyway, let alone the perp. Men get beaten a lot. I bet Mike Newdow, the atheist who went to the Supreme Court to try to get “under God” back out of the Pledge of Allegiance, gets beat up a lot. Re also pushes really hard to replace “he” and “she” with “re,” and “his” and “hers” with “rees,” and “him” and “her” with “erm.” I met Mike at some atheist shindig and re really talks like that, it’s rees style, it works for erm and I like it, but smart-guy books don’t use it. Doing it in this book will just piss off my editor and I don’t want to do that. Mike Newdow is cool about pissing off the Supreme Court so re sure doesn’t give a fuck about my editors, so let erm do it.
In 1987, Bob Dylan did a tour with the Dead, and my buddy Jesse Dylan invited me to go with him to see his dad. Jesse told me we should time our arrival so we got to the stadium as his dad was hitting the stage. I thought we should go for the whole shebang. If I was going to see a little of the Dead, I should see the whole thing. I had this vision of noodling, improvised music providing the soundtrack to lots of beautiful braless women spinning and jiggling in tie-dye clothes. How bad could it be? Pretty fucking bad. I ended up backstage with Don Johnson. Crockett and I watched the show together from the wings. It would have been better if Don had been wearing a bra. Don Johnson still hates me from the episode of Miami Vice that I guest starre
d on. I was doing an awful movie, that awful TV show, and our pretty good Off-Broadway show in the same week. I went a whole week without ever once lying down to sleep. I slept in cars from one set to another, but never more than an hour a day for a week. I was sitting up in a deep sleep when I was shaken awake by Don Johnson saying, “We’re rolling.” I looked at him, heard “action” and started doing my lines. As luck would have it, I was playing a drug dealer, so who cares? I woke from a deep sleep to be in a scene with Don Johnson and Starsky without Hutch directing. Aren’t you supposed to wake up from that?
My sister used to dream all the time that she was a super James Bond–type female spy. At the time she told me this, my sister was a seventy-year-old New Englander caring for her grandchild. She told me she had this theory that we dreamed the opposite of our real lives, so she was all sex and violence. She asked me what I had dreamed the night before. I told her I dreamed I was sitting comfortably reading a magazine. Magazine reading is my only recurring dream except for the dream of pulling my own teeth out, which always makes me wake up with a hard-on. This time I woke up from a relaxing dream to be in a scene with Don Johnson. He hates me and he wasn’t wearing a bra backstage at the Dead and it was awkward and the music was awful and I wanted to be pulling my own teeth out, so Jesse and I ended up outside his dad’s dressing room playing pinball until Bob hit the stage. Bob is always good. The Dead were not. At least not with the sexiest man in the eighties and without doing drugs.
My high school was the result of a poor community school controlled by condescending hippies. Oh boy! I didn’t go to school much, but there really wasn’t much of a school to go to. High school students are evolutionarily programmed to think they know more than grown-ups, but when the grown-ups are hippie student teachers, evolution wins. Fucking stoners.
Every Day is an Atheist Holiday! Page 21