Fifteen years ago I wanted to be a rock star. Fifteen weeks ago I wanted to be a Vice President in Corporate America. Fifteen weeks from now I'll probably quit my job to pursue music, and get offered a Corporate Vice Presidency as an incentive to stay.

And that's just the way my life works.

I don't want to be a rock star anymore, but if I can make a decent living being a rock star, I sure as hell ain't gonna complain. And by the way, "decent living" to me is a helluva lot less than a Corporate VP makes.

The little one has taken quite a liking to me (I wonder why adult females can't do the same) and has insisted that I pick her up at school and take her out "on a date" (her words) for her birthday lunch tomorrow (I wonder why adult females don't ever ask me to do this...) So, in the band's best interest (and because I really adore her), I agreed.

So tomorrow afternoon, I get to line up with the parents at her elementary school in Malibu, pick her up from class, and take her on a "birthday date." I figure we'll go to Yamato, a Benihana-like place in Agoura Hills where they cook on the table and sing "happy birthday" over onion-volcanos and green tea ice cream.

Frankly, I've never been quite this nervous about a "date" in my life.

I'm hardly ready to be a parental unit, or a parent-type-figure, or whatever I'm being asked to be tomorrow. And I'm thinking "what if I say the wrong thing?" "what if I embarass myself?" God, she's NINE YEARS OLD, why should I care?

Maybe the fact that I might actually make a good parent is scaring the hell out of me. Maybe the fact that I might make a good parent means nothing because I'm too irresponsible to be a parent right now. Guess it all comes back, full circle, to the same undisputed fact: I need to grow-the-fuck up.

Whatever that means ...