thoughts on THE WESTWOOD BABY.

GUYS, IT'S ALL TOO MUCH. This is officially all too much for me. I like to think I'm more resilient than your "average" "thirty-something" "creative type" "working" at "home" in his "underwear", but resilient doesn't mean stupid, although in my case maybe it should. Even Superman needed help every now and then from that one crippled guy in the wheelchair. Wait, that was Superman. Okay, no analogies. I need help.

Those of you who know me know that I have more jobs than a Jamaican living in a city with a very low unemployment rate, but my favorite job is being the greatest rapper of all time, and I'm working on what will doubtless be the greatest album in the history of albums or history, Flighty. It will be the the definitive expression (and defense) of my lifestyle in 2009, and as such, I must focus. I must focus on being flighty. Led Zeppelin didn't record Houses Of The Holy on their off hours between working at the local Subway and selling pet insurance. They did it in a big building full of women and drugs and alcohol - which pretty much describes the building I live in. So I've almost got it right.

But this whole 'rent' thing is really chaffing my wick, you know? Really sloshing my flange. Actually, that sounds kinda fun. But you get the point. I have God's work on my plate, but ends still gotta get met. So I need reinforcements. Yes, dear Facebook poets, the answers to the mysteries of life and the universe lie within, but the keys to business and success are unattainable without the help of others. We all help each other out here on Westwood Block, but all too often it's too little, too late. And now that my youngest sister, next-door-neighbor, and former employee Frank has walked away from the family business like I was selling swine flu handshakes in the street, I do believe that it is time we Block residents start putting some serious thought into the idea of a Westwood Baby.

The term was first coined by Sum during a conversation in which Janet asked me if I thought I might have a passing interest in artificially inseminating her in the event that, somehow, no other member of the human race could be forced or otherwise persuaded to procreate with either of us in the span of the next five years or so. I told her the same thing I tell her every week when she asks: she's gonna have to get it outta me the old-fashioned way. No baby of mine is coming out of a bottle. But ever the pragmatist, Sum instantly saw the numerous practical applications of having a child on the block, which could be raised to log e-mail addresses, organize hard drives, hold camera lighting equipment, and all the other tasks that divert artists like us from fulfilling our destinies. We would obviously have to continue with our current workload until the baby is at least mobile enough to push staplers across the floor with its face, things of that nature, at which point it would be able to start taking some of the burden off us. But once it's old enough to make it from the couch to the TV without falling on its little baby hands, it's on and cracking. I'm never touching a cartridge of printer ink again.

I think it's time to take this serious. This is a recession. And President Powdered Toast Man said it's gonna get worse before it gets better, so let's get a drop on the situation. I don't know if Janet and I are necessarily the parents for the job; it's only logical that the newlyweds up the block take the reins on this one. All eyes on Sumzinga. Your baby will be big and strong from the finest wilted vegetables Habib's market has to offer. Jesse the bum from the Cafe Brasil parking lot will teach it how to box and change sparkplugs. And in return, the Westwood Baby will allow us all to realize our dreams of stardom by the time we're at least 50.