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A few weeks ago I had the very pleasant experience of working with another writer. As many of you know, this is usually not the case. Most times I am teamed up with an art director, and I count many among my friends. Or I fly solo, which I also enjoy. (Hint: that's foreshadowing.)

So while pairing writers may be common in the TV or film industry, it's not a standard practice in advertising. Though it's certainly an idea that has some merit.

In any case, if you put two writers in the room you're going to get stories. And somehow we came around to my experience with Southern California's whack shacks and our failed attempt to add a son to the Siegel family tree.

As a family of four, my wife and I were blessed with two healthy, beautiful daughters. It was, by all accounts perfect. Except I had always pictured myself raising a son. Going to ballgames, rough housing, farting, being rude and crude, and most importantly, exerting my overbearing will on every aspect of his life, not unlike the way my father had done to me.

And with a little help from modern day technology, that dream was within reach.

I had done my research and found a very credible organization in Westwood that helped young couples with previous fertility issues and provided sex selection options.

I'll spare you all the gynecological details -- mostly because my wife would kill me -- but when the time came (ovulation) I was to rush to the Westwood laboratory for a "seed collection."

I had done this before when we were initially conceiving our first child and had been privy to many various set ups on the west side of Los Angeles.

There was the swanky lab in Beverly Hills that had a VHS player and a massive collection of just- released porn. There was a dingy doctor's office off Pico Blvd that had a crappy selection of old skin magazines. And there was the hospital room turned whack shack at Cedar's Sinai with a sad handful of retro porn from 1970's, boom chicka baum baum.

On a cold Sunday morning in 2002, my wife informed me it was time to run over to Westwood. I had been looking forward to some NFL playoffs but a man had to do what a man had to to do.

I jumped in the car and made my way up Overland Ave. When I arrived, the place was empty. There was only myself and a nurse, a very attractive nurse, who smiled at me knowing exactly the purpose of my visit. She greeted me, had me fill out some paperwork and then handed me the plastic cup in which I was to deposit my potential son.

Of course I made a joke about needing a larger cup and she threw me a sympathy chuckle.
Then she led me to a room in the back and said I should lock the door, which I found a bit redundant.

There were no magazines, or VHS tapes or even DVDs, there was only a small TV monitor that came to life the minute I shut the door. Followed by a nonstop barrage of clips. It was erotica, make no mistake. But each clip ran 7-10 seconds. I thought it was trailer. So I let it run and "built" up my anticipation for the feature.

A minute passed.
Then another.
Then another.

After about ten minutes, I carefully cracked the door open and told the nurse:

"You can start the movie now."  

There was a pregnant pause.

She replied, "that is the movie."

Followed by a noticeable giggle.

Which, if you hadn't already guessed, increased the mission's degree of difficulty exponentially.

I closed the door and resumed the hand-to-gland combat. And left the lab with some serious egg on my face. Unfortunately, the repeated expensive trips to the seed collection room did not produce a son.

But it did produce a very funny story. Which I'm sure that nurse has told over and over again.