A Few Points Shy of the High Score

notes from a man who spends too much time playing video games

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This is where you stick random tidbits of information about yourself.

Sunday, September 11, 2005
Drank away Labor Day weekend. Phone rang a few times, but I didn't answer. Instead, I sat in the dark, blinds drawn, drinking.

Sunday afternoon, I decided to treat myself. I phoned the Thai place on 79th Street for a pick-up order. As soon as the woman heard my voice, she said, "Let me guesss--you want coconut soup?"

It was exactly what I wanted. "How did you know?" I said, already knowing the answer.

"Because you order it all the time," she said. "Every weekend, coconut soup, coconut soup, coconut soup."

I felt embarrassed. Ashamed of my own predictability. "It's good," I said defensively. "I really like it."

"Sure, sure," the woman said, sounding distracted.

"Maybe next time, I'll try something different. I promised. OK?"

"OK, fine. See you in 10 minutes." She hung up the phone.

I put on some pants and walked over to the Thai place, feeling angry, wanting the soup, but not wanting to confront this woman, not wanting to walk into the restaurant. (They won't deliver unless you order more than $12 worth of food; coconut soup, with a side of rice, is $9.) I braced myself, then walked through the door.

The restaurant was busy. Every table was full. The cute Thai girl was working, the one who always wears a tight pink T-shirt that says, FARMERS DO IT IN THE DIRT. I usually don't stare at women's boobs, but for some reason this girl has such a high, firm pair that I can never seem to help myself.

I handed her the money. She handed me the soup. The whole transaction happened silently.

I went home and ate my soup and watched the Mets lose on TV. For some reason, the soup didn't taste as good as it usually does. It was kind of flat. Watered down. Something was missing. An ingredient that I couldn't put my finger on...

My doorbell rang. It was my neighbors next door. I'd been getting their mail all week while they were away on vacation. The word is out that I'm here all the time, that I rarely go away, so I've become the official mail-retriever for anyone who leaves for a few days. "Here's a token of our appreciation," she said, handing me a big shopping bag that said DUTY FREE on the side.

"You really didn't have to do this," I said. Really meaning it. In fact, I would have preferred that they didn't get me anything.

Once they were gone, I peered into the bag. A big yellow X-large T-shirt with an embroidered sun in the center of the chest above the words CABO SAN LUCAS.

There was also a small bottle of tequila.

Once I settled back onto the couch, I noticed that the cat was missing. Lately, her hiding skills have improved remarkably. Sometimes, it's as if she has the ability to turn herself invisible.

After a few minutes of searching, I realized that this was one of those times where she'd invisibled herself. I looked everywhere for her. Behind the fridge. Underneath the nightstand. Everywhere. Everywhere I could think of.

No cat. Nothing.

My search became desperate. I worried that maybe she'd scampered out the door when I was getting the DUTY FREE bag from my neighbor.

I had tears in my eyes. I put my slippers on and ran up and down the stairs, calling her name.
I could hear TVs playing inside apartments. Low conversations. A telephone ringing in the distance. The hallways were empty. The stairwell was empty.

No cat.

I tore my apartment to pieces, looking everywhere for her, tears running down my face. If I'd lost her, I'd never be able to forgive myself.

Exhausted from my search, with everything in my apartment upside down and inside out, I realized there was one place I hadn't looked. I pulled the cushions off the couch. And there, holed up inside the corner of the folded sofa bed, was the kitten.

I have no idea how she got in there. I pulled her out and held her to my chest. I buried my nose into her neck, inhaling her kitten smell. I love how she smells. I kissed the top of her head. I rubbed her belly. She let out a meow of protest, but let me kiss her a few more times anyway.

I noticed that the sun was going down. I opened a fresh beer. I put the cushions back on my couch. I searched for something to watch on TV.

What a shit-ass Labor Day.
9:37 AM

Sunday, August 28, 2005
Was taking my bike out through the basement exit yesterday--per co-op rules, anything you can't carry has to go in or out through the basement--when I saw a man letting his dog shit on the tiny wedge of grass in front of the building.

I rode by the man, on my out to the park. Then decided, Fuck this. I stopped. Turned back.

"Excuse me," I say, trying to be polite. "Did your dog just take a shit back there?"

This is one of those third-person, disembodied moments, when I can't really believe I'm doing what I'm doing. It's like I'm seeing myself do this, and I'm rooting for myself, hoping it all turns out OK for me.

Guy stops. Looks at me. Sunglasses. Vintage T-shirt. Unshaven. Jack Russell terrier. Douche all the way. "Did she shit?" he asks.

Did she shit? I saw her shitting from 20 yards away while riding a bike. Give me a break.
"I think she did," I say. I motion towards the turds in the grass.

He stops. Sighs. Turns. Looks at me.

I say, "I live here. In this building." To explain why I'm complaining about turds on the lawn. I motion towards the building.

He looks at the building. He looks at the turds. I wheel my bike around, and I'm about to ride off, when he says, "Hey, you're riding your bike on the sidewalk. That's against the law."

"What?" I say.

"Yeah. You're breaking the law right now. And when you rode past me, while breaking the law, you almost HIT ME. You almost RAN ME DOWN."

At this point, I'm facing the other way. Towards the park. He's backtracking, moving towards the turds, his dog in tow. "Hit you?" I say, looking over my shoulder. "I didn't even come close."

I step on one of the pedals. I'm about to wheel off.

"What did you say?" he says.

Now I am wheeling off. "I said I wasn't even CLOSE."

He mutters something, but by this time, I'm already on 35th Ave., riding into the wind, towards Flushing Meadow. I'm pumping hard, full of adrenaline. I'm pissed. Really pissed. I ride, faster and faster, thinking of all the things I could have said, but didn't.

-If you don't want to clean up your dog's turds, you shouldn't own a dog.
-Give me your address. That way I can stop by your building later and take a shit on your lawn.
-Hit you? If I hit, belived me, you'd know it.
-Now clean up your dog's shit, and get the fuck out of my neighborhood.
-And don't let me ever see you on my block again.

I burned off all my adrenaline at the park. Most of it. 90-percent of it. When I rode back to the neighborhood, I checked the lawn for the turds. Sure enough, they were still there. I was winded, sweating, too tired to get pissed off all over again.

Since this happened, whenever I go down to the street, I'm thinking about this guy. This douche. Always thinking about him and his fucking Jack Russell. I walk around feeling a mix of bravado and cowering fear. I hate that I'm thinking about him. Hate how this whole thing has tainted my formerly friendly, peaceful neighborhood in a weird way. I'm always half hoping I run into this guy again. And always half hoping I don't.
9:37 AM

Thursday, July 28, 2005
Was sitting at my desk having a cup of coffee yesterday morning when the kitten, as is her habit these days, leapt onto the desk and began her search for pens, paperclips, rubberbands, batteries, etc. Basically anything she can knock to the floor and bat around for 10 to 15 minutes.

As she surveyed the desk, she spun around, turning her backside towards me. Her tail happened to be hoisted high, giving me a bird's-eye view of her butthole. And there, pinned in the halo of fur surrounding her butthole, was a dark pebble of poop.

With all the time she spends grooming herself, and, in particular, grooming her crotch, I figured I'd leave the pebble there and let her take care of it. It was only a matter of time before she found it. So, I went about my morning, sending various emails, etc. An hour went by, and the pebble was still there. Two hours...and the pebble was still there.

Finally, by noon, I figured I had no choice but to help her out a little.

"Hold still," I said, gently lifting her tail. With nervous fingers, I plucked the pebble of poop off of her. Once the extraction was complete, the kitten let out a polite meow, which I interpreted as, *Thank you.*

If this isn't true love, I don't know what is.
10:32 AM

Thursday, July 21, 2005
An ice cream truck has been patrolling my Queens neighborhood nearly 24 hours a day for the past month, always blaring a Casio keyboard rendition of "Turkey In the Straw." I get so fucking depressed during the summer months. It's not just the overwhelming heat and humidity in New York, the blinding sun. It's picnics, watermelon, BBQs, fireworks, popsicles, parks, beaches, pools, margaritas, camping, state fairs, badmitton, hot dogs. It's ice cream trucks that play "Turkey In The Straw" all night. It's summer culture itself.

And it's the way people are hellbent on doing something, going somewhere, desperate to make something, anything, happen. The way everyone is always determined, no matter the cost, to have themselves a ball. The way the newsanchors on the local channels are always pretending to beg the weatherman for a sunshine-filled forecast. (The sun icon used on the screen is inevitably a smiling face.) The way everyone is forever asking one another, "So, what are your plans for the weekend?"

Implying that to not have plans is somehow abnormal.

Well, fuck you. Those are my plans.

There's something false in all this relentless cheeriness. Something that doesn't ring true to me.

One of my neighbors invited me out to his Hamptons house. A college friend tried to get me to go down to Breezey Point in Brooklyn last weekend. Still another invited me to a cookout in his tiny backyard in Park Slope.

Thanks, but no. Instead, I draw the blinds. I run the air conditioner. I sit in the dark and watch DVDs. I drink beer and play videogames. I get more pale, more mushroomy, by the second. I rarely go out, and only then if I absolutely must. (For more beer, or DVDs, or kitty litter.)

Sometimes I think I suffer from a rare brand of seasonal affective disorder. Only instead of being afflicted during the dark, bitter months of winter, as most people are, I get it during the summer.

Or maybe I'm just on my way to becoming a cranky old fuck.
9:26 AM

Monday, July 18, 2005
So I got a cat. A kitten. 10 weeks old. 2 pounds. She was a street cat who was rescued a few blocks away from my apartment. (It's a rags to riches story; she was homeless, but now she's moved on up to my deluxe apartment in the sky. And yes, I'm quoting The Jefferson's theme song.)

I named her Humtum, but I usually call her Pewey (which is short for Pewey-head). I'm not sure why I do this.

I love her dearly, but she's a pain in the ass sometimes. I've got steel wool stuffed into cracks and crevices around the apartment, which is designed to keep out bugs and mice. Pewey has made it her personal mission to locate every bit of steel wool she can find. This drives me insane, and I'm terrified that she's going to eat some of it. And she climbs all over my keyboard when I'm at the computer. This was sort of endearing at first, but quickly became annoying, especially whenever I'm on deadline.

I realize that she won't be a kitten for very long, so I wanted to make sure that I properly record her kittenhood for posterity. So I follow her around nearly every day with a camera, snapping pictures of her, trying to catch her in the act of napping (not hard to do), or doing something cute.

One day last week as I followed her from room to room with my camera at the ready, it struck me that there might be something more than a little sad about a 36-year-old man alone in his apartment in Queens trying to take photographs of his cat.
1:37 PM

Thursday, March 24, 2005
THE TAP WATER IN LAS VEGAS is hard. It smells sulpurous, like spoiled eggs. The minerals make it next to impossible to get soap to lather, especially cut-rate bars of hotel soap with the Caesars logo stamped on them.

My first night in Las Vegas I walked about a mile to the nearest convenience mart--it was on the far side of the Barnaby Coast casino--and bought three large bottles of spring water. No way was I drinking that rotten tap water for two days.

It was 7 p.m. Las Vegas time, but 10 p.m. in New York. I felt like I should do something, go someplace, get into some kind of trouble, have some kind of adventure. Instead I ate a lonely $12 salad at this food court in the casino while watching a man with one arm trying to smoke a cigarette and play the nickel slots at the same time. I didn't know anyone in Las Vegas, didn't really know where to go. I found my way back to the Palace Tower, back to my room--no small task considering how confusing Caesar's can be--and got into bed.

I tried to get the TV to work. The TV's interface, like everything else in the casino, was intentionally confusing. I hit the wrong button, and panicked when I realized that I was only one button press away from ordering a $6.95 PPV of that terrible cab-driving movie starring Jimmy Fallon and Queen Latifah. I managed to back my way out of the situation. I wondered how many other poor saps hadn't been as TV savvy as I was.

The TV had a special "24-hour Caesars Palace channel," which showed half-hour infomericials designed to "familiarize our guests with all that Caesars has to offer you." I found this channel strangely compelling, and would watch it more than any other channel during my time in the hotel. I recognized some of the hotel landmarks in the shows--the fountain with Posieden, the oversized statue of David, etc. (And the next day, while going to press conferences and seminars, I noticed landmarks that I'd seen on the TV.)

The TV also had a room-specific channel which was designed to keep me posted on all of the seminars I was supposed to be attending. The channel was very bare bones: just a blank blue screen with a large, old-style Commodore 64 font saying things like SONY WELCOME BREAKFAST EMPERORS COURT 7-9 AM, all with a loop of 80s pop music playing in the background. I found myself checking this channel regularly for updates.

My other favorite channel was channel 74, which also featured 80s pop music, and in big, bold letters simply featured the words THANK YOU. Nothing more. Just THANK YOU. Why I was being thanked wasn't clear...

I felt lonely and cold in the king-sized bed. I monkeyed with the thermostat. I kept the TV on for company. I called Joelle about a million times, but couldn't reach her. I looked out the window at the traffic on the strip, at the synchronized water fountain show that played every 15 outside the Bellagio. Twenty-six floors below, I could see the murky, shimmering lights underneath the water in the trio of Caesar's Palace swimming pools. This wasn't exactly how I'd pictured my "Las Vegas debut" playing out.

I woke up at 5 o'clock the next morning, pulled on some pants and a sweater, and rode the elevator down the casino, looking for coffee. The hotel was surprisingly still alive at that hour, still going. "Everybody Wang Chung Tonight" was playing on the hotel sound system. I passed a man and a woman holding hands. The man wore a baseball cap pulled low on his head. They looked like midwesterners to me. They both had wild eyes. I wondered if they were on coke maybe.

"Hey, nice glasses!" the man shouted.

Though I couldn't be certain, but I was pretty sure he was talking to me. I was the only person within a 20 yard radius of them.

Then the man shouted again. "That's right! Keep on walking, Bon Jovi!"

The couple laughed together. I tried to ignore them, just kept moving. I found a coffee place and bought a $4 cup of "Colombian Supremo." I sat down at one of the little cafe tables and puzzled over the Bon Jovi comment. Two weeks later, I'm still puzzling over it. For the life of me, I have absolutely no idea what he were talking about.

I went back to my room, showered, dressed, and went down to the SONY WELCOME BREAKFAST EMPERORS COURT. I filled my plate at the breakfast buffet with watery scrambled eggs, potatoes, and bacon. Probably too much bacon. Once my plate was full, I turned to face the room. Everyone was gathered in small groups at the tables, talking excitedly with one another. Most of them wore freshly pressed suits. I regretted my blue jeans and sneakers, cursing myself out for not dressing better. I had no idea where to sit. I couldn't deal with glad-handing anyone this early in the morning, so I found a table on the far side of the room, sat down, and ate while pretending to be fascinated with my press kit.

"Mind if I sit here?" an older man asked. He was in his 50s. Well dressed. Expensive eyeglasses. He smelled like aftershave. He introduced himself. Shook my hand. I recognized his name. He was the host of the entire event. A man who was in charge of Sony North America.

I didn't want to be having breakfast with this man. Did not want him to see my jeans, or all the bacon on my plate, or feel my sweating palms. We had a nervous conversation about steroid use. I launched into a diatribe about Barry Bonds for some inexplicable reason. He let me ramble, let me talk myself into a hole, didn't even toss me a goddamn line.

Thankfully, one of his assistants tapped him on the shoulder. "It's show time," he said, then went up to the podium to deliver his opening remarks to the room.

The rest of the morning was kind of a blur. Me, looking at electronics, bored out of my mind, trying to have conversations with tech people, hoping they wouldn't be able to see how ignorant I was, hoping they wouldn't be able to see my indifference. Feigning interest can be a very soul-sapping endeavor.

I kept trying to introduce myself to other people, kept trying to connect with someone, anyone. People were pleasant enough, but I couldn't seem to find my way to the inside of any of these cliques, couldn't participate in these conversations about megapixels and CRT vs. LCD vs. Plasma. Suddenly, I was in third grade all over again, and I couldn't figure out how the hell I'd gotten here.

Depressed, I wandered out of the line show, wandered out by the trio of swimming pools, and suddenly realized that everyone around me--including the women--especially the women--were topless. Boobs were everywhere. Each woman I saw I thought, Are those bare boobs I'm seeing? I tried not to stare. Tried not to gape. Sure enough, those were indeed bare boobs I was seeing. You don't see bare boobs every day. At least I don't. Apparently, the more upscale hotels in Vegas have secluded topless sections. Very European, I suppose.

I went back to my room. I figured out the time difference, and decuded that it was a good time to phone Galvin. He answered on the first ring. I tried to tell him what was going on, tried to explain my feelings of alienation and loneliness. "If anyone can figure out how to go to Las Vegas and not have a good time," I said, "it's me."

Galvin sighed in a tired way. He didn't sound in the least bit surprised. "Hey," he said, "you said it. Not me."
10:27 AM

Thursday, March 17, 2005
Was in Las Vegas last week. I'd never been to Las Vegas before. Never had any desire to go to there, since I have absolutely no interest in gambling. But it was a business trip. Someone else was picking up the tab. So when I was asked to go, I said, "why not?"

Truth is, I've always secretly wanted to go on a business trip. It sounds so adult. Responsible people go on business trips; people who deal with serious matters. I hate it when friends who work for big corporations come back from conventions or retreats and complain.

The night before my trip, I drank half a case of beer. I always do this before I fly. I hate flying. And the only way I can get to sleep the night before I fly is by drinking.

On the way to the airport the next morning, I was riding in a gypsy cab on the pot-holed Grand Central Parkway when I felt a shit coming on. That's the way my hangovers seem to manifest themselves these days--in an impending shit. Like a suicide hotline counselor, I can spend hours trying to bargain with the shit, trying to keep it where it belongs, trying to talk it down from its ledge. "Don't do anything crazy," I tell the shit. "Don't do anything that will hurt the ones you love." The car unfortunately hit a series of Baghdad-sized pot-holes, and suddenly--"Don't do it!"--I lost it.

Well, I thought, this is a hell of a way to arrive in Las Vegas. With shit-filled pants. In some strange way, it seemed entirely appropriate. Instead of telling the car service driver to turn around, I decided to press on with my day.

I flew on America West out of Kennedy. It was an old plane. I noticed that it still had ashtrays in the armrests, which meant it was very old. It creaked as we climbed into the sky. As soon as the captain turned off the seatbelt sign, I went to the bathroom to check my pants. Nothing. Nothing. Hallelujah. Somehow, the shit gods must have heard my desperate prayers. The whole thing had been a false alarm. A cautionary tale. I made my usual promise to myself to never drink again...

King Arthur was the movie. I'd forgotten to bring headphones. No way was going to spend $5 to rent them. So I sat there for two hours trying to figure out what Keira Knightley was saying, reading her big lips.

I bought a cheeseburger for $5 from the stewardess. It cheered me up a little. The stewardesses were old, like grandmothers. I asked this gray-haired bespectacled one for a Pepsi and a glass of water. "Only if you show me your I.D.!" she said. Old ladies always flirt with me for some reason.

I get dehydrated on planes. I have to suck on ice cubes the whole time or else I dry out like E.T. in that part of the movie where he's sick and turns white, like an old dog turd. The ice cubes smelled like chemicals. Like disinfectant. I cracked them between my teeth anyway.

As soon as we landed, I could smell the cloud of second-hand smoke blowing out of the terminal. And I could hear slot machines going, the urgent ting-ting-ting-ting-ting, that electronic chittering sound, which sounds like squirrels burrowing. I found a man dressed in a black suit and cap holding up a sign with my name on it in the baggage claim area. "So you're from New York, eh?" he said, eyeing me suspiciously.

He led me out to an idling shuttle. It was filled with convention-goers who were debating the merits of plasma TVs versus LCD TVs. I found a seat at the back. No one said hi to me.

Almost immediately we got into an accident. The shuttle driver was making a left-hand turn, and the shuttle kissed off a taxi for a split second. "Whoa!" someone shouted. "You hit him!" "We've had an accident!" "Stop!" The shuttle driver didn't even slow down. Neither did the taxi. Apparently these sorts of accidents happen all the time in Las Vegas.

The shuttle dropped us off at Caesar's Palace. I checked in, and despite the detailed directions from the concierge, immediately got lost. I was looking for the "Palace Tower." I wandered past a massive fountain filled with plaster sea nymphs, then an oversized replica of David. Everything done in this faux Roman architecture. I passed a sandwich shop called SNACKUS MAXIMUS. A bar called NEPTUNE'S GROTTO. Another one called CLEOPATRA'S BARGE.

My room was on the 26th floor overlooking three swimming pools and all of downtown Las Vegas. The room was huge and swank. It had two bathrooms. A jacuzzi tub. A double shower. A bidet. Nothing says "class" like a bidet. This was easily the best hotel room I'd ever been in. I felt so overwhelmed by the square footage of the room, that I immediately felt small and alone. A bottle of spring water was sitting on the nightstand. I was about to open it when I read the tag on the side of the bottle that said, "OPENING THIS BOTTLE WILL RESULT IN A $3.95 ROOM CHARGE." The room was comped, but all the incidentals would go on my credit card. And bottled water was an incidental. Tap water would have to do.
(PART 1 OF 2)
9:56 AM

Sunday, February 27, 2005
I had my first knee operation when I was 17, my second knee operation when I was 20, and a third when I was 34. All thanks in no small part to the twelve years I (mis)spent playing football.

And the way my right knee has been creaking and popping lately, a fourth operation is probably inevitable. There can't be much cartilage left in either knee at this point...

Being handicapped with bad knees, I've learned to live with them. Through years of trial and error, I've discovered that the best thing I can do for them is use them. I need exercise on a regular basis; if I go two or three weeks without any, my knees will start aching so badly that they'll keep me awake at night.

I'm penniless, so a gym membership is out of the question. As a result, I've been biking out to Flushing Meadow and running around the man-made lake. All in the name of keeping my knees content.

I usually go on weekdays in the late mornings. The park is desolate. Trash-blown. The drainage is poor, so the walkways are usually flooded out. I almost always come home with my sneakers soaked through to the socks. Great flocks of geese gather there. They're huge, intimidating birds. When they see me coming, they don't rush to get out of my way, the way pigeons do. They stand their ground. They puff their chests. They wait until the last possible second before they give me enough room to pass. They leave their surprisingly huge green turds everywhere. I can't even believe how big their turds are.

Shea Stadium is in the distance. As is a mammoth circular structure that looks like a gargantuan merry-go-round that apparently had something to do with the World's Fair. There's a ramshackle boathouse that's obviously closed this time of year. The lake is gray and choppy and surrounded by parking lots. There are very few trees. This has to be one of the most tree-less parks I've ever seen. Lone cars are scattered around, motors running, drivers slumped in their seats. I'm almost certain it's a pick-up area. There's the smell of illicit sex in the air. I've seen used condoms on the pier.

I keep my bike in a playground that has a prehistoric motif. Steel palm trees. There are a fiberglass dinosaurs painted bright colors--reds, oranges, yellows. I know that they're made out of figerglass because someone cut the head off of one of them and I peered inside. The broken teeter-totter is surrouded by yellow hazard tape. The picnic tables are covered with cigarette burns. Green glass from smashed beer bottles is sprinkled underneath the swings.

I'm always a little surprised to find my bike still there when I come back. Bad things happen in this park. I always prepare myself for the worst, brace myself for the day when I'll come back and my bike isn't there. It's inevitable, I think. It will happen.

Two weeks ago, I went to the park and found a U-Haul box truck sitting in the middle of a meadow next to the playground. The tires were flat. The windows all smashed out. The back door of the truck was wide open. Whatever had been inside had been stolen. The violence was obvious. There was a story here. A nasty story of some kind. I could only imagine what awful circumstances had brought the U-Haul truck there.

Last week the Olympic committee was touring New York. Trying to decide if New York is a viable, deserving place to hold the Olympics. Flushing Meadow was one of the sights that the committee was going to inspect. As I ran around the lake hop-scotching my way through the goose shit, I noticed all the banners that had been hung up. NYC 2012. Big, blue banners. But the park itself hadn't been cleaned up much. The U-Haul was gone, nothing but petrified tire tracks across the field where it had been. But the trash cans were all full. So full that garbage was tumbleweeding everywhere. And the eerie parked cars (motors running) were there. The dinosaur with the missing head had been removed, but the teeter-totter was still broken. Whatever effort had been made to spruce things up had been minimal.

I ran around the lake with a pair of wet feet, cursing at the geese, breathing hard, feeling a cramp in my side, under the ribs. I feel my age out there. Feel all of my 35 years. I feel my body changing. It's shocking how little it's capable of these days. The wind picked up. I ran past a group of intimidating men wearing bandanas. They watched me in silence as I passed. I felt their eyes on me. A jet heading for LaGuardia roared overhead. When I was downwind of the men, I could smell pot smoke.
9:22 AM

Saturday, January 15, 2005
One final heart-warming holiday story: Even though my parents live in Florida, they've retained their Upstate New York doctors. Whenever they're home--they continue to refer to New York State as "home"--they make appointments to see them. Monday morning after Christmas--the morning of my Amtrak departure--my parents not surprisingly made his-and-hers appointments with their eye doctor. And since their eye doctor's office was located near the train station, I had no choice but to accompany them to their appointment.

There's something devastatingly depressing about Upstate New York doctor's offices. They're usually these brown-brick, one-story bunker-like buildings set on a bare acre of land punctuated with a single tree and a massive parking lot. The windows are the size of postage stamps, filled with thick glass that lets in light, but makes me dizzy to look through. The hallways are wide and overlit, with banks of greenish flourescent lights and decorated with fake Currier and Ives reprints hung in Wal-mart frames. The waiting rooms are filled with cheaply made furniture that's designed to look expensive, like antiques, but it's all obviously made from the cheapest materials imaginable. The wallpaper looks new, but it's already peeling in the corners. Even the doctor's diploma hanging on the wall looks like it came from a gumball machine. There's always a roach cap discretely tucked away in the corner, usually covered with dust. Look for it--because I'm telling you, every waiting room up there has one.

After my parents checked in with the receptionist, the three of us found seats in the waiting room. Dad was quiet, but mom began needling him about their afternoon plans, and before long, a quiet argument had broken out. "Will you two please give it a rest?" I said. Honestly, I was tempted to tell my mother to go sit on the far side of the waiting room, just to prevent any subsequent squabbles.

Finally my mother was called in by the doctor. Moments later, my father was called in. About five minutes later, they both came back out to the waiting room and sat down next to me. "Finished already?" I asked.

"The doctor told us to wait," mom said.

"Wait for what?"

"For our pupils to dilate," she said.

I suddenly realized what was going on. The doctor had put those despicable dilating drops in their eyes. I hate those drops, hate not being able to read or look at a computer screen for hours. I remembered a time in New York when I got pupils dilated. I had to stumble back to the office like a blind man. A cab nearly ran me over on 23rd Street.

My parents both sat there, staring at the wall, blinking. Wind pressed against the tiny waiting room window.

They had a big afternoon planned--two malls were on the schedule, along with a visit to the nursing home to visit my father's mother, then an early dinner with some friends. And since nothing up there is nearby anyplace else, they'd be doing a substantial amount of driving. Hours worth of driving.

"If you both have your pupils dilated, who's going to do the driving this afternoon?" I asked.

"Your father can drive," mom said.

"No, he can't," I said.

"These drops don't bother him," she said.

"They don't bother me," dad said. "I'm tough."

I could already see that the two of them were having a hard time focusing on anything. I told them the story about almost getting hit by a cab on 23rd Street.

"That's the difference between you and me," dad said. "I'm tough. You're a wimp."

For dad, everything could be reduced to one simple truth: He was tough. The rest of the world, particularly his sons, were "wimps." He sat there, his arms folded across his chest, looking satisfied with himself.

I told him that he was insane if he thought he'd be able drive with his pupils dilated. "What are you talking about? I've done this a hundred times before," he said.

The drops were already starting to work on mom. Her pupils were big and black. She looked like a member of a cult. "Don't you know your father can do anything? He's superman," she said sarcastically.

The nurse came and ushered them both back into the examining room. A few minutes later, mom emerged. "Guess what? I have the beginnings of cataracts. Your mother is getting old," she said.

"I don't want him driving with his eyes like that," I said.

"Then who's going to drive?" she asked.

"I'll drive," I said. "At least until the effect of the drops wears off a little."

Mom looked at me like I was being silly. "You worry too much. Here comes your father now."

He emerged from the examining room. He said something inaudible to the receptionist, then began waving his arms in distress. Mom blinked in his direction. "He's waving his arms, mom," I said. "I think he needs you."

Mom sighed. Before heading off to assist dad, she said, "I swear, he's helpless. He can't do a thing without me."

Once dad had squared everything with the receptionist, the three of us put on our coats and headed outside. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, and the clouds had burned off. With the sun glancing off the frozen snow banks, the glare was oppressive. With their pupils dilated, mom and dad were practically lost. Like a team of arctic explorers, the three of us set off across the lunar landscape of the parking lot, with me in the lead.

At the van, I made my last stand. "Dad, give me the keys, let me drive, if only for a few minutes..." Mom was already inside the van, sitting in the passenger seat.

"I TOLD you, I'm fine. I can drive. We're not all WIMPS like you are, you know."

Dad got in and started the van. I stood outside the van, in protest. I felt like I was standing on the cusp of something here. I could hold my ground, establish myself as the adult here (clearly, the situation called for adult behavior). Or, I could climb into the backseat, same way I've been doing for the past 35 years.

Dad laid on the horn. I could hear him screaming behind the wheel. "Get in! We're behind SCHEDULE!"

In the end, I got in. I pulled my seatbelt across my chest. I felt dad give the van some gas. The snow crunched under our wheels. I closed my eyes tight, gave myself over to the situation. I felt the momentum of the van as we picked up speed. Dad was a fool. I was a fool, too. But for better or worse, for one more day at least, he retained his title as father. And I remain his son.

10:11 AM

Wednesday, January 12, 2005
On Christmas: spent three nights sleeping on the cold floor in an unfurnished bedroom in my brother's house. My air mattress, fittingly, had a hole in it and slowly lost air over the course of each night.

My parents were there, having made the 20-hour drive up from Florida. After last year's debacle, both were on their best behavior. Still, they managed to get on everyone's nerves. They both walk around absent-mindedly whistling and singing to themselves.

Dad, while fixing breakfast one morning (shirtless, despite the presence of my brother's wife), started whistling Jingle Bells one morning. A few minutes later, while he worked the toaster, the whistling gave way to singing.

"DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW, IN A ONE-HORSE OPEN SLEIGH..."

He whistled the next few bars, then, while buttering the toast, he returned to singing. Only this time he sang the more obscure version of the song.

"JINGLE BELLS, BATMAN SMELLS, ROBIN LAID AN EGG... BAT MOBILE LOST ITS WHEEL, AND THE JOKER GOT AWAY."

I looked at my watch and calculated the number of hours until my train back to New York would be leaving.

My parents seem more bizarre than ever. They brought their own popcorn popper all the way from Florida. They also brought their own popcorn bowl. And their own popcorn. They also brought their own snacks--potato chips, peanuts, pretzels--which they kept locked away in their own bedroom. My brother and I are still scratching our heads over that one.

There's something sad about my parents. Something pathetic. They seem so weak to me now, so foolish and vulnerable. They frequent the Dollar stores. My mother will drive for hours from mall to mall, just so they can save a few cents on a purse. They study sales papers like they're reading the Dead Sea scrolls.

Christmas day, I opened a beer around three in the afternoon. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING, HAVING BEER FOR DINNER?" Mom said. They watch my every move, scrutinize and study my every gesture. No wonder I ran screaming from the house when I was 18.

And they can't sit still, not for five minutes. They pace. They whistle. My brother and his wife have a dog, so my parents, if no one else will talk to them, will start talking to the dog. "WHAT DO YOU WANT, BARON? ARE YOU A GOOD BOY? GO GET YOUR TREATS! WHERE ARE YOUR TREATS? WANT TO GO OUTSIDE? GO GET YOUR TREATS!"

Mom still clings to her antiquated notions of Christmas. She buys me little candies, goofy little treats, hoping, I suppose, that my face will light up the way it did when I was 8 years old. She bought me the de rigeur package of underwear, only this year she bought me a size that I probably haven't worn since I was 14. She seems to want me to regress. She has no idea what to buy a 35-year-old man living in New York. But she definitely knows what to buy for an 8 year old.

She still puts herself in charge of Christmas morning. She still makes us all sit in a circle and open presents one at a time, proceeding from youngest to oldest. She still leaves the price tags on things, so we'll know what she spent, then will pretend to be embarrassed when we notice them.

My brother later told me that his wife is losing her patience with this Christmas morning ritual. "She thinks we're all a little too old to be sitting in a circle and opening presents, and I have to say, I agree with her," he said.

I had to endure my parents for two and a half days, but my brother and his wife had to put up with them for two weeks. My brother privately complained to me about it afterwards. His wife wants him to put his foot down about it. I told him that he needs to start drawing some lines here. "Mom will cry probably," I said, trying to prepare him. "But stand your ground. Stay strong. She'll get over it."

Maybe he will stand his ground. My brother fears my parents more than I do. They bailed him out a great many times, so he owes them more. Dad even helped build the house that my brother and his wife live in, so dad has this sense of entitlement now. Which isn't entirely unjustified, I suppose.

Despite my best efforts, I try to stay out of it. Try not to referee. My brother wants to start his own Christmas traditions, wants to move my parents to a more peripheral role. I understand that. I'm not sure how I fit into all of this. This was probably one of the last times we'll all be together for Christmas. None of this has really felt right in a long time anyway.

And now it's January, and I'm still feeling the lingering effects of all of this, still trying to see my way through this annual low-level post-Christmas depression. Looks like I'm finally almost out of the woods...

11:41 AM

Thursday, January 06, 2005
It's January, and, as usual, I'm trying to lay off the booze. This is day five. Last Saturday night, knowing that this was officially my last night, I drank everything I had in the refrigerator. Everything. Stray cans of Budweiser in the produce drawer. An old 40-ouncer. Everything. This was going to be it for awhile.

Funny how long the days seem when you don't drink. I have all this free time now... Funny, too, how fat my wallet is. Drinking, even when you buy the low-grade stuff like I do, is an expensive habit.

Had to grind out the first couple days. Long, restless hours. I didn't really know what to do with myself at first. Paced the floors. I borrowed DVDs from friends. I watched movies late into the night.

It's nice waking up every day with a clear head. Nice not having to try to cut through the beery fog in my brain with cups of black coffee. Nice not having to look into the refrigerator and assess my beer situation daily, and decide whether or not I need to drag a fresh case home from the store. Nice not having to reach for the bottle of Advil. Nice not feeling like I'm going to shit myself every five seconds. All nice.

It's only been a few days, but I can already see a difference. I'm not quite as heavy in the face. My coloring is better. My stomach is losing its bloat. My attention span is longer. And for the first time in a long time, I feel a little of the old ambition coming back. A little of the optimism. I like that.

Laying off the beer equals taking pride in myself--something, I've realized, that I haven't really done much of in recent years. Seems like such a jackass way to go through life, always fighting this stupid, wasteful battle. Trouble is, I'll feel good for a few days/weeks, and then I'll start to wonder where my reward is. Being clear-headed/clear-minded won't seem like enough anymore. Nobody pats me on the back and tells me that I'm doing a good job. And then one day I'll decide to reward myself for some nebulous reason, and that reward will come in the form of a twelve pack. And this time next year, I'll probably be typing up a post eeriely similar to this one.

Probably. But let's hope not.

10:14 AM