Not-So-Happy Halloween

I just got off the phone with my older son. He sounded a little out of it and I think I may have interrupted breakfast, but I hadn't spoken with him in two days and wanted to catch up. He said that everything was pretty much the same, that they upped his meds and that he was feeling okay. He was a little bummed about not being with his friends tonight until I pointed out that it was cooler being in a mental hospital on Halloween in a Stephen King type of way.

He laughed weakly and said that there's actually a lame costume parade on his unit tonight with most of the kids dressing up as either The Joker or as a "skank" and that there's a surprising number of boys going as skanks and girls as Jokers. I asked him who he was going as and he said, "Myself."

"Maybe we'll all dress up tonight, too," I joked. "Mom could be a witch, your bro could be a clown and I'll be a ghost."

"You're not the ghost type," he said, confirming that I had nailed the rest of our family. "Maybe a werewolf or Frankenstein."

"Thanks, fuckhead," I said. "What about a skeleton?"

"You're too fat," he said.

"I think I'd make a good elf."

"Too gay," he said.

"You know what? Maybe I'll just follow in your footsteps and go as myself," I said. "Or better yet, maybe I'll just go as you!"

"Whatever," he said. "When you come up tomorrow, can you bring more candy?"

'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy

I was thinking about kissing this morning and it occurred to me that the person who I've kissed the most over these past few months has been my older son. I guess he's needed it the most and I also guess that I've needed it the second most. We've always been affectionate with each other and that's one of the things in my life that I hold most dear.

So it may sound a little strange when I tell you that I can't remember the last time I kissed my younger son. It's definitely been a few years and even then felt slightly uncomfortable or, as he would say, "incredibly gay." It's not that we love each other any less, it's just that we express it differently. He's always goofing on me about how fat and bald I've become and I'm more comfortable buying his affection with clothes, fast food and money.

My wife and I haven't exactly been sucking face lately either. Even when we have sex (which we also haven't been having lately), kissing no longer seems to be on the menu. Mainly because she knows how much I enjoy it. But also because after 25 years of being together, I know she doesn't feel the same way she once felt about me and is too tired to fake that she still does.

I hope you're as good a kisser as she was.

Thinking of You

There was a beautiful woman with long, black hair and big, dark eyes sitting directly across from me on the train last night and she was so my type that I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was reading the new book by Michael Connelly (who I happen to love) and occasionally glanced over at me while I furiously typed this all down on my iPhone.

I was trying to come up with something funny or a little bit smart to say to her, but instead got lost in her plump, glossy lips and then in a thin scar underneath her right eye that snaked all the way to her right ear. I gazed at her delicate fingers when she turned a page or rubbed her nose and imagined her tender hands in mine.

And then, to my surprise, I found myself thinking of you.

Our Shit's Fucked Up

I've wasted the last three years of my life at a job I hate. I've wasted almost 25 years of my life in a crazy marriage. I've wasted ten years of my life getting wasted. I've wasted all of my life being scared. I'm wasting my time (and yours) right now, complaining about wasting time. I'm wasting away.

I was gonna end it there, when the thought of my older son sarcastically singing "Poor Poor Pitiful Me" popped into my head. He recently discovered the genius of Warren Zevon (thanks to Genius: The Best of album) and his favorite song is "My Shit's Fucked Up" (which isn't on that album but should be).

Here's a little taste for the uninitiated:

You wake up every day
And you start to cry
Yeah, you want to die
But you just can't quit
Let me break it on down:
It's the fucked up shit

This is also my son's Away Message and will soon be mine.

Are We Having Fun Yet?

"When does the fun part start?" I asked my wife, as we were driving home from the hospital yesterday.

"You have to make your own fun," she said, merrily weaving in and out of the HOV lane. "Nobody's gonna make it for you."

"How about Wednesday?" I asked. "Can we start having fun on Wednesday?"

"Why don't you go out to dinner with some of your friends?" she suggested. "You always have a good time when you see them."

"I guess I can do that. I just haven't really been in the mood," I admitted. "Maybe I should go out with some people who aren't my friends?"

"That's a great idea! You should have dinner with Fred and Glynnis and Sharon and Mark," she joked, name-checking two couples from the neighborhood who we kinda hate.

"Yeah, I can do that," I said, "but only if someone also sticks a long needle in my penis at the same time."

"Are you kidding? Glynnis would be happy to! She probably has her own needle. And then you'll have to eat chicken scarpariella and shrimp Wendy," said my funny wife, food-checking the only dishes these people have ever ordered on the few occasions we've been out with them.

"Yeah, then maybe for dessert their perfect kids can come to the table and tell me what great colleges they'll be attending next year," I said, warming to the idea. "And I can tell them that our son couldn't be here because he's currently locked up in a mental hospital."

"Nothing would make them happier," she said.

"This sounds great," I said. "I'm already beginning to have so much fun!"

Visiting Day

I went to see my older son by myself the other day. The long ride to the hospital didn't feel as long because for a change I was listening to what I wanted to listen to in the car (mainly, podcasts from The Moth) and was feeling a little brighter than the rainy weather. I stopped off to pick up some Burger King for him and also brought along all kinds of other crap like Kit-Kats, Reese's Pieces and Swedish Fish. Just your average visiting day at Camp Mood Disorder.

Actually, I take it back. My son's in this unit called The Lodge and it's really more of a dorm setting except that everyone there is majoring in anger or depression. My son, I'm proud to report, is carrying a double major. And that about wraps up the comedy portion of today's program.

When he came down from his room, he looked tired and cranky and I don't know why this made me so sad, but it did. He hasn't even been there a week and has been on meds for even less time than that, so I don't know what I was expecting. He's not the most smiley kid on a good day and, as it turned out, this wasn't such a good day.

We sat down to eat and I began to ask him questions, really just to keep the conversation flowing, and he answered with a word or two (yes, no, meh) until we started to talk about what's gonna happen once he's discharged. I explained that I still didn't know, but that we can't continue to live the way we've been living.

He didn't really see a problem in the way we've been living, which, of course, is our biggest problem. I brought up the fact that he was getting high all of the time and he said that he was gonna continue to party because that's who he is. Then I brought up his female troubles and he said that I can't tell him who he can or can't go out with. I kept at it, asking about some money that went missing and he said that he didn't fuckin' know anything about it. A few seconds later, I saw his face change right before he angrily stood up from the table and walked away.

I just sat there, knowing he'd return and in about 15 minutes or so, he did. We sat in silence for a few more minutes, watching some androgynous kid play Connect Four with his (or her) folks. And then I gently repeated that with the help of the right meds and therapy, he needed to change his attitude if he wanted to come back and live with us and that maybe we needed to change a little, too. He nodded and said that he didn't want to fight anymore and I said that I didn't come there to fight and we were both crying as we hugged each other tight. Then he looked at me and said, "I'm glad we had this talk."

Imagine

I once wrote that I couldn't imagine what type of hell it's finally going to take to break up my marriage. I can now.

My wife doesn't want my older son back in our house. She's scared of his anger and doesn't believe he will ever change. I've never been scared of him and have to believe he can get well. And we each think that the other one is crazy.

"Do you love him?" I asked her last night, while trying to eat a few bites of dinner.

"Yes I love him," she said. "I love him dearly."

"Then how can you turn your back on him? He needs help," I said. "You can't give him back to anyone! We're his parents!"

"I've given him 18 years of my life and now he needs to live his own life. It's time to cut the apron strings," she said flatly. "I can't be one of those parents like in my friend Laura's Families Anonymous group that's still talking about taking care of their 37-year-old child. I'm not going to do it! Are you going to be one of those people?"

"I don't know," I said quietly. "I might be."

"Well," she said, "I'm not gonna be there with you."

"Okay."

Stumbling in the Dark

When the phone rang last night, no one jumped out of their skin. We knew where my older son was, that he was safe and that this wouldn't be another one of those horribly fucked up calls (it turned out to be someone confirming my wife's haircut appointment for today).

This past week has more than sucked and I don't know what I would've done without you. If there's any good news, I guess it's that I'm not walking around with the usual chest pains, but I'm not feeling that sense of relief I thought I'd be feeling either. That sense of exhalation, or to be more blunt -- liberation -- that my wife and younger son seem to be enjoying.

My wife has been laughing again and I wouldn't be surprised if we had sex sometime soon. And my younger son has been celebrating with several boxes of Entenmann's donuts all to himself and inviting his friends to sleep over again. There's just an overall lightness in our house right now that we haven't felt for a long time.

Truthfully, I've been scared to feel that light, to get too close to it because maybe it will feel too good and I'll like it too much. And maybe that light is our life without my older son in it. And that's what scares me the most. So I stand guard against the light because -- no matter how often he stumbles in and out of the dark -- I can't imagine life without him.

Namaste

My head was spinning this morning while I was waiting for the train and bumped into a friend of a friend. We met a few years back at our mutual friend's house and I vaguely remember bonding over some talk about hating our fathers and agreeing that there's no better tasting food in the universe than a barbecued hot dog.

When the train pulled in, he asked if I wanted to sit together and I said sure because I couldn't think of another answer fast enough, so we started in with the usual small talk. He happened to mention something about doing yoga, which I found kinda interesting because, as you know, I've been more than a little stressed lately and have been looking for a better way (yes, even better than this Doctor Woo-ing) to help me cope.

So I asked how he got into it in the first place and he explained that it was several years ago and he was in a relatively bad place in his life, although it turned out that the place was Hawaii, which didn't much matter because he was clinically unhappy and drinking heavily. Anyway, he's walking on the beach one morning and pulls over a lounge chair and sitting on top of it is a magazine, opened up to a page about a famous yoga instructor who lives in Turks and Caicos (obviously, this guy is loaded) and he said he didn't know if it was destiny or what, but he went to visit the yogi dude and a few private lessons later was hooked for life.

I said that maybe meeting on the train this morning would be my "open magazine on the beach in Hawaii" epiphany and he smiled and said, "Namaste."

Dave's Not Here

A few months ago, I saw something on the Web about a Cheech and Chong reunion tour, noticed that they were going to be playing nearby and impulsively bought tickets for me and the kids. Now if you take into account that Weeds is considered family viewing in our house, this is almost like our version of going to the Christmas Show at Radio City. When I told the kids about it, they were both psyched, especially my older son.

"No fuckin' way!" he said, grinning from ear to ear. "This is amazing! Dad, you don't understand! I'm like bugging out here."

"You don't understand, dude," I shot back. "I grew up with these guys! I used to carry around an 8-track player with all of their albums and I'd annoy the shit out of everybody by constantly saying, 'Dave's not here.'"

"Dad, you don't understand," he went on. "I've downloaded like all of their movies. Up in Smoke!? I've seen like a million times. This is going to be so fuckin' cool!"

Predictably, my wife didn't understand why I would do such a stupid thing. She felt that I was sending the kids a mixed message -- "hey guys, don't get high, but let's go see these stoners who made getting high famous!" To be honest with you, the only thing I thought about at the time was having some fun with my kids and it wasn't like I was taking them to a strip club (yet).

Of course, this was all before my older son began to spiral out of control, but even before then, I just had a not-the-good-kind funny feeling that we weren't gonna make this show. I know, it's weird and I can't really explain it other than for an ironic God working in His usually mysterious fucked up ways.

So while my younger son attends the show tonight with two of his buddies, my wife and I will be tending to my older son in the hospital. Maybe Dave will be there, too.

Tomorrow

I can really use a little distraction right now, so if you don't mind, I'm gonna tell you about yesterday. First thing in the morning, we went back to the hospital to talk with my son's doctors and social worker. An orderly escorted us into a day room and on the walls were these weird murals of Rugrats and Winnie the Pooh characters, and whoever painted them was just a little off in the composition and scale departments, like all of the kids in this place.

The first doctor walked in and introduced himself, but I didn't catch his name because it was long and African-sounding and he shook my hand with two fingers and then mispronounced my son's name and it took everything in me not to bolt. He proceeded to ask us all of the same questions every psychiatrist and psychologist has ever asked us about our son, and my wife and I responded robotically until we were joined by the social worker, who at least had a name I could pronounce (and I don't mean to sound so racist here; it's just that it's hard to place your trust in someone you can barely understand).

So we directed our conversation towards her, which was a good idea because she proved to be a good listener. Then an Indian woman came into the room and it turned out that she was the head psychiatrist for the unit and she told us that she wanted to put my son on three or four different medications for bipolar disorder and in the moment, what she was saying made perfect sense to us so we signed a bunch of papers that said just that, and walked out of there feeling a little more hopeful and that maybe this time, we were gonna get this thing under control.

It was on the way home when I began to change my mind. I started thinking about the last time my son was in this hospital about six months ago and how they kept him there for 11 days and pumped him full of drugs and how he stopped taking all of them as soon as he came home, and I didn't want to go through any of that again.

Several parents we know who have been down this road had suggested that we yank our son out of the county snake pit and place him in a private hospital to be properly and comprehensively diagnosed. And after an hour or so of making my wife crazy with the pros and cons of treating craziness, that's what we did. I called the private hospital to see if they had an open bed, they did and then I called the social worker who we had just met with and arranged a transfer.

So we turned around and drove back to the crap hospital. Not surprisingly, my son was flipping out because he had no idea why he was being moved and as much as he hated the place, had already figured out how to game the system. But when I told him that they wanted to keep him there for at least two weeks and pump him full of drugs again and how he could wear his own clothes and be outside in this other place and how I thought this was the right thing to do because I fuckin' love him to death and only wanted to see him get well, he relented. He even almost smiled when he saw that I brought him his baseball cap and black leather jacket.

I was allowed to ride along with him in an ambulance to the new, good hospital and my son was wheeled out on a stretcher because of insurance-related idiocy and I was making annoying Hannibal Lecter jokes ("Hey, they forgot your mask!)" for the entire trip. My wife drove up ahead by herself.

It was dark and much colder when we finally arrived. The three of us had to speak with yet another psychiatrist, who I immediately liked because he looked like an old freak with hair down to the middle of his back and I could tell he was no-bullshit because he said things to my son like, "You just need a little something to smooth you out." I could immediately tell that my son liked him too. We then had to talk to another psychologist, who was fat and distracted and was all bullshit, and we yessed him to death because we were exhausted.

Right before we split, I kissed my son goodnight and told him that everything would be better tomorrow.

Yesterday

I knew something was gonna happen yesterday morning. My older son had been texting me about him being in some kind of a fight with two girlfriends and how both of 'em totally hated him now and I wasn't sure how to respond, so didn't.

The phone calls started as soon as I walked into my office. My wife said that my son was freaking out and wanted her to drive him to school so he could talk to the girls and she had justifiably refused, knowing that he was in no condition to go anywhere, and that just set him off. He began to scream and curse at her, blasting loud music and slamming doors and when my wife called me back, I told her that I was coming home.

Meanwhile, my son began wildly searching the house, looking for my wife's handbag so he could take the keys to her car and drive himself to school and when she tried to stop him, he picked up a small serrated knife and threw it at a cabinet, shattering glass all over the kitchen floor. That's when my wife called 911.

When my son saw the cops at the front door, he panicked and bolted out the back and that's when he called me, screaming and crying how he didn't want to go back to jail. I told him to take a deep breath, turn around and go home and that if he did, the cops would treat this whole thing as a psychiatric incident and take him to the hospital instead of arresting him. And that's how it played out.

An hour or so of a torturous train ride home later, I met my wife at the hospital emergency room and she went home to decompress while I sat with my son, waiting for him to be admitted. He was perfectly calm and we started goofing on all of the drunk and crazy people the cops were bringing in and we sat there for almost four hours before they finally found a bed for him in the adolescent psych ward. We hugged and kissed and then some orderly took him upstairs.

Dig If You Will the Picture

I thought it might help you (and by that I mean help me) if I described myself physically. First off, I don't look (or act) my age and I'm much taller than I sound. In fact, I'd say that height is probably my most prominent feature, followed by width and then depth. I still have almost all of my teeth, but can't say the same about my hair, which I wear close-cropped, mainly to elude the paparazzi.

As previously noted, I've been dieting and you'll be happy to know that I now only look like I'm in my first trimester and no longer need to wear my pants like Urkel. My eyes are hazel, the most confusing (and gay-sounding) of all eye colors, and they look particularly hazel-y when I'm wearing glasses, which I mainly need for reading. And seeing.

I'm rockin' a cool tattoo of my kids names on my right shoulder and another less cool Chinese character on my left. I'm thinking about getting another tat and maybe it'll be of your name. Or a dragon.

I've worn a full beard since I was 17 years old and recently noticed gray flecks in it, but nowhere else, I swear. You can check if you want. I also sport what's known as a Roman nose, which is just code for "Jew." I have soft lips (Kiehl's Lip Balm #1), but I'm sure you've already imagined that and although it hasn't been in use recently, women have often told me that I have a nice smile.

If you brought in a police sketch artist right now, my likeness would most likely resemble every guest murderer on Law & Order.

Just Talk

I know I've been neglecting you lately and swear to make it up to you soon. Maybe we can get away for a weekend sometime, just the two of us. I'd like that.

We can take a ride upstate and check out the fall foliage, it's the perfect time of year, and maybe stop at some country inn and get a room with a wood burning fireplace and we can drink a little wine and talk. Just talk.

Stop laughing, I'm serious. I'm not ready for anything else yet. I really wanna get to know you better. Start with your childhood, tell me everything. Where were you born? Who do you look like? Siblings? Are you close? Were those happy times? Who was your best friend back then? Do you guys still talk? Tell me about your friends today, I can't wait to meet 'em!

What are you most scared of? Are you happy? What would make you happy? Have you ever been in love? Here, have a little more wine. I'll throw another log on the fire.

This is so interesting. It's nice to just listen for a change.

The Crying Game

I can't stop crying lately. I was watching ER last night and lost my shit a few times (and man, was I glad that I was alone). I choked back tears the other day when my sister and I were talking about my never-ending heartache and then again, when I was on the phone with a friend's sister, telling her how amazing and supportive her brother has been to me.

And then I broke down some more when I thought about my younger son and how amazing he's been, not just right now, but pretty much for his entire life. And I cried the other night when we were in a therapy group for families with kids on drugs and I saw my wife cry when she said how guilty she felt for letting go of our older son and then some other woman, who was also crying, told my wife how that can't be true because otherwise she wouldn't be sitting there crying.

And I cried yesterday when I was listening to an old episode of This American Life about unconditional love and also a few nights ago, when the great little actress who plays Becca consoled her dad, David Duchovny on Californication. And I know this is all about my older son and my fear of losing him and I was crying again this morning, when I reread a magazine story I wrote in the form of a letter to him ten years ago.

It's the words in that story that usually get to me, but this time it was his black and white photo, taken when he was eight years old, and he's just staring into the camera, unsmiling and uncertain. And that's the same face I saw when I woke him up to go to school earlier this morning and he surprised me by dreamily saying, "I love you, Daddy."

Joy Division

Unless your name is Joy and you happen to be reading this, there's no joy in my life right now. Even this blog, which I thought would be kinda fun, isn't turning out the way I had planned.

I thought I'd slowly seduce you with my famous "funny/sad" routine and we'd all have a good time along the way, but this doesn't feel like such a good time, does it? And if your answer is yes, then you have more problems than I do and should probably seek professional help.

That being said, I was telling my shrink about Dr. Woo the other night and she laughed and said it sounded like another way of seeking approval from my mom and getting the virtual love that I don't get from my real wife. I laughed and shared a cynical friend's theory that it's just another blatant pussy grab.

Of course, you know that they're both right. And that's why I like you the best.

Who He Is

My friends always ask me how my younger son is doing amidst our continuing chaos and I always say that he's doing fine because he's an amazing kid and rarely complains. But I know he suffers and I'm sure, soon enough, he'll be in therapy like the rest of us.

He and his brother have grown a lot tighter these past few years, bonding over shared music and TV show taste, to say nothing of occasionally partying together. I've tried to grill him about his brother's shit and no matter how blatant or subtle I probe, he always has his back. In fact, a few weeks ago he told me how uncomfortable this line of questioning made him so I promised to back off.

I also promised to take him to the mall yesterday for new T-shirts and hoodies. And we were hanging out, talking about music (he's currently obsessed with early Eminem) and TV shows (we're both in love with the chick who plays Mia in Californication) and one thing led to another and he started talking about his older bro.

"I'll be happy when he goes away to college," he said matter-of-factly. "I love him and all, but I'll be happy to not have to deal with the drama." This was the first time he had expressed anything like this to me and I just nodded in understanding. Then we went to McDonald's and sat down in a back booth where he scarfed down a Big Mac while I tried to explain how I'm not going to be able to save his brother the next time he screws up and how much that hurts.

"It's not your fault," he said, sipping a Sprite. "It's who he is."

And at that moment, I had never been any prouder of who he is.

Good Times

This past year has been a bitch and there's no end in sight. Today's torture: should I send my older son to rehab? If a friend of mine told me that their kid did all of the things that my kid has done, I wouldn't hesitate to say that their kid needs help, yet I remain conflicted on how best to help my son.

In the beginning, I thought his drug use was typical teenage nonsense, maybe a little more hardcore than some, but still fairly benign, you know, "I did the same thing when I was your age" kinda stuff. But like a lot of the shit things that have happened in my life, I chose to look away, hoped for the best and quietly lived in terror. Good times.

I'm not sure what I'm waiting for to finally push me over the edge. One more fuck up? A sign from above? I couldn't tell you. Everything I need to know is in plain sight. I've snooped around his room from time to time and have found pot, pills, empty cans of Reddi-wip, discarded cough medicine bottles and all kinds of other drug paraphernalia. My wife's Xanax went missing last month and there are no more dollar bills in my loose change jar. And this is on top of assorted school and legal problems.

When I look at my older son, I tend to see the best in him, which I like to believe I had a little something to do with. I don't look at his explosive anger or crude manipulations or outright lies. All I see is my little boy who has always had my heart, no matter how many times he breaks it. Whatever trouble he gets in, whatever drugs he takes, whatever fucked up, angry things he says to me and my wife, he will always be my little boy, and that's why I've been walking around feeling all torn up inside, confused, depressed, and most of all, uncertain. Because whatever I decide to do, I have no idea if it will be the right thing and won't know for years to come. I am certain, though, that I have to do something and have to do it now.

A few weeks after we adopted my older son, we threw a big party for our new baby boy and all of my friends and family came to our apartment to help us celebrate his arrival and it was one of the happiest days of my life. Now almost 18 years later, a few of those same friends are still in my life and have been helping me with this agonizing decision and I'm so thankful for that, you have no idea.

Another Rough Day

I love being the first person in the office every morning. It feels similar to being the only one awake in my house. Nothing bad usually happens this early. I can hear myself think and the morning sun makes my office glow. It was beginning to do the same to me this morning when I realized something important -- we were closed today!

So I checked my email, listened to my messages, polished off my blueberry yogurt, downed the last of my ice coffee, turned around and headed home. Another rough day at the office.

Genius at Work

If you happen to like geniuses, you've come to the right place. At least according to my younger son.

We were watching the Cowboys/Cardinals game yesterday afternoon and I kept saying what the commentators were saying, except I was saying it first, which I guess makes me smarter than Troy Aikman. I called holding call after holding call, predicted that Warner would keep going to Breaston, said that the Cardinals TD on Romo's fumble would be reversed, and then told my son that Romo was going to throw down the middle and that the Cowboys were gonna kick a tying field goal to send the game into overtime and, of course, that's exactly what happened.

"You're a freakin' genius," he said and, for once, didn't mean it sarcastically.

"No I'm not. I'm just old and have seen this all before," I told him. "One day you'll be old and will say the same things to your son."

"No I won't," said the sarcastic little fuck.

The Box

In our house, gift giving (or for that matter, any kind of giving) has never been easy. It was our anniversary a few weeks ago and I bought my wife another iPod nano (it's so thin!) because Apple always seems to come out with new Back-to-School models to help us celebrate. She fake thanked me and then told me to return it because she could barely make out any of the tiny song titles on the screen and still doesn't know how to download music from iTunes. None of this was the least bit surprising.

What was surprising was what she got me. She went into the closet and brought out two gold boxes adorned with thick, black ribbons and even before I opened 'em, I felt badly one-upped, expecially since it wasn't a particularly important anniversary as anniversaries go and I told her as much. She said that I've always bitched about her ambivalence for these kind of things and didn't want me to feel neglected again, which shut me right up. I undid the ribbon on the smaller of the two boxes and inside was a black, distressed leather belt.

"It's fantastic," I said (as I happen to have a thing for leather belts), and I put it on and it was a size too small because I was a pre-diet size too big.

"If you don't love this," said my wife, handing me the larger box, "I can return it. It was expensive and you should only keep it if you really love it." Under pressure, I gently removed the top of the box and peeled away a few layers of tissue.

"Wow, a scarf," I said, "It's beautiful!" I continued my impression of someone who loves scarves, but my wife wasn't buying it.

"No problem, I'll return it," she said and nonchalantly packed the gifts up (she had already asked the store to hold the same belt in a larger size) and placed them next to the unwanted iPod.

"The gifts of the Magi," I joked and we laughed although neither of us could remember what the couple in the story gave each other. Later that night, I noticed another large, gold box sitting on the dining room table. "What's with the other box? I asked. "Is this for me?"

"Oh, I bought a few things from the same store," she explained, "and I thought I'd save the other gift for some other time."

"Can I open it?" I asked like a little kid on Christmas morning, like somehow there was something amazing in this box that wasn't in the other ones.

"Sure," she said, "if you want."

"How about I'll open it if I could guess what's inside?" I asked. "Is it something I'd like?"

"Maybe."

"Is it something else to wear?"

"No."

"Is it something that will make me smell good?"

"No."

"Is it something I could stick my dick in?"

"Yes," she said, tired of playing this silly game, "it's something you could stick your dick in! Why doncha just open it!"

"Now I don't want to," I said. "We built it up too much." And then I told her that this would make a good little story one day called "The Box." The couple in this story celebrate their anniversary each year by playing an eternal guessing game and we never find out what's inside of the box. The O'Henry twist comes in real life when we discover that I'm what's inside of it.

How To

I know it's cliche, but no matter what's goin on in my life, it always seems that mornings arrive full of hope and this is even before a big breakfast. It's in that post-Ambien spirit that I'd like to share some pointers with you from a wiki I found called "How to Fall in Love."

The first key to falling in love is finding someone to fall in love with. Check.

Try hard not to fall in love at first sight. You had me at "hello."

Give it time. Don't rush the process. Also check.

"Read" the person. I don't know about you, but I like to read in bed.

Open yourself to love. You're making me hot.

Give yourself fully, receive wholeheartedly. OMG, yes, yes.

Take the plunge. Yeah, take it, baby!

Don't be afraid to sleep on it! See above.

Tell your love that you are in love. Click on Comments below.

Defend the honor of your love. Never make jokes at his or her expense. WTF?

Do nothing to compromise trust. I trust you implicitly.

Believe in your love. I totally do, but it would be easier if I knew what you were wearing.

Being in love can give you the greatest pleasure and also cause you the most pain. Only if done right.

Story of My Life

My wife and I have been fighting lately about my older son, who you know a little about. She has pretty much had it with him and I have too, but I'm not able to let go (story of my life) as much as she has. As it turns out, that wasn't what we were fighting about last night.

She was pissed at me because I've been in a funk for these past few weeks and she's frustrated and tired of having to deal with my bad moods. She's never been the most compassionate person (and why I called her "Miss Compassionate" yesterday) and one thing led to another and all of a sudden, it was like we were time traveling on Lost.

She was going on about how we've grown apart and how we no longer have anything in common and I was complaining about how nothing ever seems to change. Then we asked each other what we want and we each answered, "What do you want?" because neither of us had the guts to state the obvious, so instead we said that we just want to be happy, whatever the hell that means, which always leads to a few moments of silence that's part mourning, part confusion and part just catching our breath.

And then we talked about how maybe we should go our separate ways when the kids go off to college in a few years and how that would be the best time to do it so we wouldn't have to abandon our family, which is as fragile as it's ever been and that's saying quite a lot. And after arriving at all of the usual non-conclusions, I went upstairs to our bedroom and she stayed downstairs in the den with our three tiny dogs.

BTW, is this making you wet?

Why I Was Smiling

I had a dream about you last night. We were in bed, but it wasn't that type of a dream. We were talking, I don't remember about what, just that I was so relaxed and the words were floating out of me and there was a Bill Evans song that I love playing somewhere in the background, and it felt like we had just come back from getting massages, maybe we were at a spa because the bed was really big and soft and it wasn't my bed, maybe it was yours.

And you sat down next to me and you listened and didn't say a word and you just let me go on talking until you got on top of me and we held each other and the last thing I remember was listening to your heart beat before I drifted off to sleep.

When I woke up this morning, my wife asked me why I was smiling.

The Phone Rang

I have such a headache right now and probably shouldn't be writing anything, least of all what I'm about to write, but I've always been one who takes the good with the bad. Which isn't to say that anything you've previously read has been particularly good, just that this is particularly bad.

My older son was arrested yesterday. He was charged with aggravated harrassment (he threatened his ex-girlfriend and, for now, I'll leave it at that) and after a long day in arraignment court, was sent home on probation. He has a number of problems, some typical teenager stuff and some not so typical, so this didn't come as a total surprise. In fact, every time my phone rings, my heart jumps into my throat because this is what I dread and because I knew this was inevitable.

The detective handling the case was nice enough to let me bring my son down to the station early yesterday morning so he wouldn't have to spend the night in jail. Right before we walked inside, I put my arm around him and said that everything was gonna be all right, although that's not the way I felt. He just said, "I know."

Some other cop asked my son to take off his belt, necklace and ring and he casually handed these things to me like he was slipping off his backpack when he comes home from school. We hugged each other, bumped fists and I said I'd see him in court in a little while.

So I drove over to the courthouse and sat for hours, watching dozens of suspected criminals being arraigned, waiting for them to call my son's name. I actually did the same thing last week when I drove him to get his senior yearbook photo taken. He had blown it off three or four times and this was his last chance. He wore a new short-sleeved, white shirt and a thin silver tie that his younger brother had to tie for him, and his hair was a mess and he just looked like such a loser, like the kid in your yearbook that you make fun of 20 years later, and when they called his name it took everything in me not to burst into tears. When they finally called his name yesterday, I no longer felt like crying.

The Most Important Things

Other than pussy jokes, what else do we have in common? Like I said from the start, there's nothing I can't tell you, so let's get to the most important things first -- favorite music and TV shows.

If you're at all knowledgeable about music then you may already know that I'm a major Steely Dan fan. And if you've never heard of SD (hey, Nineteen!), the cleverness of Dr. Woo is gonna be lost on you (as was the joke before it) and you'll also miss out on a lot of other sly song allusions, so maybe in your spare time just Google 'em. "Or drink your big black cow and get out of here."

I also love (in order) Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, James Taylor, Tom Waits, Shawn Colvin, Norah Jones, Dave Matthews and a whole bunch of other artists and bands that you've probably never heard of. My musical taste has often been described as "incredibly gay" (I even like early Elton John, anything before Goodbye Yellow Brick Road) and I'm totally cool with that.

The same goes for TV. I can't wait to see this week's episode of Project Runway (they should've totally kicked off Kenley last week!) and I'm also obsessed with Survivor, The Amazing Race, The Biggest Loser and as long as Bobby Flay's in it, most anything on the Food Network (I'm ready for a throwdown!). Continuing on the food tip, I can't wait for Top Chef and Hell's Kitchen to return and I'll even watch Kitchen Nightmares if nothing else is on.

I'm into a few non-gay shows too, such as (in order) Mad Men (for Betty and Joan), Lost (for Kate and Juliet), The Office (both Pams), 30 Rock (Liz and Cerie), Californication (Karen and Mia), Weeds (MLP), House (13 and Cuddy), Dexter (Rita and Lila), Friday Night Lights (every damn woman on the show) and ER (yes, you read that right, E fucking R! RIP, Mekhi!).

We'll get to movies and books some other time.

Wouldn't It Be Cool

Hey. You look nice today. You did something with your hair, right? Totally works.

I've been thinking about making some changes, too. Like I finally started a diet, so if you do fall in love with me, you don't have to worry about being with some fat pig. I haven't had pizza in a few days (that mozzarella patch seems to be working) and I'm down to a pack a week of my beloved M&M's. I'm really gonna try to stick with it this time and I'm usually successful when I finally make up my mind to do something, although it usually takes a while before I can make up my mind, which is part of my boyish charm. Was that another smile?

When I say "boyish" what I really mean is "man-ish," which sounds kinda gay, which I'm not although I have pretty gay taste in a whole mess of things. On the other hand, I love pussy and firmly believe that that's what separates the men from the other men who don't. And yes, it occurred to me that if I want you to fall in love here, perhaps I shouldn't throw around "pussy" all that much (who do I think I am, Sarah Silverman?) but then I thought wouldn't it be cool if you didn't mind me flinging it all willy-nilly, if you might even like that I do?

Not including Sarah S. (who I am so over), do you exist? And do you have a nice pussy? I can make that joke because I know you wouldn't mind.

Are You With Me?

You seem like someone I can trust, someone I can really talk to. That doesn't happen with me very often. I'm usually on the shy, quiet side. Don't get me wrong, I have plenty to say. I'm just not one of those guys who needs to hear the sound of his own voice all of the time, but being here with you now feels different. So here goes . . .

What would you think if I told you that you'll fall in love with me, that we're destined to be together, that we're the perfect fit? No, I'm not kidding and you're not drunk. I haven't fully thought this through yet but maybe for once that'll be a good thing. All I can tell you is that, at some point in time, you will fall in love with me and you'll fall hard and when that happens, I'll be there to . . . look under your dress. Was that a smile?

I know what you're thinking, "Who does this creepy bastard think he is?" Let me assure you that I'm neither creepy or bastard-y (although the more I say I'm not creepy, the creepier I sound). On the Guy Approval Matrix, I'm probably floating somewhere between Needy and Pathetic, the good, non-creepy, sometimes almost appealing type of pathetic.

If you're still with me, maybe you find this a tiny bit intriguing because there's nothing good on TV right now or you're bored at work and this is as good a distraction as any. Or maybe you're a little like me and you wanna believe that things in your life can be so much better. What's better than falling in love? And even though you weren't looking for this, maybe this is exactly what you were looking for.