The Goodbye Look

In more ways than I can possibly describe, this isn't working. It's not you, it's me.

So I'm sorry to tell you that I'm gonna stop now and maybe come back in a while as someone else.

Maybe even, if I'm lucky, as myself.

Needing Eggs

My wife and I had one too many glasses of Merlot last night (which for lightweights like us, means two apiece) and one thing led to another until . . . she fell asleep.

I didn't mind it all that much (it certainly wasn't the first time it had happened), and then when I thought about it a little more, it began to bother me that I didn't feel more bothered.

She actually woke up about an hour later, just in time to catch the beginning of Annie Hall. It's one of those movies that I have to watch whenever it's on TV, and since it was first released in the late-seventies, not a year has gone by that I haven't seen it at least once. My wife had previously seen it when she was in her early twenties and didn't remember it at all.

For my money, it really holds up well and we were laughing and crying right up until Woody delivers the immortal last line: "I guess we keep goin' through it because, uh, most of us . . . need the eggs." And as we were lying in bed together, watching the silent credits roll, it felt better than sex.

MILP Hunting

It got particularly heated in group therapy the other night. This intense Italian mom (as if there's any other type) was complaining that her pot dealer son never listens to a word she says and curses her out all of the time, and our therapist asked everyone else what they thought about that. My immediate thought was, "She's pretty hot in a familiarly crazy and super-stressed out kinda way!"

And then I spent the rest of the session checking out all of the other MILPs (mothers in lots of pain). There was a newbie sans husband sitting next to me who had a nice rack and cool glasses, and another one with ruddy skin and a few extra pounds who was not altogether bad looking. A dark-haired woman with a slight overbite was sitting on the other side of my wife and I kept trying to picture her naked, but she wouldn't stop crying.

I can't speak for anyone else, but this group is really doing me a lot of good.

Show Us Your Twits

Before I became Dr. Woo, I was Evrythingmustgo on Twitter. I grew bored with it pretty quickly (although I loved the haiku-ness of its 140 character limit), and considering that most of my followers were spam bots, it felt like an even bigger waste of time than this has been, presuming that some of you, at least, are real.

That said, I still think you might enjoy the following medley of my Twits (which is really just another way of saying that I couldn't think of anything new to write about today):

Sometimes I wonder if the imaginary voices in my head can feel my phantom chest pains.

There's always laughter right outside of my office.

My older son now wants to go to the University of Amsterdam. Weeds College is his reach school.

Dr. Ruth mistakenly called Facebook "Facelift" on The Today Show. And then she lifted up her skirt and asked, "Who vants to see my space?"

My wife asks a million questions and then gets annoyed at me when I answer each one of them.

I think my older son broke up with his girlfriend. I asked him where she was this weekend and he said, "Not here."

My younger son always seems to be happy, but the "seems" part worries me.

I'm not a big fan of anti-depressants, but I'd consider it if it came in a topical rub.

Topical rub is also a euphemism for masturbating to whoever is in the news.

My wife's been complaining about having a salty taste in her mouth, so I told her that I'm going to kick Mr. Peanut's ass.

Carnac 2.0: "A bong, a condom, a smelly bag from Wendy's." (Rips envelope) "What I found this morning on top of my older son's laptop."

Text message from my wife this morning: If u hav a chance can u pick up milk and half and half ? Thx.

My response: That was the least sexy text message I've ever received.

To which she replied: The milk is for my breast and pussy bath and the cream is for rubbing your hard cock in my hands and mouth!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we've been married for almost 25 years.

I'm pretty sure I have OCD. I'm pretty sure I have. I'm pretty sure I. I'm pretty sure. I'm pretty. I'm. I.

Doctor Hears a Woo

A devoted reader (I have two) recently reminded me that I've gone off message again. His basic criticism was that I'm not doing such a hot job in the wooing department, and this is coming from someone who already loves me and has done his own fair share of pulling in the ladies (and I'll see you soon, Clooney).

Desperate for inspiration, I looked up the definition of woo (it's a little known fact that many of the great poets also turned to Wikipedia), and this is what I found:

To seek the affection of with intent to romance.

Now I think I've been pretty good about seeking out affection (and by pretty good, I mean pathological), but my intent has been as shaky as my emotions and that kinda makes romance even more arduous, especially when the other devoted reader is my sister.

I hate that my life keeps getting in our way, but I'm not sure what to do about it, short of getting a new life, which was sorta the idea in the first place. We were supposed to be sharing a break from our lives, rather than the relentless heartbreak of mine.

And what about your heart? How am I gonna work my way in? Or thereabouts.

The doctor will see you now.

My Own Worst Enemy

I've been making myself crazy again (and so ends the lightening the fuck up portion of our show). I could probably use some meds of my own, but that would just make me feel better and in a nutshell (haha), that's the problem. I was telling my therapist last night that the more things have seemingly stabilized at home, the more unsettled I've been feeling and how I've become my own worst enemy.

"I go looking for trouble! I've been going through my son's room looking for shit. Weed, pipes, notes from his girlfriend, whatever," I admitted, shaking my head in half embarrassment and half disbelief. "Or I'll count his pills every night just to make sure that he's taking 'em. I'm creating anxiety out of thin air."

"It's all about control," she said, for what sounded like the millionth time. "It makes you feel that you're doing something or that you can prevent something from happening. That feeling is so familiar to you, but the thing is, you can't really do anything about this. If he's gonna get high, he's gonna get high. He's either gonna take his pills or not. You have to begin to let go."

"You know, I did the same damn thing a few years ago when my wife was having an affair," I said, shaking my head again. "I frantically searched around the house looking for . . . I don't even know what I was looking for."

"Stop counting the pills and stay out of his room!" she fake yelled at me. "You can start letting go with some of these little things. And you gotta stop making yourself crazy!"

"Maybe I should start with little meds and stop seeing you," I joked and handed her a check.

"Thanks," she said. "Maybe I'll see you next week."

Coming Home

I never know what to expect when I come home from work, so I take a deep breath. The moment I put my key in the door, the house could explode. Or it could be as quiet as the middle of the night. The first thing I look for is my older son's sneakers. If they're lying around in the front hall, it means that he's not in them somewhere else.

The next thing I look for is my wife. If she's in the kitchen, it means that she's probably not sick to her stomach. If she's upstairs in our bedroom under the covers, things can go either way. If the lights are off, that's not a good sign. As soon as I see her face, I know everything I need to know.

And if her look doesn't kill me, I'll go looking for my older son. If I hear music (and don't smell anything funky) coming from his room, it means that I probably won't get sick to my stomach. If he's wearing headphones and typing on his laptop, it's 50-50 that something's not right. If he answers my questions with one word, make it 75 percent. If he answers with one word and doesn't look at me, I know everything I need to know.

After that, I'll usually poke my head in to say hi to my younger son and it's always such a relief to see him. Then I'll go downstairs to eat some dinner and sometimes he'll come along just to keep me company.

Personal Essay

I spent a good deal of the Giants/Redskins game yesterday helping my older son write a personal essay for his college applications. Here's what we have so far:

The first thing you should know about me is that I'm adopted. Otherwise, I'm pretty much like everyone else, no better or worse. I've known about it all of my life and it's never been a big deal. And yet it's always there.

Every now and then, I think about my life if my parents didn't adopt me. I wonder if I'd be any different. I wonder where I'd be living, who I'd be hanging out with, if things would be any easier or more difficult. Then I stop thinking about it because it's not like it's going to change anything.

Not that I'd want anything to change. I am who I am. I've read about the whole nature vs. nurture thing and I think I'm lucky to have had both. I remember one time when I was a little kid, I was with my mom in some store and some old lady asked me, "Where did you get your beautiful blonde hair from?" And I said, "Joplin, Missouri!" My dad always tells me that story because he likes to take credit for my sense of humor.

And I'm okay with that. I know I'm lucky to have parents and a younger brother who love me and, to tell you the truth, I think it may be a little strange being away from them when I go to college next year. But I also know that this is what's next on the way to becoming the independent adult I want to become.

I want what most everyone wants out of life. I want to work hard and be successful. I want to eventually fall in love, marry and have a family of my own. I want to be happy. My dad always tells me that I can be successful at anything I put my mind to because I can be pretty stubborn and determined. Actually, his exact words are, "If you only used your powers for good instead of evil . . ."

Honestly, I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to get out of college. I mean, I want to major in business because I really like money, but there are so many other things that I'm clueless about. And it's those things that I usually wind up loving the most. Like computers. Believe it or not, I always hated computers when I was younger, mainly because I didn't know how to use them.

My dad would sit with me for hours and we'd go over everything slowly and I'd complain and complain until finally one day, it just clicked in for me. Now I've become the family computer geek (I set up our wireless home network), which my dad finds annoying, although not so much. I recently applied for a job at the Apple Store, but they told me I was too young and should come back when I was in college. I told them that I definitely would.

The last thing you should know about me is that this will be the first time I'll be leaving home. I've never been big on going to summer camp or anything like that, and I'm excited and a little bit scared. And I'm okay with that.

I've Loved You So Long

I was driving home yesterday afternoon and my head was swimming in the sad French film I had just seen (Kristin Scott Thomas is devastating in it). And after a long train of thought, I spoke the following words out loud:

"Boy, did I fuck up!"

I was more surprised that I had actually said these words aloud than the words themselves. The voices in my head usually stay there, especially when I'm by myself. The movie got me thinking about all of the mistakes I've made in my life and how things could've turned out differently.

Specifically, I kept thinking about what would've happened if I hadn't married my wife. Would I have been happier? Would I have been more successful? What type of woman would I be with today? Where would I be living? Would I have done all of the things that I've always wanted to do? Would I feel any more fulfilled?

All of this foolishness stopped when my phone rang. It was my oldest son.

Going Down Fast

You may have noticed that I've taken a little break from the usual domestic tragedy and have lightened the fuck up. It's been about a week since I last told you anything substantive about my older son and nothing has really changed except that I stopped telling you about it.

The truth is that I was going down fast and needed some type of relief before it swallowed me whole. Some funny person (probably Woody Allen) once said, "Comedy is tragedy plus time." It just gets tricky when you throw in multiplication.

And that's not even factoring in the original equation of how to make you fall in love with me. It hasn't been easy finding the formula for that bat-shit crazy, mysteriously wonderful feeling and perhaps the solution lies less in math and more in chemistry. It's certainly worth a try, although it's not like I haven't been trying.

I've opened up to you like never before. I've shared my most intimate thoughts and feelings. I've shown a certain amount of kindness and intelligence, as well as a decent sense of humor. I've even been on a goddamn diet! So what's the problem?

Who do I have to blow for you to fall in love with me?

Black Friday

For me, "Black Friday" is a Steely Dan song (When Black Friday comes, I'm gonna dig myself a hole, Gonna lay down in it 'til I satisfy my soul). But for most everyone else, it's an excuse to satisfy their soul by laying down what little money they have left on one-day-only bargain crap.

How can I resist? Well, for the most part, I hate to shop. On the few occasions when it's absolutely necessary, I do my thing and am in and out of there in a flash (and that shouldn't be taken as a metaphor for anything else).

I can think of two exceptions. I can spend hours at the Apple Store (I'm usually the one without the piercings). Or a whole day at the mall with you!

We can go into any store you'd like, although I've been known to get antsy in women's shoes (especially Uggs). And I really don't mind if you wanna try stuff on. Hey, there's a Victoria's Secret. You kinda remind me of Heidi Klum a little. I know you gotta have that Twilight T-shirt at Hot Topic. And then let's share one of those cinnamon pretzels that smell so good.

This is so much fun, making believe that we're together. I do it with my wife all of the time.

A Few Sappy Words

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. It starts with Snoopy and ends in the bathroom and other than watching the pathetic Lions, it's pretty much a perfect day. There's also supposed to be a little something about being thankful, which, to be honest, I've often overlooked.

Sure, I got the whole fortunate to have food on the table thing and being with family and friends instead of alone. And someone, probably my father-in-law, would always say a few heartfelt words to that effect and it would stay with me right up until the first forkful of sweet potatoes.

I've since found my own few sappy words. What I've learned this past year is that there's nothing like the fear of loss to make you fully appreciate life, and that's what I'm thankful for. I'm thankful that the people who I love the most are still here with me today.

My Favorite Part

My younger son came into my bedroom this morning to discuss something very important.

"Dad," he said, "do you ever watch Dexter? I just downloaded the first season and it's fuckin' awesome!"

"Definitely! The first season's great, but I liked the second one better," I said. "The current one has just been okay."

"Yeah, that's what happens with all of these shows," said the noted TV critic. "You know what my favorite part is?"

"The opening credits," I said.

"How didja know? They're genius!" he gushed. "Now that I've taken all of these video classes, I can see how intricate each shot is."

"When did you become Hitchcock?"

"Who?"

"Nevermind," I said. "Where are you with it?"

"I'm only on like the third or fourth episode and the Ice Truck Killer is leaving Dexter all of those little dolls and his sister was just transferred to Homicide," he explained. "I also love the parts when they flashback to when he was a kid and we get to see how he became who he is."

"Should I tell you what happens?" I teased.

"Only if you want to be a dick," he said.

Where It Goes

I was having a rough time composing my thoughts today. For whatever reason, I got stuck on revising the shit out of everything in my head until I became paralyzed. And for me, there's nothing worse. I knew I'd just have to push through and see where it would go.

Unlike my life, blogging is a piece of cake. Most of the time, I know exactly what I'm gonna write about, although I'm not always so sure where it's gonna go. Like this morning. I was talking to my sister and in the back of my mind thought that I'd write about our conversation. So while she was spilling her guts about her kids, I was scribbling it all down until it hit me that I wasn't really listening to her and how fucked up that was, considering how she listens to my tired bullshit everyday. And I didn't tell her any of that until right now.

Or when I opened iChat earlier and read the following on my older son's Away Message:

I never know what to get my father for his birthday. I gave him a hundred dollars and said, 'Buy yourself something that will make your life easier.' So he went out and bought a present for my mother.

I didn't know what to make of that, so I IMed him a few minutes ago.

Dude, where did that joke on your Away Msg come from?

hahaha. jenna!

Was funny!

thought so too, reminded me of you!

The Silver Lining

The first thing I saw when I went online this morning was today's forecast -- mostly cloudy -- and, for a change, didn't take it personally. I don't know about you, but I don't know anyone who's having a particularly good time right now. A few of my friends are out of work, a few are dealing with cancer, a few more are (like me) suffering with a troubled teen and we're all royally screwed with the economy from hell. Whoever said misery loves company didn't know what the fuck he was talking about.

I'd give my left nut (and for me, that's saying quite a lot) to hear some good news, from anyone. I was watching the season finale of True Blood last night and some new character named Eggs told Tara (who I'd also give my left nut to), "Sometimes good shit happens too."

Sure, good shit happens on TV (congrats to Vinny for landing the Scorsese flick!), but real life is another story. Just because shit stuff happens to you doesn't necessarily mean that good stuff will follow. If that were the case, I'd be swimming in blowjobs. Life is random; blowjobs even more so.

Being the optimist who you've come to know (and possibly love), however, I'm constantly looking for the silver lining and here it is: things could always be worse.

Namaste 2

My newly-limber wife just came home from yoga and was happily demonstrating some of her favorite poses.

"This is Downward Facing Dog," she said, lifting her hips up to the sky while stretching out her legs.

"Of course it is," I said. "Lemme see some more!"

"This is Balancing Table," she said while doing some funky stuff with her arms and legs. Then she moved into a Crab pose and finished with something called Child.

"This is so turning me on!" I said. "Do you wanna see my Doggy Lipstick pose?"

"I've seen your Doggy Lipstick pose," she said wearily.

"What about the Frasier Crane?" I went on. "Or I can show you my Half Moon?"

"I'll pass," she said.

"Namaste," I said.

Mr. Softee

A friend, who is now the joyous subject of another blog, recently reminded me of who I used to be. She always makes me happy when I see her, although she usually does most of the talking. I don't mind it a bit because she's the best kind of kooky, charming as all get-out and a singular force of nature deserving of her own You Tube channel.

She's also extremely sympathetic and to that end, let me do most of the talking when we had lunch the other day (and my guess is that this doesn't happen very often). After I exhausted both of us with my latest tales of woe, she recalled the time when we first met nearly 18 years ago.

"You were like this cool guy," she said, "who made really sarcastic comments all of the time."

"That was when I was more of a persona than a person," I admitted.

"But you had these two beautiful pictures of your kids on your desk," she remembered, "and right then I knew that you were really a Mr. Softee on the inside."

"Now I'm just a Mr. Softee," I said, "without the sprinkles."

"No problem, honey," she said, flashing what has always been the most genuine of smiles. "Sprinkles is my department."

Comedy Night

At the end of each parents-of-kids-on-drugs meeting, our cheerful therapist reads the results from last week's urine tests. When he called out our son's name and said "negative" last night, my wife and I had the same reaction. We both laughed. We said that there must be some mistake. Or that he somehow figured out a way to beat it. Another mom in the group tried to encourage us by saying that her son told her that our son told him that he was really trying to cut back, and we laughed again. The therapist looked at us like we were crazy.

Of course, we are and have been for some time, but there's also a method to our madness. We're scared to let down our guard because we don't want to be disappointed again. And again. And again. And to steel ourselves from the ensuing pain, we live in continual psychic pain and therefore can't be hurt any more than we already are. This routine works like a charm, except for in reality.

For instance, my older son came downstairs to the kitchen around eleven o'clock a few nights ago and my wife just happened to still be up and her heart started to race because she was thinking that maybe he was gonna ask her to drive him over to his girlfriend's house. As it turned out, he was looking for nose spray.

So we laughed last night, but it was the shitty kind of laugh, the kind thoroughly devoid of hope. And without hope . . . there's nothing. Without hope, there's no possibility for change. Or for joy.

When we got home last night, we were starving and went straight to the kitchen where our younger son was already making himself a bagel. He asked us how it went and I told him that the parents group is mainly a whole lot of crying and my older son said that the teen group is mainly a whole of laughing. And then he told a story about some Xanax-addicted, Indian kid who knows our younger son, and they were both laughing their asses off and so were we.

"Tonight's comedy night!" said my younger son, and for the first time in a long time, it was.

Bad Vibes

Sometimes I can see it coming, sometimes not so much. Like last night. I was feeling okay, almost a little too okay, when the dread crept back in. It's strange because things have been kinda quiet these past few days. Maybe that was the reason, and if so, that's really depressing because there's gotta be a difference between the quiet and the storm.

The anxiety started off in my chest and emanated throughout my body until I was consumed in bad vibes. I was watching Criminal Minds and it was annoying the shit out of me (and it wasn't just because Jason Alexander was the guest psycho). During a commercial, my older son popped his head in to say that he was taking his meds earlier than usual because he was going back to school tomorrow and, I don't know, I just started thinking about all of the things that could possibly go wrong. What if he hates this place? What if the teachers bug him? What if the bus ride makes him sick?

My mind was racing with "what ifs?" and every time I heard his door open last night, it sent me round the bend. What's he doing now? Why is he still awake? Aren't the meds supposed to knock him out? Why does he keep going to the bathroom? Why is he pissing so much? Why I am thinking about him pissing? What the hell is wrong with me?

Believe it or not, this was after I had taken an Ambien! I finally turned on a portable fan, hoping that the white noise would eventually overpower the dark voices in my head. I lay there freezing until I fell asleep.

Good One

My younger son got his first quarter report card yesterday and other than an A+ in Creative Writing (apple/tree), he pulled straight Cs. He's always been a pretty good student without really trying (remember, we're the only underachieving family in the nabe), and we've never really busted his ass about it because we thought there were more important things in life, although I'm hard pressed to tell you right now what we thought those things were.

That's really bullshit. The reason we never got on his case about grades (or anything, for that matter), was because he's always been the "good one" (apple/tree again), and we've always taken that goodness for granted while focusing our attention on our older son's not goodness. And of course that kills me, but that's another story for another time.

"So what's the story?" I asked my younger son as we were driving to school this morning. "What's up with the sea of Cs?"

"I don't know," he said, looking out the window. "The shit is just harder this year. I really don't know."

"Anything I can do?" I asked. "Do you need tutoring or can you go in early for extra help?"

"I don't know. I mean, I know it's all up to me, like if I wanna go to a good college. I guess I'll just have to work harder," he said and paused for a few seconds. "I spoke with my guidance counselor yesterday and he said that he knows that I have a lot of stuff goin' on at home."

"Does that effect your school work?" I asked.

"What do you think?" he shot back.

"Stupid question," I said. "Sorry."

"It's all right," he said as we pulled up to school. "Have a good one."

One Piece Missing

It took my wife, with a little help from our younger son, less than three days to knock off a 2,000 piece jigsaw puzzle of the New York City skyline. Personally, I just don't get it, but I've never been much good at solving any type of puzzle.

I guess there could be some satisfaction in making all of the pieces fit together (especially if they don't in your life), but the whole idea of it just makes my ass tight. You start with a mountain of oddly-shaped pieces and then divvy them up into smaller piles by separating the edges from the inside pieces. Most people begin to assemble the border next and then fill in the rest of the picture according to shape and color and it all seems very logical and methodical, and a gigantic waste of fuckin' time.

Whatevs. My wife's obviously getting something out of it because she always calls me to proudly show off her completed work. Or nearly completed, as was the case a few weeks ago. She had just finished Van Gogh's Starry Night, but there was one piece missing. She was sure that our older son had swiped it just to piss her off.

"What's the big deal?" I asked. "What do you get out of this?"

"I don't have to think," she said and then began to break apart Van Gogh's swirling sky.

Hidden Meaning

I don't know why I'm so obsessed with my older son's Away Messages. Most of the time, it's just a lyric to a song he's been listening to, but I'm always looking for some hidden meaning. I didn't have to look that far today (again, courtesy of Warren Zevon):

I was gambling in Havana
I took a little risk
Send lawyers, guns and money
Dad, get me out of this

Heartbeats

My wife can always tell when my older son is not himself. She can feel it in a heartbeat, albeit a skipped one. He'll come downstairs to the kitchen and she'll know there's something up just by the way he reaches for the Captain Crunch.

Nine times out of ten, that something is a fight with Jenna, his girlfriend. In fact, most of his problems involve women and you don't have to be a brain surgeon to figure out that it all stems from being adopted and feeling abandoned, which in turn fuels a desperate need for connection. Unfortunately, when that connection is broken, so is he.

And that's the way he was walking around all weekend long, although he was less angry than he's been in the past and maybe that was the meds working, I really don't know. I really don't know anything, although when I got into work this morning, I saw the following on his Away Message:

i'm sorry tonight was really messed up. ive just been holding back for the past two weeks n it all came out at once. i really do love u n would do anything 4 u. ull c how much i can do for u. im sorry i didnt say sweet things to u b 4 u went to sleep n now i regret it.

At the end was an emoticon of a heart, which made mine skip a beat.

My Worst Nightmare

Every time I think my older son has hit rock bottom, a trap door opens and we all go sliding deeper down the chute. All the experts, including my wife, insist that reaching this low point is critically necessary in order for my son to finally understand that there are consequences to his foolish actions.

So we need to sit tight (as if there's any other way), do nothing and let nature (rather than nurture) take its course. Because if we continue to intervene, if I continue to try and save him, how will he even know that he's being saved? I believe the AA affirmation for this is "Let go and let God" and I think you know how much I struggle with both of those things.

I totally get why we need to get there, but it scares the shit out of me because it's also my worst nightmare. I've long had these recurring dreams where horrible shit happens -- someone (it's usually my wife or kids, although one time it was Jennifer Aniston) is about to be shot or stabbed or crash into another car -- and I can't do anything about any of it because I'm completely paralyzed (and in most of these, my teeth are also crumbling) and all I can do is watch until I'm jarred awake.

Well, I'm good and jarred right now and all I can do is watch and it's a living nightmare.

Little Good 2

"So what didja guys do last night?" I asked my older son when he came into my bedroom earlier this afternoon.

"Nuthin," he said. "Just hung out at Paul's."

"Listen," I began, "I want you to think about something."

"What?" he said, immediately defensive.

"You have this unbelievable opportunity ahead of you for a do-over," I said.

"I'm walking away now," he sing-songed and turned around to split.

"Dude, just listen to me!"

"I've heard this all before, Dad."

"I know you've heard it all before," I said and hesitated for a moment before blurting out, "Meanwhile, I smelled pot in your room and in the attic."

"I'm not the only one in this house," he declared in what has become a familiar non-denial denial manner, and walked away.

I followed him into his room. "Dude, that's not fair," I said. "I'm trying to talk to you."

"I know and I don't care," he said, on the verge of anger. "Get out of my room!"

"Don't talk to me like that! I don't talk to you like that."

"Well, I don't like to listen to you saying the same things over and over," he said, staring into his laptop.

"I guess I need to develop some new material."

"Maybe you do," he said, now IMing with a friend.

"I think you know why I keep saying the same things over and over," I said. "You know where I'm coming from, that I'm concerned about you."

"Dad, I keep telling you," he said, looking at me again, "you have nothing to be concerned about!"

"I know, but like I keep telling you, when you're a parent, the concern never ends. I'm always gonna be concerned. No matter how angry you get at me," I told him. "That's just the way it is. Until I die. Someday when you're a dad, you'll find out."

Neither of us said anything for awhile. "I don't have any more words left," I said finally.

"Good," he said and then it was my turn to walk away.

Little Good

When I came home from work last night, I went right upstairs into my older son's room. He wasn't there, but it didn't matter because he didn't need to be. I smelled pot as soon as I opened the door. I need to talk with him today although I'm not sure what to say. Not that anything I say will do him any good.

I'm frustrated and disappointed and sad and all the same tired stuff that I keep telling you I am. This is my life and I have to be here, but what's your excuse? At this point, I can't imagine anything I say will do you much good, either.

Which isn't to say that I don't love that you keep coming back for more, but there must be something better to watch on TV. This wasn't what I had in mind when I first set out and suggested that this would be as good a distraction as any. This can't be what you were looking for. Dr. Woo, my ass! It should be Dr. Boo Hoo. Or Dr. Rue. Or Dr. Blue. Or Dr. Jew.

That last joke, I admit, did me a little good.

What I Didn't Tell Him 2

Yesterday was a good day. My son was placed on probation and if he doesn't fuck up again, will have no criminal record. Our lawyer said that he couldn't have done any better if he was representing his own kid.

When we got home from court, there was a message from the learning center place informing us that my son had been accepted and can start right away. We really had a good day, but all I could think about was the other night, and what I again didn't tell him:

I can't believe you fuckin' got high! You've been home for five fuckin' days! What the fuck were you thinking? You didn't even try to fuckin' hide it! Did you think we wouldn't smell it in your room? Did you just not care?

I can't believe that you'd jeopardize everything that we've all worked so hard for -- yourself included -- just because you needed to smoke! Did the last few weeks mean anything to you? Has nothing sunk in? What about all of those promises you made in the hospital? Was that all bullshit? Did you just say what you thought I wanted to hear so you could get the hell out of there?

You're throwing everything away here! It's all connected to this shit! If you continue to get high, you're not gonna be able to go to this new school and that means that you're not gonna graduate and you're not gonna be able to go to college. And if, no not if, you got rid of the if . . . WHEN you test positive for pot, that means that you've broken probation and the court can throw you into rehab or into jail! Didn't you hear what the judge said? Do you wanna go to fuckin' jail? You watched Oz, you know what fuckin' happens in there! And what about what the doctors said in the hospital? That pot fucks with the meds and makes them useless? Are you hearing what anyone is saying to you?

I keep telling you everything can be fixed, but the big secret is that you're the only one who can fix it! Not me. Not Mom.YOU! It's all up to you! I can't make you, Mom can't make you, the drug place can't make you. You have to want to do it! This is your fuckin' life. It can be a great one, you can have it all! You're so fuckin' smart, you can be a success at anything you put your mind to! Or it can all go the other way and I can tell you that the other way is fuckin' painful and yes, it'll hurt me to watch you go through all of that horrible shit, but it's going to hurt you even more. And you know that I don't want to see that happen, but it's not in my hands anymore. It's all up to you!

SGNS

As we were driving to court yesterday morning, I couldn't help but notice two vanity license plates on the road. The first one read HV FAITH.

"I wonder if that's a sign," I said to my older son.

"Probably just some Christians," he said.

We were stopped at a red light a few minutes later and the SUV in front of us had a plate that read RU STUPD.

"Now that's definitely a sign," he said.

It's Like Bam!

"I'm gonna tell you something, but promise me that you won't say anything right now," said my wife ominously while we were eating dinner last night.

"Don't do that," I said, knowing full well what was coming next. "Just tell me."

"I will. I just don't want you to say anything tonight because tomorrow is court," she said. "I don't want to mess things up."

"I know," I said. "Tell me."

"When I went into his room before," she said, "I smelled pot."

And even though I knew it was coming, even though I knew it was inevitable, I was still momentarily stunned. "Every fuckin' day is like another punch in the stomach," I said finally. "Each time I feel the slightest glimmer of hope, it's like bam!"

"I know," she said. "That's the roller coaster ride the guy in the group keeps talking about."

"Everyone keeps saying how there's gonna be setbacks, but don't you need to move forward in order to have setbacks?" I asked.

"We are," said my wife. "He's been taking his meds and pretty much cooperating with everything else."

"I guess it was unrealistic to think that things could really change so quickly. I guess I just wanted to believe that they could," I admitted. "I need to believe, I need to be able to make some sense out of all of this."

"It doesn't make sense," she said matter-of-factly. "Nothing makes sense."

We talked for a few minutes more and the one good thing about all of this is that it's doing wonders for my diet because I couldn't eat another bite. So I went upstairs, crawled into bed and vegged out in front of House. My wife came up a short while later and asked me what was happening with Cuddy and Wilson, and I just shook my head and told her that I wasn't really paying attention. She changed into her pajamas and surprised me by snuggling up close.

"When life gives you lemons . . ." she joked, while gently running her fingers through my hair.

"Same punchline for when life gives you AIDS," I said, quoting Sarah Silverman.

"God only gives you what you can handle," she said sarcastically, still trying to make me smile.

"God help us," I said and then we just held each other until the end of House.

Mysterious Ways

I know things are bad when I start asking God for help. I've also been asking my dead mom and Clarence the Angel from It's a Wonderful Life. The closest thing I've gotten to a response has been an email from someone named Angel who asked me if I wanted to communicate by email, Skype or real dates (yes!) and then if I was interested in penis enlargement (God, yes!!).

Now my idea of God has always been the Terry Gilliam animation in Holy Grail, so I've always pictured Him with a twisted sense of humor, which may explain why he's ignoring me now. Or maybe it's because I've frequently ignored Him. God's such a baby!

In truth, the only times I've ever reached out to Him is when I've been in dire straits, but I guess you can be in other bands, too. I'm probably better off praying to Bono! And God called the light day and gave us all sunglasses! Anyway you slice it, this "mysterious ways" bullshit has really got to stop . . . unless it involves two hot women kissing.

I've often heard that God helps those who help themselves, but that just sounded like Him being lazy. If I could help myself, why would I need His help? Hello? And what's up with Him being in the details? I never understood what the hell that meant, especially since the same thing goes for the devil. The only thing that any of us can really be certain of is that Keanu Reeves is on this month's cover.

Well Played

I play tennis every Monday night in an instructional program called Tennis Kinetics, which is really just a fancy name for running around until you can't breathe while holding a racquet. Actually, there are plenty of solid players in this group and I'm probably the worst of the bunch, and that's the way I like it. We take over two courts and work on ball striking and movement skills for about an hour and then break into all kinds of fun games for another hour, usually finishing up with doubles.

My doubles partner last night was one of the teaching pros and we totally kicked ass. We high-fived after the final game and everyone complimented us on how well we played together.

It was like the thing with my wife and him a few years ago had never even happened.

Losing It

I'm so goddamned bummed! I couldn't find my monthly train ticket this morning and had to buy a new one! I guess it just shows where my head has been at 'cause I hardly ever lose things. In fact, I've always been the best finder, but today I found dick.

I know I'm blowing this thing out of proportion and that usually means there's something else going on beneath the surface. And I guess it's obvious what that something else is. It's just that when I went looking for the ticket in my wallet this morning, I was inexplicably overwhelmed by an emptiness that I hadn't felt since my mom died almost 25 years ago. I just felt lost.

And the funny thing is that I know I'll find it. It's probably in my other jacket or in a shirt pocket. I'm not so sure about everything else.

Everybody's Talkin'

My wife and older son aren't talking to each other. And last night, my wife and I weren't talking to each other either. Everybody's still talking to my younger son because he's the most well-adjusted person in our house, but I don't think he really wants to talk to any of us, which is what makes him the most well-adjusted.

My wife apologized to me this morning and I really didn't even know what it was for. I know she's still very angry with my older son and just assumed some of that had gotten on me. Whatever. And then, naturally, the first thing we talked about was her not talking to him.

"How am I gonna get him to therapy tomorrow? Or to school on Wednesday?" she asked. "I don't care if he doesn't talk to me, but we need to be able to sit in the same car together."

"I'll talk to him," I said and then went upstairs to his room.

"I need to tell you something," I began and sensing a serious tone, he put down his bagel and took off his headphones. "You need to figure out a way to peacefully coexist with Mom. I don't care if you guys talk or not. I mean, I'd like you to, and that's up to you guys, but you do need to cooperate with her."

"Okay," he said softly.

"Okay," I said, taking a small bite of his bagel and left it at that.

On the First Day

I was gonna write this sweet, sad thing about our ride home from the hospital yesterday afternoon and how I made a Warren Zevon playlist and how we sang "Werewolves of London" and "I Was in the House When the House Burned Down" and I think you would've really dug it.

Instead, I need to tell you what happened when we got home. Both kids lit up (no, not that kind) when they saw each other and for me, there's no better sound in the world than when they're laughing together. After a few minutes, my older son came downstairs, gave me a kiss and said that one of his friends was coming to pick him up. I then went out to run a few errands and that was when the phone calls started.

I could tell that my older son was agitated as soon as I heard his voice. He said something about how my wife had told one of his girlfriends (who she saw at Bed, Bath & Beyond the other day), that they shouldn't see each other anymore and how that girl went and told his other girlfriend some shit and like in some twisted version of Groundhog Day, both girls weren't talking to him again. And because of my wife not minding her own fuckin' business, he said that he wasn't gonna follow any of the rules that he had just agreed to follow when we did the exit interview at the hospital no less than two hours ago. And no, I'm not making this up.

I called my wife at work and she said that she didn't say what my son thought she had said and then I called my son back and told him that and he became angry at me for taking her side, and said that he wasn't coming home, wasn't gonna take his meds and was gonna get high.

I explained that if he chose to throw everything away, he was going to suffer some harsh consequences this time and we went back and forth until I suggested that maybe one of the girls told the other girl some shit because she was trying to get him all for herself and that maybe he should trust and believe me and his mom more than his girlfriends. Click. Dial tone.

So for the rest of the night, my wife and I zombie-stared at whatever was on TV until we eventually fell asleep. At around 11:30 or so, I heard the front door open and both kids came into the house and went up to their rooms. A few minutes later, I got the following text message from my older son:

I want to apologize. I fucked up on the first day. Mom really pissed me off by talking to my girlfriend and I took it out on you. N e thing you want me to do for you, tell me. Like they said in the hspital, I gotta give back. N I'm on a stronger dose of meds tonight. Jenna is still not talking to me but ur right. Everything can be fixed. I didn't see it b4.

I went into his room and he said that he had just taken his meds, which knock him out pretty quickly. I asked him if he had gotten high earlier and he said that he hadn't. He apologized again and I cut him off. I don't remember what I said after that.

Can You Top This?

My kids have never been overachievers. We've always been cool with that because my wife and I aren't exactly such high flyers ourselves. But from time to time, that's put us in an uncomfortable position, particularly when we've been out with some of the more pathologically driven parents in the neighborhood.

Like a few weeks ago, we were at another stupid Bar Mitzvah and the people at our table were talking about their kids like they were breeding champion racehorses. Each one of their perfect clones was in Advanced Placement this and Project Beyond that, had aced the SATs and was busy applying to the finest colleges. It was like they were all playing the deluxe, JAP version of Can You Top This? We just sat there eating our salads.

But things were a little different last night. We were at another stupid meeting of families with white punks on dope and our son was, for once, the most advanced placed of the bunch. He was the only one who had been arrested, the only one who had been hospitalized (twice!) and the only one who had thrown a knife in the house.

After recounting her son's less than dramatic story of drug use (mainly, pot and Xanax), a new mom in the group looked over at us and said, "I know that's nothing compared to what you guys have gone through!" And we just sat there. And didn't even get to eat salad.

What I Didn't Tell Him

As it happens, my son won't be coming home until Friday. He was less than thrilled about this news, but seemed to take it in stride.

"Whatever," he sighed. "What have you been up to today?"

"Nothing much," I told him, which wasn't entirely true.

Here's what I didn't tell him:

First thing in the morning, I called both of his probation officers to give them status reports and then did the same with our lawyer because we have another court date next week. I then spoke with the school psychologist, who has been arranging placement at a special learning center that'll provide individualized instruction so my son can graduate with the rest of his class. He in turn suggested that I immediately contact the director of the place to set up an intake interview.

After I hung up with her, I left a message for my son's therapist at the drug treatment program, another one for the leader of his teen group, a third for the dude who's in charge of our family group and a fourth for the staff psychiatrist who will be administering and monitoring meds. Then I spoke with the head of the adolescent unit at the hospital and she suggested one last family meeting before they kick him loose. And finally, I called my sister to tell her what I just told you.

As fucked up as this whole ordeal has been, I keep having these George Bailey-like moments whenever I stop to think how incredibly understanding everyone has been and how much they all care about my son.

And that's what I'm gonna tell him tomorrow.

In Our Own Ways

I don't blame my wife for feeling the way that she feels. I understand why she's scared and angry and depleted and confused and fed up.

So am I, which is funny because I also keep saying how we feel so much differently about our older son, but really we don't. We love him the same, both in our own ways, and that also explains how we've been coping with this latest mess.

She wants to run away or be saved, whichever one will give her her life back. And I'm trying to be there and save us all because right now this is my life. We've traded places in the past and this is just how it works between us.

So I don't blame my wife for anything. Yet that hasn't stopped her from blaming herself for everything. Perhaps most of all, for adopting our son in the first place. And what she feels the most guilty about is what I still see as the single greatest thing she has ever done in her life.

The Son Also Rises

My older son is coming home tomorrow and, to be honest, no one is particularly looking forward to it. In fact, we tend to look backwards, to what has happened before and assume it will happen again or that something even worse will happen.

This is probably not the best attitude to have right now, but it's tough to feel anything else. We can't whitewash the past anymore (although we did put down new carpet in his room) and we can't look away, either. So we're staring into the son (aren't I so clever?) with our eyes wide open.

The son, of course, also rises (and yes, I'm done with this stupid wordplay) and I think you know me well enough by now to know that more than anything, I want to be hopeful. I want to believe that things will work out. I'm just not allowing myself to go there because I'm afraid of feeling the pain if/when things don't.

And I wonder what my son is feeling. I know he wants to come home, but I wonder if he wants things to change and if he's even capable of changing. I wonder if he's as scared as I am.

Portrait of the Artist

While my wife and I were visiting him yesterday afternoon, my older son kept busy by drawing a picture. Like all of a sudden, he's fuckin' Van Gogh. Or back in kindergarten. I noticed that none of his colored pencils had erasers on them and he explained how some kids rubbed them on their arms and legs until it burned their skin.

And on that happy note, we started talking about how things needed to change when he comes home in a few days and he sat there quietly coloring in small circles, which he then strung together into something that resembled a rainbow of candy necklaces. As we continued to draw our own lines (stay on meds, go to school, stop smoking pot), he did the same.

He kept his head down while he sketched large clouds over the rainbow and said that he wasn't gonna stop smoking, and then he drew a sun with a sad face on it and said that he didn't care if he went to jail. As a finishing touch, he picked up a black pencil and wrote FUCK LIFE under the rainbow, folded up the paper and told us to go home and put it on the refrigerator.

Two hours later, he called me to apologize.

LOL

I know what a lot of you have been saying: "Sure, Dr. Woo can do the sad thing, but can he do funny?" All I can say is, prepare to LOL . . .

Knock, Knock.
Who's there?
My older son!
My older son who?
My older son who's in a mental hospital!

How many wives does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
None, because we're not having sex.

A man walks into a bar and the bartender says, "Why the long face?" So the man tells him all about his life.

Why did the chicken cross the road?
I was scared something bad would happen.

What's black and white and red all over?
What I should do and my eyes from crying.

There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose life was so bad he said, "Fuck it!"
A rope under his chin,
He said with a grin,
"Goodbye to you all and go suck it!"

Coming Or Going

I'm not really sure how these two things fit together, but it probably has something to do with me not knowing if I'm coming or going:

1) We were at our second meeting for families with messed up kids on drugs and the therapist kept using hack metaphors like "you're on a rollercoaster ride" and "it's going to be a long, bumpy road" to describe the treatment program and what we were likely in for these next few months, and I just lost it and blurted out, "Where do you think we've all been before we needed to come here?"

2) I was reading The Times yesterday morning and after finally making peace with those fuckers for folding Sports into the Business section, I turned to the Escapes section (and talk about your hack metaphors). There was a story on the front page about two funky yet charming Seattle neighborhoods and the writer used the phrase "you can still lose yourself so thoroughly [there]" and I just thought that was the perfect description of where I want to be.

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.