​I have lightly ribbed my father over his embrace of Pandemic Socialism (he gets his food from the local high school. instead of buying his own groceries). But, for the most part we don't discuss his politics because they've decayed to terrible in recent years.

Today, he called, telling me about how his friends and neighbors hadn't received their stimulus checks, and he hadn't received his, and how he didn't understand what was taking so long. And, lo, last Friday a stimulus check arrived in his PO box, and he bragged to all of his more liberal neighbors about how Fecalface Sucksatgolf was making sure the people who supported him got their stimulus checks first (as if he could somehow now).

You, Dear Reader, may have figured out that it was Not his stimulus check, but was in fact, My finger-on-nose, Clinton-voting stimulus check that arrived because that was the address I filed my 2018 taxes from last year.

A few of his neighbors have since received theirs. His has not yet arrived.

​My dad: "Let me just check on my straight flag."

My face: "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa---"

My dad, looking at The American Flag he has hung on his front porch: "Yeup. No wind today. It's hanging dead straight."

My dad asked me what I was listening to on my headphones last night while he and my stepbrother were watching Hogan's Heroes.

"Oh, I'm editing some Prince albums."

"I never liked Prince," my dad, who doesn't listen to many artists whose careers started after the early 1970s, says. "He didn't look right .. too many hats ... too much purple ... flamboyant. He was too flamboyant looking."

"But he's an amazing musician."

My dad makes a stink face.

"Have you seen his guitar solo for 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps' at the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame?"

He had not.

Now he has.

Verdict? "Ho shit. Does he always play like that?"

​Me: "Not always. But often. And when he did, it was magic."

Continuing decades of absolutely terrible communication skills, my dad calls to tell me he's picking up his mother.

Me: "Oh, she's going to live with you now?"

Dad: "Nah. I'm picking her up from the morgue."

Me: "Oh."

Me: "What happened?"

Dad: "She died."

Me: "How?" She was 95, so probably not skydiving or in a bank heist.

Dad: "I don't know. No one will tell me. But the cops just showed up to let me know she's dead. None of her caretakers are answering their phones. So I'm going to Connecticut tomorrow. I have no idea what I need to do. I guess I'll call you when I get there."

Me: "Ok. Let me know if there is anything I can do."

Dad: "Talk to you later."

​2019 can suck a bag of porcupines.

My Dad: "I see you brought chicken broth. How much did you pay for it?"

Me: "I don't know."

My Dad: "Tomorrow is Black Friday. You could have gotten two boxes for $4."

Me: "Then I wouldn't have had it to make dinner with today."

My Dad: "We should pick some up tomorrow so you'll have them for next year."

​Me: "I'll pass."

Me: Did you ship something to the store this week?

My Dad: Yea.

Me: I thought so. You addressed it to yourself and you didn't put the store name on it, so nobody was sure who it was for.

My Dad: Yea, I wrote my name with your address on one label, and your name with my address on the other. I figured the address was the important part.

Me: Ok. What's in it?

My Dad: Oh, I got you a pair of jeans, a windbreaker, and a leather jacket.

Me: For my birthday?

My Dad: Oh no. It was your birthday?

Me: Yea. Tuesday.

My Dad: I didn't even get you a card.

Me: But you got me jeans and two jackets*. I can wear those. I can't wear a card.

This man has bought me clothes exactly once since I was in high school. A few years ago, he sent me four xxxl t-shirts and a pair of jeans I could have used as a hammock.

My Dad: I think I got you the right size this time. If not, you can return them.

Me: Ok. Where did you get them?

My Dad: From a catalog.

Me: Ok. What catalog?

My Dad: I forget the name of it but I put the catalog and a bunch of coupons in with the clothes, in case you wanted to order more.

Me: Ok. I'll let you know if everything fits.

My Dad: Sounds good. I'll work on getting you a birthday present sometime soon. What did your mom get you?

Me: A card.

​My Dad: You can't wear a card. Does this mean I win?

My Dad: There's cream cheese in the fridge in the garage.

Me: When did you buy it?

My Dad: It's still good.

​Me: Dad, this cream cheese is older than my cats.

My Dad: "Ok. Mr. Boston, time to watch Cheers."

Me: "Mr. Boston? I live in Cambridge."

My Dad: "But you go to that Cheers bar."

Me: "No I don't."

My Dad: "You've never been there?"

Me: "I don't think so. Maybe? Once?"

My Dad: "People from Boston don't go to The Cheers all the time?"

Me: "Are you going senile, dad? Do you go to The Jaws Beach all the time?"

My Dad: "So that's a no?"

Me: "No."

But now we're watching Cheers.You know, like people from Boston do.

My father likes to impress me by his ability to predict what is going to happen in a TV show that came out fifty years ago, that he has probably seen three or four times a year for the last decade. In this way, he is like his mother who tries to impress me with her predictions about Law & Order reruns.

The only difference is that my grandmother is always wrong and my dad is right about 60% of the time.

"You know how all of those people are getting on that giant, fancy boat? I bet it's going to sink."

"But, dad, The Titanic is unsinkable!"

The following is a series of Facebook Statuses made from a bus, and then a boat, as I made my way from my current home of Cambridge to the place of my ancestral homeland, Martha's Vineyard.

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I apologize to the people whose seat is so far back I can taste their shoulderblades because the entire bus must unite to battle the insane woman tunelessly mumbling the lyrics to Christmas Carols loud enough that I can hear her through my headphones.

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Oh no, insane mumbling woman and person tunelessly relaying Christmas lyrics are two different people AND THEY ARE BECOMING LOUD FRIENDS.

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"ARE YOU IN A BAND?"

"NO, I CAN"T FIND ANYONE AS COMMITTED AS I AM."

"I HATE IT WHEN PEOPLE DON'T COMMIT TO THINGS. DO YOU LIKE NEW YORK?"

"I HAVE NEVER BEEN TO NEW YORK."

"YOU SHOULD GO. THAT'S WHERE ALL THE PEOPLE WITH MUSIC GO."

"REALLY?"

"YEA. OH MY GOD. YOU'RE SO YOUNG. YOU'RE SO BEAUTIFUL. YOU HAVE SUCH A GREAT VOICE."

I wish my seat back went back about three rows.

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The loud peoples' names are Karen and Tray, in case you were wondering. And I know you were.

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"AM I BEING TOO LOUD?"

"YOU SHOULDA TOLD ME."

"I DON'T CARE. ASSHOLE. SORRY. AM I BEING TOO LOUD? WATCH OUT WILD DRIVER. HAHA. SORRY, AM I BEING TOO LOUD? I'M SORRY. YOU DIDN'T DESERVE THAT. I'M SORRY. SORRY. I DON'T MEAN TO BE SO LOUD. AM I BEING LOUD?"

--------------------------------------------------------

Tray, the Christmas Carol warbler has grown completely silent, realizing he has lost the title of Craziest Person On The Bus.

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Tray gets off the bus in Bourne. Karen starts to follow him off before realizing that she has no idea where she is.

"HOW LONG UNTIL WE GET TO BOSTON?"

I stare blankly at her.

"HOW. LONG. UNTIL. BOSTON?"

I feign concern. "Pardon?"

"BOSTON? CHRIST. WHEN DO WE GET TO BOSTON."

We, of course, departed from Boston about an hour previous. "Je suis desole. Je ne parle pas Anglais."

"KEY-RIST. WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU? WHEN BOSTON?"

"I sorry. I no speak good English." I shrug.

"WHEN THE--"

Mr. Seatback says, "He doesn't speak English. We're not going to Boston. We're coming FROM Boston. We're going to Woods Hole."

"OH RIGHT. I MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP AND THE BUS IS GOING THE OTHER WAY NOW." Karen says. She is wrong. She got on just after me at South Station.

Mrs. Seatback asks "Could you lower your voice, please? We're in an enclosed space. There is no need to shout."

"SORRY. I MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP. WHEN DO WE GET TO BOSTON?"

Mr. Seatback sighs. "In an hour. Go back to sleep."

"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE. SORRY, SORRY. YOU DIDN'T DESERVE THAT."

Then Karen goes and sits back down, occasionally muttering to herself for the duration of the trip.

In Woods Hole, I make sure to put at least two people between me and Karen, so that when she inevitably stumbles into someone, "I'M SORRY. YOU DIDN'T DESERVE THAT. THE BUS SWERVED. IT SWERVED." It's parked. "I'M SORRY." I'm not the one she's stumbling into.

I move fast enough that there's no line to get my tickets to the ferry. Mr. and Mrs. Seatback walk to the also lineless window next to mine.

I ask, "Could I have a round trip to The Vineyard please?"

Mrs. Seatback's eyes balloon.

"Sure thing. That'll be sixteen dollars." The guy behind the window says.

"Thank you so much. Have a Happy Holiday." I say.

"I think you mean A MERRY CHRISTMAS." Mr. Seatback says.

"I don't think I do." I say. "But then again, my English isn't very good."

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For those concerned that I am mocking Karen for being mentally deficient, I should point out that she didn't appear to be mentally disabled, but you could smell the gin on her breath from the Mars Rover.

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Karen just ran a full loop around the ferry following some poor steamship authority employee. I'm not quite motivated enough to find out what's going on in this part of her Soap Opera.

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She's back!

"IS THE BOAT GOING THAT WAY?" She points to the front of the boat.

"Sorry. No English."

She sits down a few rows away.

"WHERE ARE WE GOING NOW?"

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She also just tried to buy a drink from the very friendly guy behind the counter.

She was not served.

"WHY CAN'T I HAVE ANOTHER BEER." She, of course, has not had a beer since at least getting on the bus nearly three hours ago.

"We're not serving anymore." The guy says. "But I AM about to play a very naughty Christmas Carol."

"WHY AREN'T YOU SERVING ANYMORE? I'M SORRY. I DON'T MEAN TO BE NOSEY BUT FUCK I WANT A BEER."

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Mr. Seatback, who I had not seen since getting on the boat just kept her from walking out to the open deck, probably saving her drunk life.

I guess he's not all bad.

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"IT IS SO WINDY IN HERE!" Karen says, though we are in an enclosed part of the ferry. 

I mean, Mr. Seatback has been sighing a lot but I don't think it's enough to be called "windy".

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I got caught breaking character on my way off the boat. She was standing between me and the exit and she said "JUST GO AROUND. GO AROUND ME."

And I said. "Thank you."

And she looked bewildered but didn't say anything.

Also, if you had two and a half minutes in the "How long before Adam's dad says something racist about Ferguson" then congratulations you win the deep foreboding sense of decay in American society.