I don’t know what your idea of hell is but a trailer park in the middle of the desert is one of mine. Not that I have anything against trailers (though I wouldn’t want to live in one) or deserts (ditto). But the trailer park in Barstow where my father died ten days ago was faceless; in the times I visited I saw a live person maybe twice, despite the fact there were cars parked outside, TV antennas. People didn’t go there to live, it always seemed to me. They went there to die.

Barstow itself is like the last outpost before Armageddon. The only visible business is the Borax salt mines outside of town and the series of chain hotels, restaurants and retail stores that have popped up there since I last visited, in 1999. Today you can get a cappuccino at the drive-thru Starbucks in Barstow and buy a wallet at the Coach store outside of town. The old hotels, the historic Route 66 places with burning-out neon signs that read HO or TEL at night, with arrows pointing toward nothing, are dying too. Many of them were boarded up with no For Sale sign. The owners, I presume, are far beyond hope.

I think my father must have been in the same state when he died. He had systematically burned almost every bridge between him and other people over the years, and when his second wife died a year and a half ago, everyone figured it was just a matter of time. Like everything else. Given the ailments he suffered over the years — a collapsed lung, a stroke, two kinds of cancer, emphysema, diabetes et al — it’s amazing he lasted until he was 81.

He was cremated without ceremony. There was a will from which I had been excluded. Not that I had expected anything (I was amazed to find that they had saved some money and that the trailer was worth something) but my older brother and sister, who had to put up with far more of his grief than I did, surely deserved something for their troubles. They were with him in the end there, when no one wanted to be. I had no idea how easy it was to insult someone from the grave.

The first night I was there I awoke in the middle of the night and wrote myself a note: “You expect nothing and you get less.” I spent the next day helping clean out his trailer. Among his possessions I was offered a guitar, a Civil War era sword, some unpublished manuscripts of his and some pictures of my brothers and sisters. I took the photos and left.

My older brother Brian was down in Barstow last week, dealing with my ailing father, someone who gave his children, collectively, nothing. After my parents broke up, when I was about ten, Brian went to live with him. This was good and bad, good because he and my mother were not getting along, bad because, as Brian said last week, “That first summer I thought that Dad really loved me. By the end of the summer I realized that he didn’t love anybody.”

That’s a tough nut to crack when you are 14. I was about 30 before I came to the same realization and am stilll grappling with the ramifications. It does explain a lot, though, including why no one wants to deal with Dad right now. My older sister is down there now, probably counting the days until she can go. And wondering why I’m not there to help her.

Which is, of course, a longer story. I told Brian that if he represents one extreme in the spectrum of how to deal with my father — answering cruelty with compassion — and younger brother Ethan is the other (die already), I’m like Switzerland. Which as we know makes a mean cuckoo clock.

But in the broken email threads we siblings have had re Pop I have explained that my son is job number one right now. He seems to have lost a lot of coping strategies and I am trying to get him up to speed. Fortunately for him, an absent & sometimes hostile father has compelled me to act differently with my own son.

He was having trouble with his iPod, said it wouldn’t charge. I plugged it into the Bose speaker my wife gave me for Christmas, which is sitting right next to the bed. It seemed to be charging when I went to sleep the other night — and once it was fully charged, at about one am, it began to play VERY LOUDLY. Before I turned it off I looked at the screen; it was “Nihilsim” by Rancid.

Or the other way around.

Yesterday the Smoking Gun revealed that James Frey’s best-selling story of addiciton and general bad behavior, A Million Little Pieces, was, alas, mostly fiction. (In a follow-up piece in today’s New York Times, Frey was quoted as defending his blurring of the old truth and other line by putting himself in the tradition of Hemingway, Henry Milller and Kerouac — though those gentlemen all called themselves writers of fiction.) This moment of epiphany has led me to my own moment of confession.

As readers of my own non-fiction know, I have laid bare many of my own dark secrets in print. Drug abuse, alcoholism, wearing white socks with black shoes — I’ve done it all, baby. But there is more. A lot more.

You’ve probably been reading about that outbreak of bird flu epidemic in Turkey. Turns out those kids were playing with a chicken head, which gives you some idea of what the athletic department of your average Turkish school is like. But the sad truth is that I gave them that chicken head. Even though I knew it wasn’t feeling very well.

If you want to know who decided to restart the nuclear program in Iran, you need look no further. I was carrying yellowcake — not uranium, mind you, just a simple yellow cake, with chocolate frosting — across the border. (I had bought it in Nigeria from Joseph Wilson.) Some imam grabbed it and said, “Great, now we can dominate the world and destory Israel! Though not in that order.”

And those Scottish golfing trips Jack Abramoff took Tom Delay and others on? Check out the dude in the tartan plaids. And stop trying to look up my kilt.

Watch this space for further revelations. For now, suffice to say that in Florida back in 2000 I fronted a band called the Swinging Chads.

It’s all connected.

I was in the kitchen at my wife’s parents apartment in Sanibel on New Year’s Eve, making lasagne for the masses, when my father-in-law said something from the living room about Iran hiding nuclear weapons. Was this breaking news, I wondered? What was his source?

“It’s some guy on Fox News,” he said.

I was going to say something about his unreliable source — my father-in-law was in the newspaper business his entire life and not a gullible man, though he did vote for Bush, twice — when I bit my tongue. I was getting my New York Times delivered to me in Florida over vacation to stay hooked up to my own favored information stream and I realized, with some chagrin, that credibility wise, the Times was in danger of heading into the No Spin Zone.

WMD in Iraq? Oops. Anything by Jason “Burning Down My Master’s House” Blair? Fiction. And now it turns out the paper sat on the story of Bush authorizing illegal wiretaps in the US for over a year — because the White House asked them to. And the only reason they finally ran with it after all, according to the LA Times, was because one of the reporters on the story, James Risen, was about to come out with a book that would scoop the NYT. I say “according to the LA Times” because the NYT, after trying on the mantle of transparency in the wake of the Judith Miller fiasco, has clammed up, even shutting their own ombudsman out on their mysterious reasons for sitting on a story that might have changed the course of the last election.

Who knows? Even my sometimes skeptical father-in-law might not have pulled the lever for GWB if he knew he had circumnavigated the Consitution like Nixon. The Times has deprived me of the right to make fun of Fox News, a sad development indeed.

We spent the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day in Sanibel, Florida with my wife’s family, biking, beaching, birding. At least some of us were engaged in those activities. Flu laid a few of my nieces and nephews low and in their recovery time they came to know and memorize an infomercial for Scratch and Dent World, a discounted appliance store near Ft. Meyers where you could save a ton o’ money on scratched and dented refrigerators, stoves etc. Though I never saw the ad myself, my daughter’s impression of Lee, who wore a miniskirt and a knee brace, as if to prove some point, stays with me.

I was spending much of my time on my cell phone, dealing with twin family crises. My son had arrived from SF just before Christmas and seemed to be having a kind of meltdown before we boarded the plane. It turned out he had neglected to bring the right amount of medication with him (he takes a host of anti-depressant and anti-anxiety drugs, none of which seem to work particularly well) and though 21, a host of parental figures rallied to get him what he needed even as he repaid us with the gratitude we have come to expect, ie none).

Just before the plane left JFK I learned that my father had entered the ICU in Barstow, CA the night before, complaining of shortness of breath. He was hooked up to a ventilator for a few days even while my older brother and sister and one of my step-sisters drew straws to see who would go down there and deal with him. My father’s popularity with my younger brother and sister is like unto Stalin’s with the Russian Jews. So no straw-drawing there. I am somewhere in the middle, being the middle child, thinking I would find a way to Southern California if my dad was actually dying but not if he surprised everyone for the umpteenth time and lived to fight (and I do mean fight) another day.

And so he did. On the fourth day he sat up, pulled out the breathing tube and demanded some ice cream. My step-sister fled, handing over the feeding and caring of his dogs to my older brother who deserves candidacy for sainthood, given the abuse he has suffered from the old man over the years. Now Dad is in a convalescent hospital and scheduled to be released soon…unless his health goes the other way. My son, too, has righted himself — enough to be civil, enough to acknowledge he needs some help. Battered but not completely broken.

Hence Scratch and Dent World.