Beyond that, I've been thinking about 2001 in general and wondering why it was so fucked up. Even more important, why didn't I see it coming? All the warning signs were there.

Hail the conquering hero

In December 2000, my step-dad Al caught a stroke, so I went back to my parents home in Windsor, California to help out. Al had been in rehab in Vallejo for about three weeks, but his doctor decided he could go home for the New Year's weekend and spend some time with my mom, if only a day. So my job that Dec. 31 was to drive two hours to Vallejo, pick up step-dad and drive him two hours back to Windsor.

Nice call by the doctors, huh? Let's give the stroke victim some time at home. And let's make it New Year's Eve. That's a good driving day.

When I got Al back to the house, he insisted on walking without any help. He strode valiantly and confidently up the stairs, like Odyseus reclaiming his household. But when he got to the sliding glass door, he opened it, tripped over the floor guides and fell on his face. Up to that point, I was impressed.

I helped him up and to his easy chair as my mom shrieked in the background. He didn't break any bones, so all was well, and after dinner I decided the two should be alone. Okay, I'll be real. After two hours with them I decided I needed to get the fuck out of there. I noticed a bar called Eddie's in the Larkfield Shopping Center about two miles away, so I figured that was close enough in case of an emergency. Before I left, I gave them the number to the bar.

"If anything happens, be sure to call," I told them.

"Nothing's going to happen, you go and have a good time," Al said. My mom said she'd be sure to call. She turned out to be true to her word.

A semi-regular at Eddie's Bar

After I walked into Eddie's Bar, I turned around and walked out again, remembering that lit cigarettes were against the law. Fuckin' California. I finished my smoke and found a stool at the bar, where I ordered a beer.

"What's your name?" I asked the bartender.

"Buster," he said. Fine, I thought. You want to go with a phony name we can do that. His real name's probably Orenthal.

"Buster, I have a favor to ask."

Buster tilted back his head and looked under his glasses at me. Here's a guy who wants a favor and he's not even a regular, he seemed to be think. I laid five bucks on the bar.

"My step-dad just had a stroke, but he's home for the night. Still, they might call here if something goes wrong. If they do they'll ask for Mike. Or maybe Michael. Anyway, can you let me know. It's important."

Buster again tilted his head back a second or two, as if to say, Buddy, if you're thinking of using that as a pickup line, you better come up with something better.

"Sure, no problem at all," he said and grabbed the five dollar bill.

After a couple of quick beers, I took a look around the room. It reminded me a little of the Horse Shoe lounge in Austin, except hard liquor was served. Otherwise, it was a basic bar. Pool table, juke box, bar and stools. Perfect.

"Ready for another one?" Buster asked.

"I sure am," I said. "You take credit cards, right?"

"No, we don't take checks and we don't take credit cards. It's cash only."

Okay. So it wasn't perfect.

"I'll be right back," I said and left the bar to use the ATM at the Exchange Bank on the other side of the shopping center. After I got my money, a guy with a shaved head came out of the bar and started yelling at me. Now what did I do? Did I leave without paying?

"Mike. You Mike? Mike, you've got a telephone call."

I went into the bar and Buster ushered me to the phone. It was my Mother.

"You need to come back right away. We're freezing. The sliding glass door won't close."

"Okay, I'll be right there."

I bought David, the guy with the shaved head, a beer and went back to my parents' house. When I walked in, Al shook his head as if to say, "I'm sorry, man. It's not me, it's your mom." Apparently when Al fell, he bent the floor guides to the sliding glass door and it wouldn't close. I put them back in place with a screwdriver.

"Think I should stay, I guess."

"No, no. You go out, we'll be fine," they both insisted. Not that it took much to convince me.

Friend to the fireman

When I returned to the bar -- about 9 p.m., I guess -- the place was packed and I could no longer get a seat. As I wormed myself close to the bar, I noticed a man dressed in a dapper sports jacket sitting next to where I stood. Even on New Year's Eve, jeans and tee-shirts were still the sartorial choice for the Eddie's regulars, so this guy stood out.

"Let me help you out," he said. "What are you drinking."

"Vodka tonic, I think."

He got the bartender's attention and I soon got my drink, which he graciously bought after hearing my sob story about my step-dad's stroke. We struck up a conversation and it was clear to me that this 60-something-year-old had done a few things in his life. He had been in the front lines during Viet Nam, had just retired as an office building developer and had spent 15 years of his life working alongside the legendary Red Adair putting out oil well fires. Now that's a fireman's fireman. And a true Texan.

"You worked with Red Adair?" I asked incredulously.

"I sure did," he said and went on to regale me with a few more stories.

At 11 p.m., I decided I had better return home and make sure my parents hadn't burned down the house. I turned to the retired fire fighter and told him I had to go and thanked him for the three or four drinks he had bought me.

"Good luck with your situation. I know that can't be easy. And Happy New Year," he said and gave me an avuncular hug. And as he hugged me, he stuck his tongue in my ear.

There's something you should know about me. Let's say I'm spending the night drinking with Claudia Schiffer. And let's say at the end of the night, she gives me a hug and sticks her tongue in my ear. Schiffer or not, I am totally creeped by a tongue in my ear. And when the tongue in my ear belongs to a sixty-year-old man, then I pretty much get a full-blown case of the willys.

I walked out of the bar with wobbly knees, ice cubes down my spine and my hair on fire.

See? I should have seen the fucked-up year called 2001 coming. God knows I had one hell of an omen.

And that's why I haven't published a column lately. Four weeks ago, I had a moment of clarity, a vision as shocking as an old man's tongue.

This year could be worse.