"...And so, Isaac, that is how biochemical philosophers are made, and every bit I told you is true, though that aside about the electronic razors was perhaps exaggerated." "What about that seemingly irrelevant anecdote concerning the genesis of the state of Indiana?" I (Isaac) asked.

--My father replied: "You missed the connection? Ah, well I believe that the relation is valid~ but the exact relationship escapes me; it was one of those epiphany moments that I have as I'm talking every so often, I can 't remember now what it was."

-- "A pity, I gather that since I was not able to trace the logic behind it, it must have been exceedingly brilliantly tied in with the main topic, though undoubtedly you either made it up as you were going along or it was far too apocryphal for me to identify."

-- "Did I not swear that everything I said was the unadulterated truth? Besides, I grew up in a place called California, right next to Indiana, so I have good reason to know the story of that semi-autonomous province's origin."

-- "Not five minutes ago you made an oath upon your mother's velvet-oak gold-plated lemon-scented 9000-D top-model ash-tray that you were raised in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan- by Unitarian agnostics no less."

-- "Can you not see that Turkmenistan was a county in Kansa-, I mean California? And so what if my foster parents were slightly eclectic and, Buddha forbid, esoteric in the religious arena? Ashgabat happened to be the center of the largest concentration of skeptical Christian sects in the world, is it my fault that was where the SWAT team mistakenly dropped me after my rescue from the terrorist sleeper cell in Midland, Texas?

--And are you criticizing my surrogate mother's painful addiction to fake cigarettes? Let me tell you, ridding herself of that thoroughly nonexistent habit was the most difficult thing she ever tried and failed at. That image remains before me, haunting me with its maliciously mocking overtones, the image of my (not-biological) mommy repeatedly holding that roll of white paper she had prepared three seconds before up to her mouth and sucking in nothing but air!, and then telling me that she was going to overcome it once and for all and then just, just, just -- God the emotions this memory stirs up! -- taking another fat drag of that damn small tubular sheet of dead tree! It became her ritual, preceding every puff she had to admit her imperfection and promise to quit and bring that evil object up to her lips. I'm just thankful you and your siblings have a maternal figure who would never consider such a disgusting practice bad."

That's my father in a nutshell. (He would probably try to fit himself into a nutshell if anyone mentioned it.) I have no mother and no siblings, by the way. Ever since my eleventeenth birthday I've recorded my conversations with him-that's how precious they are. I play along, spurring him on, ensuring entertainment for myself and for posterity.

After dealing with him for as long as I have, you get used to making up things and telling him that he just said them. Though for all this, he is the most mature adult I know. Everyone else is crazy in their own clandestine ways which take years to analyze; my dad wears it right out there on his sleeve, which he of course puts on backwards. (I don't know how it is possible to put a sleeve on backwards, but he does it.) He is an obsessive -compulsive, schizophrenic bibliophiliac with hallucinatory episodes; he also volunteers once a week at the elderly home in our town. However, this usually consists of getting in the car and driving there in his imagination and then "driving" back a couple of hours later. But here's the part that might surprise you: he is one of the most celebrated writers in America, lauded by critics and readers alike for his vivid imagination and the incredibly realistic depth of the worlds he creates in his books. I attribute this to the fact that he really does live his stories, in his mind he sees his characters and shakes their hands, takes in the view from atop fictional mountains and remembers history that does not exist. This is why his works appear to be subtle and carefully planned genius. Assistance is provided by the fact that they unfailingly descend into nonsensical anarchy in their second halves. They seem brilliant because nobody can understand them, and any interpretation can be validated. Critics are especially ludicrous in their assumption that if they cannot find some order or meaning in a book it deserves praise for innovation and complexity. Not that any of this means I don't appreciate his work. I am the type, wholly uninterested in practical problems, who enjoys literary artistry, and I see a great deal of it in my dad's writing. He is a veritable virtuoso of the field, encompassing as many styles as may exist, plus a few that simply don't work. He tries everything at least once.

His conversations are so much fun because therein I catch glimpses of the odds and ends of the stories he enacts ceaselessly within his head, the published ones mingled inextricably with those as-yet-unwritten. And so when he loses focus and segues into another plot his book's structural integrity slowly disintegrates and blends into a different story, inspiring senseless wonder in the reader. I've become quite comfortable with him sitting in the living room conversing pleasantly with no one, and if a particular visitor remains long enough I usually get to know him or her, at least as an acquaintance. Long ago this ceased to disturb me. The only recent event my father has imagined that I've thought peculiar was three months past, when one of his characters got pregnant, gave birth and raised a son whom dad saw grow up at a highly accelerated pace. The boy, now a very bright young man, is currently away at college.

And by all of this I don't mean to imply that my dad neglects me in any way; we have very good times together on camping trips and whatnot, and our lively dialogues never fail to amuse. The boisterous size of our bank account, augmented by book royalties, allows us greater freedom than most. He showers me with praise and is pretty fair, as far as allowing me the liberty every young person deserves. He can be strict and every so often he really loses it, but on the whole he beats out all the parents I know for good-naturedness. He is as real as anyone, he just sees people others do not. Nor is he a doddering, Alzheimer's patient type, a man with no connection to this world. He is a goofy guy, but his memory is pretty decent with respect to me. His imagination is simply the most overactive I have ever known.

Then, you may wonder, why am I not -- ahem --slightly imbalanced, having been raised by such a parent. I certainly do not know, but my guess is that even a baby has some innate sense of what makes sense and what does not, and that I reacted against my father's irrationality by developing a relatively straightforward, logical manner of thinking. Insane necessitates an opposite, that is, sane. Which I dearly hope I am.