"I really need to see this, Dad."

"When were you in Miami?"

"I haven't been to Miami in months," I stress. "This is so sad-mistaking your own flesh and blood, your own son, a-"

"Victor," my father says calmly, "your name was in the caption below the photo."

"I don't think that was me, dude."

"Well," he starts lightly, "if it wasn't you, Victor, then who was it?"

"I will have to check this out, baby."

"And what's with your last name?" he asks. "You're still sticking with Ward?"

"I thought changing my last name was your idea, bro."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," he murmurs, delicately opening a folder containing press clippings, faxes of press clippings, photos of me.

"This is a quote from"-my father turns a blurry fax over-"from the New York Times Styles section, actually. A smallish article about you, and this pull quote: `In the uterus of love we are all blind cave fish.' Is this true, Victor? Could you please explain the term `uterus' in the context of that sentence? And also if blind cave fish actually exist?"

"Oh boy-a two-parter. Dude, this is so bogus," I sigh. "The press always distorts what I say."

"Well, what are you saying?"

"Why are you so literal-minded?"

"A CK One ad. Here it looks as if there are two guys-though what the hell do I know, it could be two gals-and yes, they're kissing each other and you're looking on with your hands down the front of your pants. Why are your hands down the front of your pants? Is this gesture supposed to tell us that CK One is a reliable product?"

"Sex sells, dude."

Chapter Five

"I see."

"The better you look, the more you see."

"Here's an interview from, um, YouthQuake-and by the way, congratulations on making the cover, wearing an eye shadow that's a lovely shade of brown-"

"It's terra-cotta," I sigh. "But whatever."

"-and they ask you who you would most like to have lunch with, and your answers are: the Foo Fighters, astrologist Patric Walker-who is dead, incidentally-and (this isn't a misprint, right?) the Unabomber?"

I stare back at him. "So?"

"You want to have lunch with... the Unabomber?" he asks. "Is this valuable information? Do we really need to know this about you?"

"What about my fans?"

"Another quote attributed to you, unless this is another distortion: `Washington, D.C., is the stupidest city in the world, with the, like, dumbest people in it.'"

"Oh Dad-"

"I work and live in Washington, D.C., Victor. What you say and do actually affects my life, and because of what my life is like, it can be acutely embarrassing for me."

"Dad-"

"I just wanted to point this out."

"Spare me, please."

"It also says here that you're in a band called Pussy Beat, which used to be called"-he gulps-"Kitchen Bitch."

"We've changed the name. We're the Impersonators now."

"Oh Jesus, Victor. It's just that whole crowd-"

"Dad, I freaked out when Charlie and Monique tattooed their baby. Jeez-what? You think I'm some kind of delinquent?"

"Add to this that your sister says outtakes of you from that Madonna book are showing up on the Internet-"

"Dad, it's all under control."

"How can you say that?" he asks. "It's just tacky, Victor. Very tacky."

"Dad, life is tacky."

"But you don't need to win first prize."

"So what you're saying, basically, is that I'm a mixed bag."

"No," he says. "Not exactly."

"So I guess more cash is out of the question?"

"Victor, don't do this. We've been over that many, many times."

I pause. "So I guess more cash is out of the question?"

"I think the trust should suffice."

"Hey, New York's expensive-"

"Then move."

"Oh my god, get real."

"What are you trying to tell me, Victor?"

"Dad." I breathe in. "Let's face it. I'm broke."

"You have a check coming in a couple of days."

"It's gone."

"How can the check be gone if you haven't even received it yet?"