My parents are weirder than your parents.

To make a New York Sour, mix 2 ounces blended whiskey, juice of 1/2 lemon, 1 teaspoon powdered sugar, claret, 1/2 slice lemon, and 1 cherry. Shake blended whiskey, juice of lemon, and powdered sugar with ice and strain into a whiskey sour glass. Float claret on top. Decorate with half-slice of lemon and the cherry and serve.

Friday and I'm in New York City. Downtown. Follow the white rabbit.

I'm behind the wheel and my mom's in the passenger seat. We race down the LIE at 78mph, dodging Mack trucks and Escalades. Switchover at exit 53 because Queens scares me. My mom's behind the wheel and I'm in the passenger seat. We pace down the LIE at 64mph, ending up behind traffic between exits 39-30.

The Connecticut radio station I listen to statics out.

The Long Island radio station I listen to is in the middle of its 2nd hour of nonstop commercials.

The New York radio station I listen to is playing the worst music I've heard in days.

Arrive in Queens and go to the subway. Here's where things get tricky. For my mom at least.

The metro card machine is like a metallic multi-colored dragon that breathes the fires of yellow, blue, and black cards and is sustained by the flesh of our credit card accounts. Recipts are the white feces. My mother stands before the machine, the sword that is her MasterCard clutched tightly in her hands. She attacks but can't find a weakness in the dragon's defense.

"Mom," I say. "You're holding the card upside-down."

Success! She finds the dragon's weak point and proceeds to attack. But no! The job is too difficult! She needs help!

I sigh. "You're getting a normal metro card. Not the unlimited one. $10 purchase, mom. No, $10. Yes, I know it says $12 now. The screen before said '+$2.00 bonus.'"

The dragon is slain! But the battle has not ended yet. Next thing my mom knew, she was covered in the feces of the dead dragon.

"Mom ... you forgot the recipt."

Traveling onward, we arrive at the gates to the evil castle. Or rather, the revolving-door turnstile. I slide the metro card through the slot and my mom turns the turnstile. The wrong way.

Minus $2.00 from our card.

And at that moment, my uncle just happened to pass by and see her predicament. Now we have witnesses.

We get through and take the subway over to Wall Street. Coming up back to the surface, my dad's instructions were to find the church and walk off in its direction.

"Where's the church?" my mom asks after we spend 2 minutes outside not moving.

"Look in front of you, mom."

To make a Nutty Angel, you mix 1 ounce vodka, 1 ounce Frangelico, 1 ounce Bailey's Irish Cream Liquer, and 1/2 ounce dark creme de cacao. Shake all ingredients with ice. Strain into a chilled martini glass. Dust with nutmeg.

We meet my dad at his workplace, the Downtown Association. It's a club for Wall Street executives that's been in existence since Lincoln's days. One of the Rockefellers is a member of the club. President Theodore Roosevelt was a member of the club. The Seward guy that bought Alaska for the U.S. is apart of the club. He comes in everyday and just eats soup.

Also apart of the club is a group of people that are horrible at playing pool. Money does not buy you coordination.

A cue ball comes rolling past us as we peek into one of the recreation rooms.

My dad brings us upstairs. Where he works is being renovated, and has been for the past three years. The places they haven't worked on are falling apart. Walking means risking your life in the event that the floor will fall through and you'll drop 6 stories in a plummet of doom to have your brains smashed open on the beautiful marble floor lobby.

Money does not save you from plummeting to a horrible death.

Next thing I know, I'm being showed off to my dad's co-workers and boss. Apparently, I'm the sunshine in my dad's life. I'm the genious prodigy on a one-way course of scientific success and medical breakthrough. I'm the one that knows everything about computers. I'm the one that has the beautiful life.

Please, you're making me blush.

No, your father talks so much about you!

Please, you're making me barf.

You have such a bright future, you know. Just keep on doing what you're doing.

Please, you're making me suicidal.

The Downtown Association takes pride in being one of the oldest establishments in Wall Street. They have old paintains littering the walls that are dated as early as 1850. One wall near my dad's office is devoted entirely to showing New York City in the latter half of the 19th century. 70% of the paintings show the city on fire.

There are also old political cartoons around drawn by some guy named Puck. Most of them are about 1860s politics. Tammany appears several times. 80% of the time, he's on fire.

My dad gave us a walking tour descending the stairs and stopping off at the various rooms of the 6 floors of the Downtown Association building. The walls around the staircase display several pictures of clipper ships and steamboats traveling up the Hudson River or going out to see by the Statue of Liberty. 90% of the time, they're on fire.

To make a Flaming Asshole, mix 1 part Blackberry brandy, 1 part Bacardi's 151 rum, 1 part tequila, add to lowball, and set it aflame. It tastes so bad only an asshole would drink it.

Jump to the South Street Seaport. Cobble roads are all you have to walk on. Waiters have to walk on it for 5 to 8 hours at a time. The stench of fresh fish is in the air from Fulton. Indie bands have set up the stage beside the water. There are hundreds of people walking around. Maybe you've seen some of them before. Maybe they've seen you before. Street entertainers compete for audiences. Presently, the magician is winning.

The magician looks like Michael Jackson from the 80s. He's smoking a cigarette and touching small children.

We eat at Il Porto, an Italian seafood restaurant. Of course, I'm always dubious of seafood. Too many incidents involving food poisoning. Instead, I get the pasta. The penne kind, because in some instances, restaurants make spaghetti too tough and suddenly you're choking with several long noodles coming out of your mouth.

The paramedics ask if you just swallowed a yellow ball of yarn. You know, just to break the tension because while you're choking, enough air comes through to allow you to laugh.

My dad orders a Manhattan.

To make a Manhattan, you mix 1/2 parts Rye Whiskey, 1/2 parts Italian vermouth, 1 dash orange bitters, and serve with a Maraschino cherry.

Next thing, he's red in his face and laughing at every little thing.

We head over to the mall. I'm shopping for a new light jacket because my old one is ... old. 6th grade old. Yankees miracle season old.

Inside ExpressMen, my dad approaches the employees.

"WOW!!!" he says. "You've got SUCH a NICE VIEW in this shop!" He giggles a bit.

The employees look at him and nod their heads and smile.

I find a jacket I like and we buy it. At the cash register, my dad begins flirting with the cashier. Then he says something about getting a discount. By now, everyone in the store knows my dad's drunk because of all the noise he's making. I just want to get out. The cashier, she says:

"Oh, you can get a discount by buying an Express Card. 15% off the purchase!"

Son of a bitch! I wanted to get out!

"REALLY??" my dad says, his eyes going wide. "Sign me up!"

While the registration is going through, my dad takes the time to make more heavily-accented flirtacious comments to the cashier, in the presence of both my mom and I. We know he's out of his mind. They know he shouldn't be driving home. The customers know they should avoid us.

Money does not save you from drunken embarassing fathers.

A stop at Starbucks and then we're on our way home.

And it turns out, my dad wasn't drunk after all. He was just faking it. He loves being the center of attention, even if it does mean making an ass out of himself. This he doesn't tell me, but I know that's exactly what he's thinking.

My parents are pretty weird. But I love them still, I guess.

To make a very confused childhood, mix one part obnoxiously loud father, one part puerile (childish) naive mother, and me. Decorate with good grades and defense mechanisms.

Mix well before serving.