He turned on the television, then asked, "So, what do you think about 'West Wing'?"

I didn't know whether, by his question, he meant that "West Wing" was coming on, and did I want to watch it, or whether he was asking what I thought the show's merits were—generally speaking. I guessed the latter.

"I haven't seen it," I said.

Earlier in the day, I had sat spellbound as he described flying an unheated transport plane above and around the snow-covered Air Force base in Enid, Oklahoma, and/or across the country on cold flights where, he said, "I just shook." He told me that had been in the air, in fact, when my sister was born, and that, "If the B-25 hadn't been a damn good airplane, I wouldn't be here right now."

We also talked at some length about his experiences in a fraternity at the University of Missouri, which was apropos as my own son and his grandson may, or may not, pledge at one or another university soon.

"Well, what is your favorite show?" He'd hit some sort of control button that yielded an on-screen programming guide, which was rapidly scrolling as he pressed the button. His posture had shifted and leaned away.

The first thing that came to mind was "Angel," and the memorable show she'd put on in a Gardena strip club many moons ago a few minutes past midnight. But I knew what he meant, and my father doesn't take kindly to abrupt changes of subject especially if they're couched in humor, so I answered him honestly and straightforwardly (always the best approach).

"The Shaq and Kobe Show," I said.

I thought it a rather clever answer, certainly an honest one, but he just nodded his head and continued scrolling through the evening's offerings. "What about 'Sex in the City'?"

The scrolling stopped and a fuzzy image of a bomb hitting a target in Afghanistan appeared. Channel 45 (or is it 54?) in Apple Valley, California. Fox News. (I'd never seen their broadcast, but I'd read that it was a favorite among "Angry White Men" according to, I think, someone at Salon.com.)

It's probably great in television-world. "Haven't seen it," I said. "I think that's on HBO. We don't get it."

A disturbing silence followed. We both watched the news for weird minutes together, which is rare. The market was holding its own, but Americans were being encouraged from several quarters to buy what they could for God and country. I wondered, silently, how many people would "purchase" something with their credit cards. Then I thought of hundreds of huge, digital, high-definition, thin as a picture, wall-hanging mondo television sets that would soon be sold throughout the land at an A.P.R. of 19% on VISA or Mastercard. And then I remembered that the last American manufacturer of televisions had ceased production several years ago, though I couldn't remember their name.

This, as happens with all of us, went between my ears in seconds.

"So mostly sports, huh?"

He was still in the game! Still asking questions. Still in the conversation, despite the remote-control in his hand and one eye bent toward the TV as his oldest son stood by.

"Yeah, mostly." I looked at him and he looked at the screen. I had the distinct impression that for all practical purposes I was barely present. I continued anyway. "We rent a movie every once in a while. I wanted to watch the Victoria's Secret thing that was on a couple weeks ago, but I missed it. The girls were probably…amazing."

"Oh," he said. Flip flip. New channel. "That's too bad."

He fathered five children, flew for the United States Air Force, graduated from college, volunteered with the Jaycees and put in a community pool, worked in a hospital changing sheets, survived a marriage with a schizophrenic woman, my mom, taught night courses at a community college. As the final speaker in an executive management program I witnessed as a lad, he had twenty or so managers of managers, mucky-ups with stripes working for major players indeed eating out of his hand during the presentation he called "The Man in the Mirror."

He could flirt with waitresses unlike anyone I've ever seen. Member of "The Mountain Men," in Williams, Arizona circa 1962—a rare privilege with a group given to long rides in real buckskins followed by Herculean drinking in a mountain bar—all of them community "leaders." And then he conjoined with Dolly's family when I was twelve, in South El Monte, when her four and our five meant eleven under a single roof. Etc. He is my father, and I yearn to hear his stories. Or perspective. On anything.

But television has stolen him away. I tried for years. "Write your memoirs," I said. (He can type, I can type, Matthew can type.) "Even a simple, dirty outline which your grandson would KILL to see." But it's no use. "NYPD Blue" has him now.

He's quite keen on "The O'Reilly Factor," too. (Or something entitled similarly on Fox News, I think.) Even though he's just come from brain surgery and an extended stay in a rehabilitation clinic, television has him, again, in it's clutches. His time, to the end of his days, will most likely be spent staring at a screen, his breathing subdued, his eyes focused only enough, his heart barely beating.

I don't begrudge the old man his pleasures. If he's as sick and tired of the whole mess as he says he is, and if the tube provides something for him to hang onto when nothing else works, then who am I to snipe or snarf? But don't you, dear reader, have a nagging suspicion, as I do, that his brain and maybe his soul has been kidnapped by "The Practice" or, perhaps, something more generally sinister?

Go ahead. Answer honestly. Make my day.