I’ve become a big fan of IDTV, or The Murder Channel as I like to call it. Most of the time, I find the stories entertaining and even calming. But once in a while, something will trigger a real sense of shock and horror.

A couple of days ago, I watched the story of a serial killer, punctuated by interviews with his now adult daughter. In old photos, you can see the daughter as a toddler and the father as a big, good-looking all-American guy. The daughter describes him in those days as a charismatic family man.

But she recalls that all forms of horsing around with her dad ended up as uncomfortable power plays. Tickling became torture, as she begged her dad to stop. He would pin her arms down and keep on tickling.

Here I began to think, uh-oh.

My dad liked to be physical with me and my sister when we were kids. In one game, we would all get on his big bed and the object was to try to throw him off. Of course, this was impossible. I can’t remember if I enjoyed the struggle. I think I enjoyed this substitute for affection, since my parents divorced when I was three and I was a timid, neglected child.

Other games included trying to get his thumb loose from his fist. He was strong, a weightlifter and tennis player. We could never succeed and he enjoyed our committed struggles. He also enjoyed challenging us to perform some impossible task. When I was around eight, he bet that I couldn’t do 500 deep-knee-bends. Why would a father do this? Beats me, but I was determined to win. I somehow managed to rise to the challenge and I was in agony for days afterward. I remember my mom yelling at him about it.

When we were very young, my dad used to take us out on the freeway in his big Lincoln Continental and he would suddenly let go of the wheel at a high speed. He would turn to whichever of us was sitting next to him and say, “Take the wheel! Hurry up, you have to control the car!” Our terror was hilarious to him. Later, I would have recurring nightmares about a car I couldn’t control. I still can’t drive on freeways.

Back to the daughter of the serial killer, she recalls that her dad used to take her on a walk over a bridge. Halfway across, he would lift her up and pretend he was about to throw her over. She notes that she learned to run away before they got to the halfway mark.

My dad used to take us on a fishing boat that stayed out all day. I liked to fish. But I didn’t like it when he sneaked up behind me and suddenly lifted me off the ground, saying “I’m gonna throw you overboard!”

What fun he had!

The daughter in the story recounts her feelings of shame when her dad flirted with waitresses, crossing over the line of normal friendly banter.

Ditto, with my dad.

She was in high school when her dad was arrested for murder. He confessed to killing at least 8 women, but may have killed as many as 100. One was his fiance, who had rebelled against being dominated and had mysteriously disappeared. The daughter worries about having her father’s genes. She’s glad he didn’t kill her.

My dad died around 8 years ago, never having killed anyone as far as I know. But finding that his behavioral profile was so similar to the serial killer…that is upsetting. What the fuck was wrong with him and why didn’t anyone step in? How many fathers go around terrorizing their children in order to feel powerful? How many kids know that this isn’t normal?

Does this sound familiar to any of you??

As Father’s Day approaches, may my dad rest in peace, but may he stay good and dead.

As we attempt to brace ourselves for a Trump presidency, let’s address the matter of the favorite First Daughter, Ivanka Trump.

It’s no secret that Donald finds his daughter attractive. He’ s already said he would date her if he could, and he’s openly boasted about her “voluptuous” body.

For all we know, he picked out and paid for her resplendent implants, which are surprisingly similar in yardage to Melania’s.

In any case, pictures speak louder than words so cover your ears because this will be deafening:

I don’t like the way he looks at her and I don’t like the body language. Call me (or him) crazy.

I want to feel sorry for Ivanka. She was once powerless. How could she know what was appropriate or inappropriate?

But she knows one thing and that’s how to market herself and her Ivanka Trump products.

After appearing with Dad on 60 Minutes last night, Ivanka had an underling send a memo out to the press, asking them to note that she was wearing a bracelet from her own collection.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the monster, does it?

The Trumps are a gang of pimps and ho’s who all deserve therapy under Obamacare, which mandates that mental health be treated like physical health.

But meanwhile, our government needs to ensure that a Trump regime doesn’t become a kleptocracy once these grifters move into the White House and set the stage to blow up the world.

I finally got around to seeing The Wolfpack, but I was not prepared for it.

The true story of six brothers, aged 11 to 18, who were imprisoned in their New York apartment by their crazy parents, how could it be anything but dark and disturbing?

Somehow, from the promotional pictures I’d seen, I expected something more ‘quirky’ and lighthearted.

I knew the boys had learned about life from the movies that were their only link to the world outside. They were discovered walking down the street in the lower Eastside, dressed like characters from Reservoir Dogs, by a young filmmaker who ended up making a documentary about them.

Watching the family’s home movies, you see a group of children who are almost like puppies, clinging together with affection and loyalty and in the end, fear.

Fear of their father, a delusional South American devotee of Hindu, who didn’t believe in haircuts or exposure to the ‘poisonous capitalist society’ outside their front door, which he kept locked.

The mother has given up all power to her husband, who doesn’t believe in working but appears to like a drink or three.

The story is also a tale of resilience; the six boys are clearly damaged but somehow thrive. They are smart, sensitive, and loving. They are remarkably curious and life-affirming despite all odds.

But the picture of long-term abuse is just staggering. How does this go on?

It made me wonder how many households are run by little individual Hitlers, making crazy rules that no one has the nerve to disobey. The father here is like a paranoid Charles Manson without the charisma. A total shithead who somehow managed to get an idealistic farm-girl to buy into his delusions and bear him seven children.

The boys have a sister, Krishna, who was born with a disorder that keeps her tied to her parents, evidently.

Free Krishna, somebody!

One thing that startled me during this movie is the intensity of my revulsion for the Dictatorial Father. It is a visceral loathing that I carry around with me, ready to explode. All instances of dictatorial men, in books or movies or in the lives of my friends, trigger a deep antipathy, And by antipathy, I mean I want to kill them.

The Wolfpack father will never have to pay for his actions. All the petty authoritarian husbands and fathers out there will keep getting their way and ruining people’s lives. But why do women let this happen?

My own father left when I was 3 but maybe I’ve blocked out memories of his presence in the home. Or maybe it’s just the injustice of the situation that makes me want to kill these fucking bastards.

Everyone who has a daughter or who is in a position to influence young girls should make a point of teaching them to stand up and say No. Say No and walk away or run away if you have to.

It seems so obvious, and yet we haven’t made it clear.

See this movie for its unique gaze into the heart of darkness or because of the beautiful boys with the long silky hair.

But make sure you pass along the message to never let anyone control you. Ever. No matter what.

My dad had seven children with three wives. I am still getting to know the younger ones, who live in another county. One was an athlete in college, and she was the apple of daddy’s eye. He had always wanted a tennis  player and with her, he got one.

Years after graduating from college, she wondered what to do with her life. She lived with her dad until his health took a drastic turn. She loved him so much that she hastened to move out, leaving the duties of caring for him to my brother, who took a three month sabbatical from his job in a city up north.

Sometimes when I was visiting my dad, she would arrive for a visit. She would prance around for him like a palace courtesan before a king. As she explained to the other exhausted siblings, “I give him joy!”

When our dad got weaker and needed help paying his bills. she conducted whispered meetings with him at his bedside, accusing various family members of stealing from his wallet and even stealing his medication. Poor girl. That’s what love is, isn’t it? She was just trying to protect him!

Now that my dad is gone, I still don’t know what makes this girl tick. I like how she manages to avoid getting a job, because that has been my lifelong dream as well. (See Office Space.)

I love her blog, which is a tribute to hippies, many of them nude in a forest or commune or something. You can scroll and scroll, losing yourself in peace signs, long stringy hair and little proverbs about karma and creativity.

Creativity: I wish I had more, don’t you? Then no one would know that I’ve removed the camera-shy siblings from the photo above. Maybe my dad wouldn’t mind the extra hands and feet in this photo. I know he would criticize my hair. If only he’d lived long enough to see my silky keratin treatment.

Anyway, now she has assumed control of our dad’s trust.  It’s nice to know it’s in such competent hands. Stay tuned for Part II.

A long time ago, I wrote a story about my dad called “Smell the Leather.”   My parents divorced when I was 3, and my dad fulfilled his fatherly obligations by taking me and my sister out on Saturday afternoons. He bought a new car every year, and on these occasions, he would drive us around, commanding in a loud voice: “Smell the leather!” He was a happy, narcissistic man who fancied himself a Rat Pack kind of guy. It was a poignant story, as I recall.

Now, I have a different story but it’s still kind of the same.

My dad became seriously ill in June, and in my state of traumatized shock, I went to the city where he lives and helped out. In fact, I got the hospital to admit him after they refused all appeals to do so. Anyway, I joined my 6 siblings, from three marriages, in caring for our dad, who was shockingly frail and had to have a permanent feeding tube in his stomach.

Even though he’d been a terrible father, I wanted to help take care of him and make him feel surrounded by love. The doctors seemed to think he was close to dying. I slept on his couch a few times, listening to him cough all night through a baby monitor. He finally met my 17 year old son.

Now, miraculously, he has improved so much that his feeding tube was removed and he can eat again. He still needs care though, so I made plans to stay with him for a few days, thinking it would be nice to escape my life at home.

Then he called me. He started out complaining about this and that and then got to the point. He didn’t want me to stay with him because I “have too many problems.” He explained that it upsets him, as a father, to see one of his children so unhappy. It especially upset him to see me cry.

It was a surreal conversation but there was no way out. I said, “I can try not to cry, then.” He was skeptical. I reminded him that I had experienced the worst thing that can happen to anyone. He said he understood but asked pointedly, “How long are you going to be like this? Twenty years?!” I thought about it and said, “Yes.”

Trying to keep my voice even, I asked, “Well, how about if I just come visit for a few hours?” He replied: “We’ll talk.” and hung up.

Hahahahahaha! People don’t change! My father was always a fucker and he still is! The fantasy of a loving father was nice for a while, but I’m over it.

A rejecting father is forever, like a diamond.