NOT "From Dusk To Dawn" BUT MORE LIKE "From 10:30 To Midnight"

"I've danced for you before, yes?" Yessica asked (in Spanish) as she slid into the seat next to mine. "It wasn't this club--different club. About one year ago...in fact exactly this week last year!" she pronounced proudly, as I sat there, mouth agape.
The mouth was agape for a variety of reasons. Let's start with the fact that she looked like a mix of Beyonce and the model Iman. Then there was the table dance I had just received from her, which was literally breath-taking. Add to that the fact that out of probably 5,000 table dances over the last year, she remembered specifically dancing for me exactly a year before. Put them all together and you get a whole lot of agape.
As I prepare to visit Mazatlan for the first time since the above incident, I remembered how...uh...special my first trip had been. My first flight to Mexico was exactly three weeks after the events of 9/11. A year-and-a-half earlier I landed in Bogota to see soldiers with machine guns and dogs stationed every few feet at the airport. Now PDX looked just like the Bogota airport.
I had been planning this trip for all of 2001. Nothing and no one could have stopped me: my first vacation in 7 years, my first time alone in a foreign country and my first chance to try out the Spanish I had been teaching myself. At this point I could speak more Spanish than the average American, but that's not saying much.
Researching for the trip I had made contact with a guy who would be in Mazatlan while I was there, and we agreed to connect there. I knew the guy was a former biker who liked to ride a lot of dangerous and/or desolate routes. When I met him at his hotel, and he opened the door, I could have sworn I was looking at the real-life Eric Bama version of Doc Savage.

Doc Savage's name was Glenn, and he was a Hell's Angel for seven years then went to Thailand and studied martial arts for two years. On his return to the U.S. he opened his own martial arts school in southern California which had, by that time, been operating successfully for 22 years. Glenn was 6'2", 220 lbs, and not a drop of fat anywhere. There was no doubt in my mind that he was someone who "can take care of himself," and that the average person would rather punch a fire hydrant than take on this guy.
Over dinner we shared histories. Glenn had been to strip clubs, bordellos and massage parlors all over the world. We chose one of the local strip clubs, hailed a cab, and were on our way. I knew that this wasn't going to be "From Dusk to Dawn," but it would definitely be a step removed from the clubs I'd been to in Portland and Canada. Most of all I didn't have to "know the ropes" at this new experience; Doc Savage would guide me through it. Casual sex with no social embarassment? Sign me up!
The place was on the oustkirts of town, with several other clubs located nearby. As we walked into a loud room the size of a high-school gymnasium, one of the dancers, who was talking to a short stout woman who was probably from the kitchen. As Glenn and I passed, she interrupted herself with a loud "Oh my God!" Glenn must be used to this by now, as we walked on without taking note.
The room was dominated, in sight and sound, by the girls dancing on the proscenium stage on the left wall. Tables and chairs were packed into the space and the back wall offered a series of doors to...a room? A booth? We sat facing center stage, but in the very back. The club was lit so that the ladies could get a good look at the men. When a man wanted a table dance, he would grab the m.c. (who chattered incessantly into a wireless microphone) and point to the girl he wanted. The girl would be brought down and given a ticket. None of the table-dance money goes to the girls, just to the house. The girls get credits, however, for every table dance, and they get something with enough tickets.
The real moneymaker for the girls is "privado," which means you go behind those closed doors at the back of a club with your chosen partner, and do whatever the two of you agree on doing. The girls insist on safe sex and each one gets tested once a week. A girl could make $40-$75 in one fifteen-minute session, and the primary sales tool for "privado" is the table dance, so the ladies get inspired and creative when it comes to showtime at your table.
I ordered a table dance from the best-looking chica in the place. She was a dead ringer for pornstar Lanny Barby and she sat on my lap for a moment, grinding away a bit while there. Then she hopped up onto the table, on all fours, with her butt facing me. I was certainly admiring what I could see from that point, but something evidently was missing. To my right I heard a heavy Mexican accent saying, "Totch her! Totch her!" As soon as I figured out that this meant "Touch her..." I felt each of Lanny's ankles lock into one another behind my neck.
Lanny suddenly bent at the knees and slammed her ankles forward, towards her butt. As the ankles made contact with her ass, so did my face. At this point I figured a simple grope would not be taken unkindly, so I placed each hand on one of her butt cheeks. This was done mainly so that, if smothering, I could possibly press clear of her nether regions and draw in oxygen instead of sweat.
The Mexicans around me were having a great time. It was obvious that gringos in this club were few and far between, and so having such an entertaining novice as me was a welcome spectacle. They were pointing and laughing, poking one another in the ribs. Once the "fourth wall" is "broken" in this kind of performance, one forgets completely about the audience, and it's all about doing all the things you want to do in a U.S. club that would get you arrested if you tried them here.
Lanny finished up her dance and left just as someone entered the room. A bunch of someones as it turns out; about five or six Mexican bikers entered the club. No one said a word to them and they looked at no one as they filled up the seats around Doc Savage and myself. The leader had to confront Glenn, obviously. You go right up to the "alpha male" if you're in the biker leader's shoes. He sat down next to Glenn and I saw Glenn lean towards the biker leader and tell him about his journey.
Glenn was at the beginning of a motorcycle trek that would take him--solo--from California to Tierra del Fuego and back again. "Verdad?" the biker asked ("for real?" in English) Glenn smiled and looked even more like Doc Savage than before. Glenn introduced me and I tried to be nonchalant as I raised my Pepsi in a "toast." I was gambling that my innate lameness would not overpower Glenn's Doc Savage mojo and I was correct. "Faahr out mayeen!" the leader exclaimed and we were in.
I ordered another table dance, partly to demonstrate my manliness to "the guys" (they had moved from "future defendents" to "the guys" instantly) and also to provide them some entertainment. I thought I would enjoy a dance from an unexpected blonde who looked more like a student at Stanford or USC than a stripper in a Mexican bar. Her name was Eve and was more athletic than voluptuous. I found out later that in the late 19th century, many German immigrants flocked to Mazatlan. Their numbers have never gotten really high, but it is possible to find blue-eyed blonde mexicanas in Mazatlan. She came over to the table and gave a notable performance. I toasted her with my Pepsi and the gang toasted as well.
Then it hit me: here I am in what most people back in Portland would think of as a dangerous if not terrible place, among violent criminals in a sinister setting...but no! This place would not be dangerous under any circumstances (the only theft going on was short-changing customers, not mugging them). And if anyone was insane enough to start something with me, they'd have Doc Savage AND a Mexican biker gang on their sorry ass in no time! That's when I realized that I was, in fact, as safe as I've ever been in a night club anywhere. A martial artist built like the obelisk in "2001" and five badass dudes carrying guns and knives had my back. Nobody would mess with me tonight.
Maybe it was the testosterone in the room, or maybe the quality of the women at the club, but I began to consider that the situation was safe enough that I would take the big step and pay for some "privado." I remembered that the judge was due to sign our divorce decree soon and I realized that this was my one opportunity to really commit adultery! We had been split for 9 months and the restraining order on her was still in effect, so we were no longer in touch. On paper we were still married, though, and knowing I was "cheating" on this woman gave me a warm glow all over. I arranged to meet Eve in one of the rooms in back.
We were given "enough time"; i.e.-15 min. or 3 songs, whichever happened first ("whichever came first" seemed inappropriate). My number one concern was that the intro to the first song would be "enough time." As it turns out, Eve was not only enthusiastic but accomplished, and when the last chorus to the third song began, she kicked into some "turbo mode" and we ended as the song was fading out.
Before I left I decided on one more table dance, the dance Yessica was still recalling a year later. Checking email the net day I found out the judge had squeezed in one extra case near 5 pm Friday. Our divorce decree was signed at 5:10 pm, about six hours prior to my adventures that evening. Kind of a perfect ending though; it's oddly reassuring to know that I can't pull off some good adultery even when I try my best. And I don't need Doc Savage and a Mexican biker gang watching my back to be a memorable table dance customer.

THE DAY I SCARED HITCHCOCK
It's something I've only done twice; an uncontrollable scream, not of terror, but a scream like a 14-year-old girl seeing the Beatles live.
The first time was on a family vacation. We were in S.F., driving near Candlestick Park. I looked to my right and saw a new Cadillac. Looking more closely I saw two black men in the front seat, and the one in the passenger seat looked just like Willie Mays. Then I saw the uniforms. Hanging on that hook over the back door on the passenger side were two baseball uniforms. S.F. Giants uniforms. The S.F. Giants uniform facing me said "Mays." The driver is McCovey and the passenger is Willie Mays.
Before I could stop myself I screamed, "AAAAGGHH!"
My Dad almost leap out of the car. "You almost got us killed! Don't EVER do that again!"
"Mays! McCovey! The Cadillac!" was all I could get out, pointing at the car, which was taking the Candlestick Park exit.
"Just because it's two black men in a Cadillac doesn't mean that it' s Willie Mays and Willie McCovey," my father chided.
"There's Giants uniforms in the car!" I protest, pointing at the back end of the disappearing car.
"Just don't ever do that again!" Dad warned. I obeyed; for about a decade.
The second time was on I-205 in L.A. in the late '70's. I was driving late one morning in my yellow 1970 Datsun 510 from Venice to an interview at Warner Bros. in Burbank. I'm in the middle lane, northbound, deep in thought. In my peripheral vision I notice a vintage Lincoln limo in the lane to my right. Checking out the car I noticed a figure in the back seat. It looked like Alfred Hitchcock.
My first thought was that it was one of Madame Tussaud's wax figures; it had that almost-real look. Great idea, I thought, they're moving the Hitchcock figure and rented an old luxury car to move the great director's likeness!
Now I'm looking forward again and something catches my peripheral vision. I look to my right and I see the wax statue move! Almighty God, it actually IS Alfred %$#@-ing Hitchcock!
"AAAAGGHH!" (it happens again).
The great director must have seen my movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to his left to look me straight in the eye. That was too much.
"AAAAGGHH!" (it was Hitchcock, for God's sake; I felt he deserved two screams, the second one directly at Hitch)
His eyes instantly became the size of dollar-pancakes. His face had the exact look of terror that Janet Leigh had when the shower opens in "Psycho." He was scared shitless! I saw him shout instructions to his driver and pull the privacy curtain on the limo closed (this was in the days before tinted glass).
Still in "I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing" mode, I dropped behind the Hitchcock limo in my Datsun and began following it. What was I going to do?
The right turn signal on the limo began to blink, and I looked up. The Universal City exit was coming up. Of course! He's on his way to the Universal lot! I figured I should go with the limo to Universal: I won't get past the front gate, but at least I can tell my friends back home that I saw Alfred Hitchcock get out of a limo.
Now I'm behind the limo, turn signal blinking as well. At the last possible moment, the limo jumped lanes to the left, back on I-205, and by the time I saw what had happened, it was too late for me to get off the off-ramp. Hitchcock and limo sailed north on the freeway, and I got to the top of the off-ramp and went back down again onto the freeway.
Hitchcock died a year or so later. It only occurred to me recently that most people don't have a Hitchcock story, much less one where they cause the creator of "Vertigo" and "To Catch A Thief" to lose it. I've since had a recurring fantasy where the director is lying in bed, about to expire. Someone attending to Sir Alfred hears him utter a phrase just before he dies, a la "Citizen Kane," that doesn't make sense. All they can make out before Hitchcock passes away is two words; "Yellow Datsun."

SIX LESSONS FROM STEVEN SEAGAL-
1. If you're ever in a convenience store and Steven Seagal walks in-get out! All holy hell's about to break loose.
2. Every knife in the world, even when it's being pulled out of a dead guy's chest, makes the sound of a saber being drawn out of a metal scabbard.
3. If a dozen guys with automatic weapons are trying to kill you, and you're unarmed, and you've just taken a machine gun away from a guy and killed him with your bare hands, FOR GOD'S SAKE DON'T PICK UP THE GUN AND TAKE IT WITH YOU! As long as you're running in the open without a weapon they won't be able to shoot you...
4. Don't ever help Steven Seagal. If you help him, you will be killed...unless you're a Playboy playmate, of course, heh-heh...
5. About ten years ago, Steven Seagal acquired the wig Tony Perkins wore in "Psycho," covered it with black shoe polish, and insists it's his real hair. Could someone at least convince him to push it farther back on his head? His hairline now is four inches closer to his eyebrows than it was in 1986.
6. All of Steven Seagal's movies are shot in Bulgaria and Romania, because if they were shot anywhere warm, all those layers of black clothing would cause him to pass out if he had to stand up quickly.

PUNISHING THE CARE GIVER

Let's establish a baseline for rudeness to start with. Imagine you're a divorced woman attending a BBQ at a friend's. You meet a man and begin a friendly conversation. You mention a son or daughter and the man asks if you have children. Yes, you say; two grown daughters. The man responds, "Two kids? That must mean that you have sagging breasts and lots of stretch marks." He gets up and leaves.

Can we agree that this would be rude of the man in question? And yet that is the equivalent of the behavior of a disturbing number of women; most of whom consider themselves to be intelligent, sensitive and caring individuals. As long as the man can be imagined as a "Momma's boy," before the speaker knows any facts, any and all character assassination is not only acceptable, but lauded as "being careful" or "dodging a bullet." You would be astounded at the things women have actually said to my face. They are, in every way, the equivalent of the rude man in the example.

The timing of this cultural drift couldn't be worse. The very women making these judgements have aging parents themselves, and they may or may not have the financial means to pay someone else to take care of their loved ones. In 30 years THEY will need assistance. Would they rather spend their final years with loved ones, or living in a care facility?

No, you don't get to catch me getting all superior and holier-than-thou. If I could pay my own expenses and several thousand a month for my mom's housing, food and care, I would probably do so. Since my disability payments are about half of the federal poverty level, this is not possible. I need housing at no cost and Mom needs help. It is that simple.

The cultural trope here is of a man who has never lived independently, never had a relationship with a woman; possibly never even dated. People who actually know me might say that, if anything, I've dated too much. I've been engaged twice and had one disastrous 6-month marriage.

The answer seems simple; just don't tell anyone where you live or any of your circumstances. Not so easy to do when I need to co-ordinate schedules with my sister before making any plans, so she can take over for a set period of time while I'm out. The average 45+ woman today has finely-tuned radar. Why can't we go back to his place? What's he trying to hide? Does his wife know he's doing this? The desire to be safe trumps (rightly so) any/all other considerations.

There's nothing rude or callous about dodging a situation that might feel weird. Stamping me as an emotional cripple, social outcast and possible deviant however, is not only acceptable by standards of the culture-at-large, but encouraged by friends, relatives and (especially) mass media. To someone trying to learn how to date taking the limitations of a disability into account, this situation results in not only confusion and anger, but pain and stress that make my condition worse.

A wise friend told me, "You just happen to live in the one country in the world that takes such an attitude," and he's right. To any woman in a Latin American country, no REAL man would do anything other than what I'm doing now, and I am respected by all the Latin women I know. "What you are doing shows that you are capable of making a commitment and sticking to it, even at personal cost. What real woman would NOT want this in a man?"

Which leads us to a judgement many of the same women make, "Oh, those women in Mexico/Colombia/wherever are only interested in one thing" these women proclaim, as if not using the term "scheming whore" somehow makes their observation generous. Yes, women in these countries are interested in one thing; a man who isn't drunk all the time, doesn't cheat on them and doesn't beat them up.

The things that bother us tend to point to things about ourselves we're uncomfortable with, or are in denial about. The one comment tells me a lot about the speaker; mainly that they totally support their single friends when they "marry well," or are able to ditch one guy for another who can support both of them nicely on his own income, leaving them free from the constraints of earning a living.

Maybe the reason this bothers me so much is that it makes me face my own prejudices. I give more weight to appearance than I should. When faced with an attractively-plain middle-aged woman looking for someone with a high-five-figure income who decides in less than 30 seconds that she has successfully diagnosed a psychopath, versus an attractive intelligent woman half my age who admires and respects me, which one do I choose (I must pause at this point because I am laughing so hard I trigger a coughing fit)?

Any time you make the "probably lives with his mother" comment, you not only perpetuate a damaging cultural stereotype, you create a prison for yourself. All of us are getting older, and predictions are that as much as 50% of the boomer generation will be afflicted with either Alzheimer's or Parkinson's (or both). When your son is faced with decisions about your care, remember this little tirade and ask yourself, "Given my attitudes, how eager is he going to be to include me in his life when I can no longer take care of myself?" Start some long-term insurance now, ladies, because you're locking yourself into a situation where your son is going to feel shame and guilt for putting your care into strangers' hands, or shame and guilt over taking care of you. Does this make you feel more comfortable about your future?

This August, we will move out of the house we're renting, and I will be free of care giving for the first time in 20 years. I will be free to date whoever and wherever I want. I will be in Mazatlan and/or Cabo in October, enjoying the surf and sun. I will spend my nights in the company of a beautiful Latina who admires and respects me. I'll be a "typical shallow male," in other words. But ladies, that's a step up from emotionally retarded deviant, isn't it?