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?