Stop me if I've told you this before, but back around 1961-2, when I was about 17, I was in Palm Springs during the infamous Spring Break with a group of my fellow high school punks. One hot afternoon, we were driving down the main strip in my overheated 1953 Ford jalopy. A car was pulling out of a side street on the right and almost pulled in front of me before he stopped in time. I did what any self respecting high school punk would do: I gave him the finger and yelled, "F-You, A-Hole!!"
Then I look closer. The driver, who was looking at me with a puzzled look on his face, was none other than Kirk Douglas. Oops.
I now turn the reader's attention to his son, Michael Douglas.
God bless you, Sir and thank you for telling that story for the rest of us.
And God bless your dad.