I’m watching The Birds for comfort. Bodega Bay rocks me back to childhood,

the simple boats and cars, the rural coast. In DuMaurier’s tale, there’s no love story, just a lone

man’s existential last stand. Hitchcock gives us hope: the silver car threading its way down the bird-

infested California coast, with God- lighting slanting through the clouds. In reality, Hitch kept trying

to force his bulk on Tippi. Rebuffed, he hurled live birds at her for a week to film

the Don’t-go-up-the-stairs scene. When she asked why her character would do something so mad, he said,

Because I told you to. He wrecked her career. Made her immortal. Hitch had visited Monterey Bay:

thousands of sooty shearwaters really did run amok, crashing into cars and windows, vomiting

anchovies poisoned by toxic algae. But fuck reality, back to the movie: How come no one ever thinks to put on

a helmet, gloves, goggles, or even a soup pot over their head? Crawl under the bed and pad yourself

with pillows. Get a broom or bat and whirl like a dervish. No, they just wait in fetching attitudes, faces and legs

exposed to the predatory beaks. I never look at the farmer’s pecked-out sockets. Once as a child was enough—

I know just when to shut my eyes.