I am still a little annoyed with Anthony Hopkins - LA 1995

UPDATE: After I whined (below) about Anthony Hopkins's "star" behavior it occurred to me to check if he had as yet received his Oscar for playing Hannibal Lecter. He had. I don't like actors assuming that I, and the people around me, are potential groupies. (I don't even know who is famous these days, so I would pose no threat even if I were the type.) However, can you imagine the kind of people that were approaching Anthony Hopkins in those days? Maybe he was right to try to hide. I would, however, like to make a recommendation. If you are going to try to hide from the public perhaps holding a newspaper over your face is not the best approach. Hardly subtle. Who knows if I would have noticed you if you didn't have a newspaper over your face, which now that I think of it, I could see right past? At any rate, all is forgiven.

I was in Los Angeles for a couple of weeks in 1995.  I know it was 1995 for two reasons: 1) the OJ Simpson trial was in progress and 2) Anthony Hopkins was looping the movie, Nixon.

Let me start with Anthony Hopkins. His appearance all over social media today (12/30/2020) prompted these recollections. He has been sober for 45 years--since before I encountered him. I wish him well because of his sobriety but I am still a bit angry at how he underestimated me.

When I had to work for two weeks in the downtown LA office of my DC-based company, our travel agent got me a great deal on an oceanfront room in the Sheraton at end of Santa Monica Boulevard. This made perfect sense since, instead of staying around the block from the office, I got to drive the I10 back and forth from downtown to the beach every morning and every evening at rush hour. However, when I finally got home, I had a balcony that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. And, when I woke up I had a bed with the same view. It was worth the commute. Besides, no one at the office was watching the clock.

Many years later I read that Anthony Hopkins lived in that hotel for a while. I only knew he was there because I ran into him at breakfast one morning. I might not have noticed him but, as the hostess led him past the row of booths where I was sitting, he bowed his head, held a newspaper in front of his face and scurried down the aisle. Yes, he scurried. There was not a big crowd in the restaurant. No one was paying attention to him. There was no need to scurry. I took it personally.

Did he think the excitement of seeing him would cause me to leap out of my seat and block his way? Did he think that I would be so overwhelmed that I would stop him to ask a million questions? Did he think that I would eavesdrop on his conversations? Okay, I did that. But I couldn't help it. He sat in the booth behind me facing in my direction. That was how I discovered he was looping Nixon.  

I listened to his conversation but don't recall anything he said. However, he was very friendly to the waitress. They seemed to have an ongoing friendship. My only conclusion is that he was very nice, and I would have had wonderful things to say about him but all I remember is that he dissed me. I'm almost over it.

Luckily, I had the OJ Simpson trial to divert my attention. But that's another story.

PS I've also had a grudge against Mary Steenburgen for much longer.

I still think of that bird . . .

For at least a week she had harassed me.  Flapping her wings in an effort to keep me away from the tree that overhung the driveway. Someone had to explain to me that she was probably protecting her nest. I just thought she was a nasty bird. I didn't know a lot about nature. Still don't. 

This bird was pretty annoying. I had to walk about twenty yards from my front door to the car and that brought me seriously close to her nest. Looking back on it, I should have backed the car in. That would have allowed me to put some distance between the tree and me. Maybe she wouldn't have swooped and squawked so much.

Then one morning when I opened my front door, she was waiting, standing on the rock that was my front step. I can still see her standing there. Not angry but somehow upset. She chirped. Not a happy chirp, but a sad sound, a plaintive sound. I had no idea what she wanted or what she wanted me to do.

Fruitlessly, I talked to her in a calm voice asking her what the problem was.  She followed me to the car, not harassing me but flying quietly, beseeching me. I had no idea what to do. I could only guess that something was amiss in her nest.
 
I didn't have a ladder or any idea what to do when I got up in the tree. At the time, I didn't know to try the town's animal control. 

I still think about that bird, that mother. I know given the lifespan of a bird, she would be long gone.  But I still feel bad. I understood.  I tried to be kind, but I didn't know how to help. It still pains me that I let her down.

Wandering into an alternate reality . . .

Oddly I entered both of these alternate (alternative if you’re British) realities in Cambridge Massachusetts. Could there be a portal?

Those of you who read Spenser novels knew that Robert B. Parker's detective, Spenser, often took his girlfriend to the Harvest Restaurant, an actual restaurant in Cambridge Massachusetts. Based on his cover jacket photos, Parker seemed to bear a strong resemblance to his character.  And, based on pictures I'd seen of his wife, although she was not a dead ringer for the dectective's girlfriend Susan, there were certainly similarities.

Simply dining at the Harvest put me in Spenser's world, but I really felt I had crossed the line from reality to fantasy when I looked across the room and saw Parker dining with his wife. It was as if Spenser and Susan had come in for dinner.  I would have found it interesting to run into the Parkers anywhere.  But in that restaurant? Magic.

It didn't hit me at first when Matt Damon walked by me on Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge. I was outside Harvard Yard waiting for a shuttle bus to the Longwood Medical Campus. The night was bitterly cold and he was appropriately dressed in a peacoat and dark wool cap. He passed the bus stop, crossed Mass Ave and headed down the street the name of which I've long forgotten. For years I thought of it as an interesting diversion until I realized he could easily be his character from Good Will Hunting heading out to find Minnie Driver.  How about dem apples?

I don't know why I didn't think of this when I first wrote this. It is kind of a twist on the same topic. I once left a Kurt Russell movie on 23rd Street in New York and walked down to the Tribeca Grill. My friend and I hadn't been seated that long when Kurt Russell walked in wearing the wardrobe from the movie.

It's nice to get away from reality once in a while.

ADDED APRIL 2023

I forgot a somewhat similar incident with James Stewart - although it took me years to confirm it. 

I was walking along Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills when I saw an elderly man in out-dated and ill-fitting clothes standing on the corner looking a bit lost. I recognized Jimmy Stewart but figured it couldn't be the actor because if Jimmy Stewart was in such bad condition, someone would be taking care of him.  But, I never forgot.

Enter the Internet. I found clips of a movie he made with Bette Davis about the problems of the elderly.  There was a scene on a nearby block and Jimmy Stewart was wearing the same clothes. Actually, it took decades and the invention of the Internet to verify this. 

I guess this isn't really the same. It might be better included in a post about film sets I've wandered into. I"ll start a list.

Rocky II

Sex and the City

Michael J. Fox

Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street

Three Men and a Baby

Wolf

???

Look at Me. I'm Walking Down the Street

Christopher Reeve is the reason I know I am not psychic. 

When you live in New York you get used to running into celebrities as well as to the idea that they do not make eye contact. So it was really odd when Christopher Reeve, at that time a movie star best known as Superman, not only made eye contact with me, he held it. It was as if we were sharing a secret, as if he were saying, "Look at me. I'm walking down the street." I know that was what I thought because those were the words I used to describe the encounter the next day to a friend who had missed him by a few minutes.

About ten years later, the actor had the horseback-riding accident that left him paralyzed. In the years between the date of his accident and his death in 2004, I never once doubted that he would, against all odds, walk again. 

I have no idea what I thought, but I knew what I believed. I was certain that someday he would walk down Columbus Avenue and marvel at the fact that he was, in fact, walking down the street, that he would look at someone and say, "Look at me. I'm walking down the street."

Sadly, I was wrong.

Still a Buffoon Fifty Years Later

Rachel Maddow recently wrote a book about former Vice President, Spiro Agnew and the scandal that drove him from the vice-president's position. In interviews, she talks about how people have forgotten about Spiro Agnew. And, I am sure that is true for most people. I can't recall the last time anyone mentioned his name.

I too had forgotten him sometime in the 1980s when, shopping in Bergdorf Goodman in New York City, I walked by the door and glanced outside and saw a tall man with a short wife walking up Fifth Avenue. The words "Who is that buffoon?" ran through my mind. It took me a few minutes to figure out who he was but my initial reaction was clear. This man was a buffoon. I've heard the word used about him recently.

What did I learn from my brief encounter with Spiro Agnew? Try not to be the person that when someone catches sight of you, their response is "Who is that buffoon?" Or, any other negative word. Be the person that even if someone can't place you right away, they think "Who is that lovely individual?"

Not being convicted of tax evasion can help.

Reminders from Facebook, Tom Hayden, Michael Keaton, Meir Kahane

Tom Hayden, Michael Keaton, Meir Kahane.

What do these three have in common?  They all were mentioned in a single Facebook post (attachment and comments) and brought to mind incidents in my life I had forgotten about. 

The conversation started with a post about the movie: The Trial of the Chicago 7.  So, it's easy to understand why Tom Hayden came to mind.

Sometime around 1987, I was sitting in the front of coach on a transatlantic flight which meant that I'd be able to deplane first but also gave me the privilege of sitting near the row of lavatories.  Sitting on the aisle, I sometimes felt like a greeter for those coming and going. Literally.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, a man came out of the bathroom and kind of hesitated. I glanced up and our eyes met. I think I gave him a perfunctory smile but I also must have registered something else in my expression. I looked up again and he was staring at me with a face that said think about it, you'll get it. It only took a few seconds before my expression told Tom Hayden I did. I kind of smirked and nodded. He smiled and walked away satisfied that I had recognized him (behavior I never encountered in any well-known person before or after).

That's not the story.

Later when I got up to take a walk, I discovered he was sitting a few rows behind me cuddling, not with his then-wife of record Jane Fonda, but with her polar opposite, a very round, very curly-haired woman whose picture I saw at the grocery store a couple of weeks later on the cover of the National Enquirier. The headline? TOM HAYDEN LEFT JANE FONDA FOR THIS WOMAN. 

I turned to the shopper behind me and said, "That's true."

That's the story: I scooped the National Enquirer.

I would love to have expanded the conversation on the Facebook thread about how Michael Keaton's acting skills have become so impressive but I hate to go too far afield on other people's posts. The topic at hand was that he was playing Ramsey Clark in the Chicago 7 movie.  However, that brought to mind my only encounter with Michael Keaton.

I ran into the actor in baggage claim at the Toronto Airport in the eighties. And I don't mean at baggage claim. I mean in baggage claim.  At that time, the Toronto airport was set up so that luggage came down a chute and around a carousel. At the back of the area were bins for unclaimed luggage, some under the chute. That is where I ran into Michael Keaton, legs dangling, sitting with his baggage in one of the bins. 

Not many people walked back there so he watched me as I went by.  A pathetic specimen. Me. Not him. I'd been sent to Toronto at the last minute on my way to or from somewhere. That's important because my suitcase (a suit bag) was inappropriately heavy for a one-night stay in Toronto. No wheels. I was dragging it behind me. In the summer, my business suit and silk blouse had the look of an outfit that had been worn too long and too hard. Wrinkled and crinkled. My physical appearance was no better. Plus, I had recently undergone foot surgery and was wearing pantyhose and old sneakers, one cut open to accommodate the healing foot. I was exhausted and cranky and looked it.

Back to Michael Keaton. Sitting in that bin, he was being Michael Keaton, generating an energy that spilled out of him. Even cranky me could feel it. Unfortunately, it was not catching. I dragged myself by, rented a car and drove myself to the wrong hotel where I insisted they'd lost my reservation. 

My point on his acting is that I think it was hard to harness that energy that was so strong that even in my depleted state I could feel it. Now he can. Beautifully. Of course, I know absolutely nothing about acting.

Nor do I know much about Meir Kahane. However, in the late eighties I did know enough that when I ended up behind him and his entourage in line at the car rental counter in the old Denver airport ( as I recall), I did not get too close. He was an Israeli-American rabbi, an extremist in many eyes and an assassination target. The comment in the Facebook post that resurrected this memory said that when he made an appearance, his bodyguards insisted on sweeping for bombs. So, apparently, I had not made this up.

There were five or six men in Kahane's group. I am not sure but a lot of people were milling around and they needed a big vehicle. For want of a clear memory, let me say from Hertz.

Hertz agent to me:  Are you with them?

Me: No. (Moving back but staying close enough to guard my place in line.)

Much paperwork goes on at the counter.

Hertz agent to me: Are you going to be driving?

Me: No. I am not with them. (Saying loud enough for any possible assassins in the area to hear.)

More paperwork goes on at the counter.

Hertz agent to me: Did I get your license?

Me: No. I am not with them. (Again, loud enough for possible assassins' benefit.)

More paperwork goes on at the counter.

Hertz agent to me: Do you need anything else?

Me: Yes. A car. I am not with them.

What confuses me about this agent's confusion is that I was the only woman in line. I don't understand why it was so hard for her to remember I was not with them.

I am sorry to say that my instincts were right. Kahane was assassinated in New York in 1990.

Not much point to any of these stories, but I wanted to get them recorded for old me.

What Kenny Rogers taught me

I was awake and on Facebook at 3:21 in the morning when a post came through saying that Kenny Rogers had died. I have never been a big fan of Kenny Rogers. I like him and most of his music, but if I had to create a list of favorite artists, he would not be in the top ten.  Maybe not the top fifty-- although I love to use his song "Through the Years" when I make sentimental slide shows. So, one might think his death would have no meaning for me. Not so. I learned a valuable life lesson from Kenny Rogers.

Back in 1973, I drove out to Arizona to spend the winter with a friend who had just relocated to Scottsdale after a sad divorce. She kept calling me urging me to hurry out there. She was lonely and if I didn't get there soon she was, out of boredom, going to start dating this guy George whom she didn't really like that much. I did not get there in time. When I rolled into town, she was dating George as a prelude to a thirty-year marriage that would last until her death. 

She was lovely about trying to include me in things, but, let's be real, I found myself sitting home alone on a fair number of Saturday nights. I was doing just that one evening when I got a call from my new friend, Liz, begging me to pick up another new friend, Anne, and come sit in the expensive seats at a theater-in-the-round the name of which I've long forgotten. (For those of you from Phoenix, I think it was somewhere around 32nd Street maybe near McDowell but it's been a long time.) First Edition was playing and the crowd was sparse. I guess management asked Liz and the other ushers to do what they could to fill out the crowd. Or Liz just took it upon herself. She was that kind of person (a compliment).

So, Anne and I arrived and took front-row seats for the second half of the show. First Edition, by then known as Kenny Rogers and The First Edition, offered an eclectic selection of songs. Their act was about as far away from the Rolling Stones it could get and still remain under the rock umbrella. Not particularly cool. Neither was I, although I tried not to draw attention to that fact.

I remember Kenny Rogers, the lead singer, looming over us in our front row seats. In my memory, he was dressed much like a groomsman at a 1970s wedding, sans tie and perhaps a few ruffles. Or perhaps the groom. I think the suit was white. I assume I liked the performance. The band had a few big hits in its past. Truth is, I don't remember much. What I do remember is what happened after the show.

Liz wanted to meet Kenny and somehow Liz, Anne and I ended up walking out of the theater with Kenny, a woman I assumed was a business contact, a kid whom I thought was a reporter and the opening act Pat Paulsen who at that point had probably been, based on his recurring role on The Smothers Comedy Hour and a high-profile, tongue-in-cheek run for president in 1968, a hotter show biz commodity than First Edition had ever been. But, in 1974, like Kenny's, his star had dimmed a bit.

I wasn't comfortable playing the fan role. So, I didn't have much to say but I did get to observe what a genuinely nice man Kenny Rogers was.  Liz was excited and kept the conversation going and the mood was all very relaxed and pleasant. (Although at one point a circle formed and Pat Paulsen and I found ourselves excluded from the group.  I won't bore you with the details but I will say that we made each other laugh--and yes I played an active role and made him chuckle if not guffaw.) The group spoke for five, maybe ten minutes at the most, and then broke up.

As I watched Kenny and his manager walk towards the motel across the parking lot, I remember thinking that is one of the saddest things I've ever seen. The year was 1974. Sometime that year Kenny decided to go solo. I can't trace his career but I can tell you that within a few years, and for the rest of his life, I would not have been able to get within one hundred yards of Kenny Rogers. He became huge. I cannot emphasize huge enough. The man I pitied, the man I wrote off as a has-been became for several years the hottest act in American entertainment and then an institution.

What did I learn from Kenny Rogers? A lot. Believe in yourself. Never give up. And, don't let the opinions of others define you--especially those of some idiot seat-filler who was too young to see that it ain't over 'til it's over.

UPDATE: After many failed attempts, I finally did a successful Internet search and located Liz Berry. It turned out that she had a naval career and apparently one son, whom I suspected might have been adopted. I am not sure if she ever married. I was devastated to learn that she had died young. I forget now whether it was in her fifties or sixties. From the donation request, I think it might have died of brain cancer. I had not seen her in decades but her death hit me like a punch to the stomach. She was a force of nature. I hope she got what she wanted out of life.

A Sales Call at Langley

My co-worker was disconsolate that she could not go to the meeting at the CIA. She was not a US citizen. I heard her arguing over the wall of her cubicle. "But we are your oldest ally," the Brit protested. I suspected she had set up the meeting simply so she could get inside Langley. She fought hard but, not surprisingly, couldn't get the CIA to change their rules. I wasn't surprised. About that. I was surprised I was going to the CIA in her place. 

I have to admit I got a kick out of stepping in to cover the meeting. I was probably feeling pretty excited as I headed from my DC apartment to Virginia on a warm, sunny morning. I was going to Langley. Langley. Spy movies. Spy novels. Spies. Langley. A word full of cachet. Maybe not good cachet. Could cachet be bad as well as good? If it could, the word Langley conjured both kinds.

I'd ridden by the CIA many times before a tragic shooting prompted the removal of overhead signs that said, CIA Two Left Lanes but, without those markers, I overshot on Route 123. I had to make a U-turn and keep an eye out for the entrance, which is what I would have expected of the driveway to an intelligence agency.

I wish I had written the details down as soon as I left the CIA but here is what I recall about getting onto the grounds of the Central Intelligence Agency at Langley in the 1980s.

They knew I was coming. I am sure I had to get some sort of pre-clearance. Otherwise, how would they have flagged my co-worker? I don't recall a thing about that. What I do recall is driving up to a camera that had a voice. The voice asked me a few questions. I apparently gave the camera the right answers because I was given clearance to drive up to a booth.

The booth had a man, a uniformed man. I can't recall if he was behind glass. I am inclined to say yes but somehow he provided me with three passes: one for me, one for my car and one for my escort.  And, a map.

Now, I am not a cartographer, but I do not believe that map represented the agency's finest work. I hope it did not represent the agency's finest work. Heaven help any operative in the field with drawings of equal quality. I held my map in my hand as I drove down the road, across the campus and right out the back entrance onto the George Washington Parkway.

(Sidebar:  My escort was growing concerned thinking I was roaming on the CIA grounds. I suspect they had procedures for such errant behavior.)

I headed south or east (whichever way it goes) on the GW Parkway looking for a spot to make a U-turn. I have no idea how long it took to find one, but it wasn't a short ride. After I exited and entered the highway again, I had to go beyond the CIA and make another U-turn to approach a "back" entrance from the highway. The guard took a quick look at my passes--"Don't worry about it. Happens all the time."--and waved me in. (Let me point out that this was decades ago and I am not giving away techniques for infiltrating the CIA. I am sure procedures are a lot tighter these days.)

From the back gate, I easily found the main building--at least what I think was the entrance to the main building. It's the one I'd seen in movies. My escort was pacing up and down in front. He understood my slow arrival. "Don't worry about it. Happens all the time." We went inside.

At the time a waist-high sallyport slashed the CIA lobby--but not wall to wall. There was space at the end. I was told to put my computer and other gear on a bench and go through the waist-high sallyport. I stepped in. The arm closed behind me. I have no recollection of what action opened the other side, but something did and the arm in front of me went up. I stepped out. I was safely on the inside, but then they told me to walk back out and get my computer. They kept an eye on me as I walked past the sallyport on my way out and back in, this time with my computer. Although I don't remember it, they must have checked my bag.

Once inside, I was disappointed to find the CIA was full of cubes that could have been in the insurance company office where I worked after high-school graduation. Nonetheless, I was not taking any chances. I didn't look at anyone. I was certain there was danger in recognizing anyone from within the CIA walls.

I have no idea what business I did at the CIA. It had something to do with speaking at a podium. Either that or we took my picture at a podium with the CIA seal as a goof.  How did that happen? It had to be a CIA camera. I wasn't carrying one. And, I am sure if I had arrived with one, it wouldn't have gotten past security. We were years from having a camera in our mobile phones. I was years from having a mobile phone at all. I have no idea where that photo is, but I am pretty sure I was given it as a memento. I am not really anxious to have it. Certainly, not online. I picture a kidnapper pulling up the photo and accusing me of being a spy. I can't imagine why anyone would pursue such an unprofitable endeavor as kidnapping me, but I've seen enough Jason Bourne movies to know anything is possible.

If I had to describe the most memorable moment of my visit, it would be my visit to the ladies' room. My escort walked me to the door but said he couldn't come in. He claimed there were cameras all over, but the bathrooms were not monitored. Really? I assumed they were watching and acted with appropriate modesty.

I am so glad I got to visit. I wish I remembered more. Writing this does, however, bring to mind two other interactions with the world of international intrigue. One in Monte Carlo and one in London. I'd better go write them down.

NOTE TO OLD SELF: Security was very different back then . . .

UPDATE: An article by Johannes Lichtman in the Paris Review 1/9/2024) provides an update on visiting Langley. They now have a gift shop with CIA merch. They give visitors commemorative photos with the CIA seal. Security has definitely been beefed up.

My Brief Friendship with JFK Jr.

Anyone who lived in New York City in the 1980s or 1990s ran into John F. Kennedy Jr. around town. Just about one of the most famous people in a city filled with famous people, he was easily the most noticeable--especially when he wasn't wearing a shirt.

When friends come to visit New Yorkers there is never a dearth of entertainment opportunities, but in those decades, getting a look at JFK Jr. was a highly valued one. I got to offer it to my guests a few times, always in Central Park where he biked and roller-bladed. Sometimes without his shirt, sometimes so bundled up he was hard to identify.

My only contribution to his history comes from an encounter I had with him on a summer Tuesday afternoon in the park--at the 85th Street entrance on the West Side to be precise. He was no longer living in the neighborhood. (For a while he lived behind me on the Upper West Side, but I am not sure if we were there at the same time. He moved down to 20 North Moore Street. The entire city knew his address.)

Our friendship began as I turned to step off the pavement and cross the roadway where JFK was sitting on his bike. He'd just finished adjusting his glove as I recall. Adjusting something. At any rate, he looked at me and I looked at him, making sure to hide any trace of recognition. (Which, when you think of it, is pretty dumb. The kid was on a stamp!)

I wanted to say:  It's Tuesday. Your mother owns a house on Martha's Vineyard. Your sister owns a house in the Hamptons. Your extended family owns a compound on the Cape.  Why are you wasting a beautiful Tuesday afternoon riding your bike around New York?

Instead, I said: You go.

JFK Jr. said: Thank you.

He biked away into the park and so ended our brief friendship. I don't think I watched him go. After all, there were so many years ahead when I'd be running into him around town. Or, so it seemed.

Clearly, we did not grow close during our thirty-second friendship, but the encounter did leave a favorable impression of him and convince me he was not so different. Why? I saw in that Friday's newspaper that he'd quit his job. When I ran into him, he had been doing what any of us would do: using up his vacation time.

I like that in a guy.

Note to Old Self:  He was truly that handsome, even without remarkable coloring.