Maybe it's my attitude

If you don't define a social life as dating, I've always had a great social life. If you define having a social life as dating, not so much. 

I didn't usually bemoan this situation, but for some reason when I lived in New York, I reacted when the newspapers featured stories about a new anchorwoman who came to town. I read an article about how she was dating John Heard (the father in Home Alone). Now, I never had a thing for John Heard. I didn't want to date John Heard. Nonetheless, I mumbled to myself that I'd never meet John Heard. It was the principle that annoyed me. 

I put down the newspaper and headed to LaGuardia to catch the Eastern Shuttle to DC. I wasn't an early boarder but I could find an aisle seat about five rows back, my usual spot.  It was Sunday. The plane wasn't full. There were only two people in my row. Me in the aisle seat and, across the aisle, a man in the window seat. John Heard.

That was when I realized perhaps fate wasn't what was holding me back.

© Jane Kelly 2025

Gary Oldman Was Nice

“Are you a big Sean Penn fan?”

I liked the actor just fine but not enough to stand in an empty lot waiting for a glimpse of him. I explained to the man who asked that I was waiting for a friend. I did not know that the Old Town Bar and Grill (actually Restaurant not Grill but I don’t care - it feels like a bar and grill) was closed for filming (State of Grace 1990). This was pre-cell phone so my only choice was to wait in the adjoining empty lot for her to arrive. 

I was alone on the lot when Gary Oldman came out to have a cigarette. At that point I assumed that the actor could feel free to walk the streets of the US uninterrupted. I, however, recognized him right away. I had seen and admired him in Sid and Nancy. You would think I might want to tell him that. But, I didn’t. I, who loved to talking to strangers and would talk to a street lamp if I found myself standing next to one, did not say a thing. I never speak to a celebrity. 

How would the conversation go anyway? So, tell me Mr. Springsteen, what do you do for a living? What brought you to New York, Mr. Jeter? So, Mrs. Onassis, have you always lived in New York? The usual conversation starters just don’t seem to work.

So, as is my custom, after we acknowledged each other (maybe a nod) I ignored Gary Oldman. Little by little, he moved closer to me and glanced over. Not crowding me. Just making himself available. I got the impression that he was sending a message that if I wanted to ask him any questions, he would be happy to answer. But I lived by my rules. No talking to celebrities. 

Maybe I misread him completely but I got a very friendly vibe. Maybe he liked to talk to strangers and I was a stranger to him. Maybe he wanted to tell me to get lost, but I don’t think so.

I realize this isn’t much of a story but whenever I see the actor e.g. winning an Oscar or hear about him e.g. people love Slow Horses, I want to say that I think he is very nice or, at least, I suspect he is. I don’t really know. I don’t speak to celebrities.

© 2024 Jane Kelly

Letterman at the DMV

I was only David Letterman’s neighbor for a year.  When I say neighbor I mean we lived in the same corner of the same small town. We lived on different roads.  Mine hit a dead-end at his. His house was a couple of miles from mine but to get from mine to his you passed at most two dozen houses. If that. So, I called him neighbor. Well, only to others. I never spoke to him.

During the time I lived in New Canaan, Connecticut, David Letterman was plagued by an uninvited guest on several occasions. I am fairly sure I spotted the woman walking down my road probably the best route from the train station to his house. It was rare for anyone but a jogger to pass by my house on foot, so I recall seeing a lone woman charging up the country road on a lovely Saturday. But, I didn’t think too much about her that morning, Later that day, she would appear on most US new outlets. In the meantime, I had to go to the DMV. Turns out David Letterman did too.

Letterman often drove up and down my road going to and from town. In town, I saw him at the Mobile station or, most frequently and most ironically, at the Post Office. (Reminder, his name was Letterman.)  His everyday car appeared to be a midnight blue Porsche 911, but I confirmed at the DMV that he also had two Ferraris. Different models I am told. I just knew they were both red. And to think I worried that I was extravagant buying duplicate t-shirts. 

To understand what happened next, you’ll need an idea of what my car looked like. I had moved from New York City bringing with me a car that was appropriate for parking overnight on an Upper West Side street. Read appropriate as old and scratched with fading paint and a missing left rear window. If I had felt any embarrassment about driving it in Connecticut, I could have passed the old Datsun off as my station car. That never became necessary only because I don’t embarrass easily. 

Back in the 1980s the nearest DMV to New Canaan was located in an old house in Norwalk. There was no parking lot, so I found a spot on the street. I was in line in the DMV when David Letterman came in with his assistant. I noticed, finished up whatever I was doing and left.

Back on the street, I was surprised to see that my car was parked between two Ferraris. A red Ferrari in front. A red Ferrari in back. We had four Ferraris in our town. One yellow. One blue. Two red. I’d been told the red ones belonged to Letterman. That was verified when he came out right behind me. 

I didn’t notice him until he was standing by the car in front of mine looking at paperwork that I guessed he pulled from the glove compartment. Or, wanted me to think he pulled from the glove compartment. He made quite a show of checking out some documents. 

My thought? He was keeping an eye on his cars and the owner of the disreputable vehicle that threatened them. I guess if I’d parked half a million dollars worth of powerful Italian driving machinery on the street, I would have done the same thing. 

While it’s good to have a neighbor with his own talk show (they keep you up-to-date on what’s going on in the neighborhood), there is a downside. You never know exactly whom in the neighborhood - or what local car - they might want to discuss. 

But it turned out I didn’t have to worry. I am pretty sure the memory faded quickly when he returned home and found a stranger hiding there.  Fearing for your life trumps fearing for your Ferrari.

© 2023 Jane Kelly

People to Remember: Believe Your Friend

Today’s episode of people I never forgot who have no idea I was ever alive.  

One day Bruce Springsteen and I flew commercial from Newark to Chicago. I was aware of this; Bruce was not.  I was behind him getting off the plane so I kept up with his group to see what it was like to be Bruce Springsteen walking through an airport.  Matching his pace wasn’t easy. He moved fast.

I only recall one person who noticed Bruce although I suppose there were more. A guy, youngish businessman, at a newsstand told his friend facing the other way:  Hey! That’s Bruce Springsteen.  His friend never turning around replied (with condescension):  I doubt it.  

Lesson learned:  if a friend tells you something good is behind you, what harm can it do to turn around?

There was a consolation prize - Mia, Woody and Dustin

One nice thing about living on the Upper West Side in the 1980s and 1990s was I saw people all the time who had succeeded. I am sure there were many highly successful people that I didn't recognize but it was hard not to notice the ones in the entertainment field. Especially, if they insisted on coming out of their apartment house looking like themselves. I'm looking at you, Madonna.

And so it was on a warm and sunny Father's Day, I was walking down Columbus Avenue with my friend Pat when I realized Woody Allen and Mia Farrow were walking beside us. I mean right beside us. As if we were walking four abreast. I knew it was inevitable. Pat was going to notice. She did.

Pat: Jane. ..

Jane: I know . . .

Silence. 

Neither one of us wanted to act like tourists. Well, Pat might have been willing but she knew I would kill her.  She didn't speak until Woody and Mia (I feel it is unnecessary to clarify that this happened before it all hit the fan) moved ahead. 

Pat: Can we just walk behind them for a bit?

We were very discreet. We crossed Columbus and walked along something like 75th Street on the opposite side. Unobtrusive. Just observing. One thing we observed is that Woody and Mia walked very fast. They reached Central Park West before us. We stood on the corner looking uptown and downtown, but they had disappeared - most likely into the building where Mia Farrow lived and Woody sometimes filmed.

Me: I'm sorry, Pat.

Pat: Don't worry. There's Dustin Hoffman.

Such was life on the Upper West Side in the 1980s.

© 2022 Jane Kelly

Memories: false or faded - Liz, Dick and Carol Channing

There was a time in the United States when you said "Liz and Dick," everyone knew who you meant. Elizabeth Taylor's affair with her Cleopatra co-star Richard Burton was a tabloid feast. This story was followed up by tales about their respective divorces and subsequent marriages. Yes, marriages. There were two. To each other. 

I have no idea what stage of their relationship they were in when my family and I walked into them as they headed into Sardis. I wrote about this in a blog entry Fame is Fleeting. (We were cutting behind a huge group of people waiting for a glimpse of them and were stopped to let the couple and Liz's two sons pass by into the restaurant. Apologies to the hundreds of people waiting hours for a look.) 

My point is I hadn't thought of this encounter for years until Carol Channing died. And after that, it took some complex thinking to get the memory right.

The topic here is memory. False or faded? I can't always tell. When Carol Channing died I wanted to comment on Facebook that I had loved her in Hello Dolly!, but had I really seen her in Hello Dolly! or was I remembering her appearances as Dolly on The Ed Sullivan Show?  I had no idea. I had to research to find the answer.

1) I went to the Broadway database.
2) I found out the timespan when Hello Dolly! ran.
3) I looked at the other plays that were running at the same time and verified that I had not seen any of them.
4) I noticed that Richard Burton's Hamlet was playing during that same time period.
5) I recalled running into the actor with Liz Taylor outside the theater.
6) The only reason I would have been in the New York theater district during Hello Dolly!'s run, would have been to see a show.
7) The only show I even suspected I saw during that time period was Hello Dolly!
8) Ergo, my memory of Carol Channing in Hello Dolly! was correct.

With the price of tickets on Broadway, maybe it would be cheaper to hire an IT professional to implant false memories for me.

Some of my faded memories shock me. They just pop up or I find them when scanning old photos. I recall telling a London cabbie how someday I had to get to the changing of the guard. When scanning, I found a photo of me at the changing of the guard but in winter uniforms not in fancy gear.  Maybe that was what I meant. I am giving myself the benefit of the doubt.

Friends tell me I gave them a tour of Las Vegas but I swear I have not been to Las Vegas since it became "Vegas." I really think that one is not on me.

Given my Carol Channing experience, I am going to use this post to record shows I saw as they pop into my mind. I have a feeling there are a lot of shows that still need to pop up. I remember not seeing shows, e.g. Miss Saigon, Phantom of the Opera, more clearly than I remember seeing shows.

Here are some I did see:

The Music Man with the original cast. The first Broadway show I ever saw. (I rode in an elevator with Barbara Cook decades later when she was performing at the Waldorf Astoria. I regret I didn't tell her how much I loved her in that show, but I don't talk to celebrities even to offer compliments.)

Hello Dolly! Apparently.

Mame. My favorite Broadway experience ever. Angela Lansbury. Bea Arthur.

Pippin. Ben Vereen and John Rubinstein. Before I loved him in television series Family?  No idea. Apparently, Jill Clayburgh as well.

Benefactors. Sam Waterston, Glenn Close, Mary Beth Hurt, Simon Jones. I had to look up Simon Jones. (Saw Glenn Close many years later around Lincoln Center. Her skin did not appear to wrinkle.)

My One and Only. Tommy Tune and Twiggy. Completely forgotten until a profile of Twiggy appeared on CBS Sunday Morning. (Although it was hard to miss Tommy Tune walking down Fifth Avenue, going past the Met in white pants, pink shirt and a white sweater tied around his shoulders. That memory stayed.)

My Fat Friend. Lynn Redgrave, George Rose, John Lithgow. (I never remembered actors in plays I saw.  Decided to follow John Lithgow's career. He did me proud!)

Hamlet. Ralph Fiennes, Damian Lewis. (Sat across from Anthony LaPaglia who fell asleep. He was in rehearsals for another play at the time, so I am sure his demeanor was no comment on the performances. If I had realized I would in the future develop a crush on Damian Lewis, I might have paid more attention.)

Hamlet. Richard Burton. Special broadcast for schools. Kind of cheating. Not in person but I'd seen him elsewhere with Liz Taylor.

Waiting for Godot. Patrick Stewart, Ian McKellen, Billy Crudup.  For the first time ever in a theater, I could hear every word - at least those Stewart and McKellen said. Every single word. Couldn't understand Crudup at all. Watched Crudup later in The Morning Show. He is such a subtle actor. He would never have to move anything other than his eyes. Fantastic.

Rent. In Chicago. Made an exception to "no musical" rule.

Cats. DC. The play was far from new. Betty Buckley was long gone from the cast, but I did see her on the way into Elaine's one night. She was on her way into Elaine's. I was eating next door.

42nd Street. Think I missed Jerry Orbach but used to see him around my neighborhood a lot when he was filming Law & Order. As I recall, Jason Alexander was in it.

Timon of Athens.  Part of subscription to Tony Randall's theater. No idea what else I saw or who was in them.

Aspects of Love. Stayed until the end but walked out vowing I would never see another Broadway musical. 

Les Miserables. I would make an exception and see this musical over and over again.

Camelot.  Philadelphia's Playhouse in the Park. Rock Hudson.

Half a Sixpence - Tommy Steele

London's West End. No idea what I saw. Remember Patrick McNee and Jenny Agutter. Maybe in the same play. It was bad although it wasn't the actors' fault. I should have gone to see The Mousetrap at some point. I‘ve had enough opportunities.

Art. Albert Finney. Tom Courtenay. Ken Stott. Had to look up Ken Stott.

Bob Hoskins. This is a mystery. I thought I identified the play, but I contacted the playwright and he said it had never been done in London. I know I did not imagine this but I cannot find any mention of Bob Hoskins in a play with two characters. The entire play takes place in Freud's office or someone else's. I really liked the rug. That's how I know I could not have made this up.

The Best of Friends - John Gielgud. Since I recall seeing John Gielgud the last night he was on stage in London, I must have seen this play.

A Chorus Line   On Broadway. No idea what cast.

Mary, Mary.  Pretty sure I saw it on a high school trip, Was Barry Nelson in it or do I think that because I passed him at the 1964 World's Fair? He was eating an ice cream cone or possibly a Belgian waffle. At the World's Fair, not on stage.

Three Sisters.  In London. Lots of Redgraves. Vanessa, Lynn and Gemma.

Sleuth. No idea who was in it. Now I can only remember the movie.

Dreamgirls. No idea who was in it but I would bet Vondie Curtis-Hall because he was always on my radar. That might be how he got there. I recall noticing him next to me in a New York restaurant at Denzel Washington's table.

Song and Dance. Remembered Bernadette Peters singing Unexpected Song but nothing else.

Equus. No idea who was in it.

Something about Elvis in London.

I hope to update this page as memories pop up. Three Sisters was a recent addition.

Adding October 2022:

Man of La Mancha. Raul Julia (Anthony Quinn in audience)

Dracula. Frank Langella?  Raul Julia? Both?

 

A Man for All Seasons Paul Scofield

Why I won't get to sit next to Conan O'Brien at dinner

UPDATE TO UPDATE:  The gist of my original post was that I was never going to sit next to Conan O’Brien at dinner. Wrong again! Okay, it was lunch, not dinner. And, I wasn’t actually beside him. I had my back to him. And, technically, he didn’t actually know I was there, but he knew someone was behind him checking in. But still, I found it weird to run into him in this context but not as weird as an old Conan video that popped up on my phone (I saw after lunch). Maybe because my phone heard me say “There’s Conan O’Brien.” I am used to that. Or was it because my phone knew his phone was within a six-foot radius (social distancing)? Either way. No coincidence.

UPDATE: I posted about this encounter and was surprised to find that several people felt Conan behaved like an entitled celebrity. I did not see it that way at all. I simply felt he was wandering into a public area and I was the person who alerted him. I found it funny. I felt as if my post had slimed him. I took the post down.

Conan O'Brien did his last show on TBS last week and the milestone went unnoticed on my Facebook feed. I think that is because many people of my generation do not like or get his humor. Some actively dislike him. I'll admit some of his bits make me uncomfortable (as intended I am sure) but some make me laugh out loud. 

I recall reading back in the nineties when he got the job at the Late Show that someone, perhaps Lorne Michaels, explained the choice by saying he was the guy you'd want to sit next to at dinner. 

When I heard he would be interviewed at the Kennedy Library, I signed up. I was a little disappointed to be sent to the overflow room. (My fault I lingered over dinner.) He was smart, modest and hilarious. Someone you'd want to sit next to at dinner. 

Before leaving the library, I wandered down the hallway towards the (closed) snack bar where the view of Boston Harbor is the best. At the same time, Conan wandered out of the elevator hallway. I assume to enjoy the view. Then, he spotted me. I like to think he realized he was wandering into a public area, and it was what I represented and not the sight of me that made him recoil. He reversed direction. No matter. I don't think I'll get to sit next to him at dinner.

© 2021 Jane Kelly

And then everything looks so normal . . . after the RFK assassination

The other day I was reading an article that mentioned in passing that Andy Williams had been staying in the Kennedy suite at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles when Robert Kennedy had been assassinated in the ballroom below. It occurred to me that I had, at very different times, encountered several people who had been present at that event. I was not. I was starting my summer job that week. I was not at the site until close to twenty years after the assassination. 

I am sure it was sometime in the 1980s that, sitting at a conference dinner in the ballroom at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, I became amazed that, although it was just a ballroom like dozens of others where I sat through after-dinner speeches, it had been the scene of a major event in the history of America in the 1960s. If there was a historical marker, I didn't see it. 

I was simply sitting at another business event when I looked up and wondered if the lighting fixtures - not fancy enough to call chandeliers - were covered with the same dust on June 5, 1968 when Sirhan Sirhan waited to shoot the winner of the Democratic California primary in the pantry for the kitchen behind the ballroom where I assume our meals had been prepared. When Robert Kennedy said his last public words, "On to Chicago and let's win there," on the same stage where conference speakers discussed the world's information needs. When Americans had a few moments left before they would need to clarify which Kennedy assassination they meant. 

I am not being ridiculous. There was a lot of dust. The room is no longer, torn down along with the hotel although the lobby lives on in many TV shows and movies.

I never saw Bobby Kennedy. On the day word went around the school cafeteria that he was coming to speak in Broomall, I was interested in cutting class to go. The only problem was none of us from the other side of Philadelphia had any idea where Broomall was. I wasn't upset. I figured I'd have another chance. Of course, I didn't.

I thought about how many people I had run into who were somehow connected to the RFK assassination. The first I recalled was Roosevelt Grier, NFL legend and Kennedy supporter. I stepped into a hotel elevator in New York - I think it was the New York Hilton - and found him leaning against the back wall. He was smiling. I think Rosey Greer was almost always smiling.  

I never speak to celebrities but Rosey spoke to me. For the entire ride. He said what a great day every day was and he hoped I felt the same. He said he felt blessed.  He gave off a contented vibe. At the time, I don't think I put him together with the assassination. The encounter was so upbeat that I forgot this was the man who was said to have wrestled the murder weapon away from Sirhan Sirhan.

It wasn't until the movie Mank came out in 2020 that I put Frank Mankiewicz together with the Hollywood Mankiewiczes and with the Robert Kennedy assassination. Memories can get a bit muddled as the years go on and mine did. I know that Frank Mankiewicz, at the time a middle-aged, Caucasian, political advisor, was not often confused with Julian Bond, at the time a dashing, young, African-American civil rights activist. It isn't that I can't keep the two individuals straight. I can't quite get a handle on our interactions. A friend and I were charged with escorting both of them to an event at our college, picking them up at the airport, dining with them, getting them to the lecture on time. I clearly remember Julian Bond in the car. I clearly remember Frank Mankiewicz at dinner. The rest all jumbles together. At far as I know, Julian Bond was not in LA at the time of the assassination, but Frank Mankiewicz announced the death of Robert Kennedy on June 6, 1968.

Of course, Ethel Kennedy was there with her husband. I ran into her with Andy Williams whose presence in LA got me thinking about this "theme." The circumstances were the opposite of the assassination and require some context. My brother used to work in Nassau, a frequent docking locale for the Christina, a yacht owned by Aristotle Onassis who married Jacqueline Kennedy only months after Robert Kennedy's assassination. One evening a friend and I were on the dock when a group of bicyclers swarmed off the boat.  Among them were Ethel Kennedy and Andy Williams. (For the record, the others I recall were Williams’ wife Claudine Longet, Christina Onassis, Mountaineer Jim Whittaker and his wife.) Not exactly meaningful contact. Actually no contact at all.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis did not come out to ride bikes that night but I ran into her on other occasions around New York when I lived there. She was present when RFK died.

Even more tenuous connections are two Kennedy children. Robert Kennedy Jr. was in LA with his father. Rory Kennedy was present in the sense that she was expected at the time and born almost six months after his death. I've heard Rory speak. I only ever ran into RFK Jr. in the Stamford train station with his family. The surprising thing about him to me was that he has incredible blue eyes. 

There is nothing significant about these encounters. These coincidences are more like an unpleasant game of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. There is nothing magical. If there were, I would have run into George Plimpton and I have no recollection of ever seeing him.  The number of brushes with people who were connected just strikes me as odd.

NOTE TO YOURSELF:  In fact-checking Julian Bond, you discovered you and he share a birthday.

NOTE TO YOURSELF: You were exhausted from your second day at your summer job at Home Life on June 5 and went to bed shortly after dinner. You had no idea that there even was a California primary that day. When you woke up you remembered a dream. Robert and Ethel Kennedy were running an ice cream shop in a building that was shaped like a coffin. A windowless brown box on top of a chrome base. The ice cream store was inside the base. The shop was on a hillside without other buildings around. At the time you figured someone had a television on that you could hear and that put thoughts of the Kennedys in your mind. For proof that you were not psychic, see your story about Christopher Reeve.

© 2021 Jane Kelly

Riding with Bill, Gates that is

Many, many years ago, I went to the annual Microsoft conference which was probably a mismatch since I was a lot more involved with data than technology. I blush now to think about what probably went over my head even though technology was pretty simple back in the 1980s.

This is not about technology. This is about my brief encounter with Bill Gates.

I got on an elevator at the hotel where the convention was held. I did not realize that Bill Gates was in the back of the elevator car. When the elevator made its first stop, he politely made his way to the front. After he'd stepped off and the door closed behind him, a man told this story about a previous elevator ride with Bill Gates. This is his story, not mine.

As on this ride, the elevator was packed and the people who got in later did not realize that Bill was jammed into the back of the car. One of the people in the front began to bad-mouth Bill. A lot. When the elevator made its first stop, Bill made his way out. However, as he passed the man who had been bad-mouthing him, he said "excuse me" and put a light hand on the man's shoulder so he could slide by. Slide by and see the name on his badge which he appeared to memorize.

There is a lesson to be learned here. If you are the last one into an elevator, keep your mouth shut until you've checked out everyone who is riding with you. I don't imagine Bill Gates rides in a lot of crowded elevators with strangers anymore but you never know who does. Alternatively, if you can't keep quiet, at least be smart enough to take off your badge.

NOTE: I went back to the Microsoft campus once for a reason I've long forgotten. I bet the guy wearing his badge in the elevator never did.

© 2021 Jane Kelly

What do Richard Burton, Peter Frampton, Walter Mondale and G. Gordon Liddy have in common?

A few months ago, social media was all abuzz about The Queen's Gambit. I am always into the minutia in films with historical settings from my lifetime. I have come to accept the painful truth that there are historical settings from my own lifetime and try not to let that fact interfere with my enjoyment of the show.

Given my nearly obsessive interest in minutia in the background, I was thrilled to hear Richard Burton's voice (The Robe was on TV in the background). It brought to mind the time I ran into him and his then-love Elizabeth Taylor when they were being constantly stalked by paparazzi and fans.

Waiting for Liz and Dick outside the Broadway theater where he was playing Hamlet had become a sport. Hundreds of people had gathered daily to catch a glimpse of the star just passing by. Usually accompanied by Elizabeth Taylor.

My parents and siblings and I had just seen Hello Dolly when we ran into the couple. We were on our to a restaurant when Liz and Dick (no combo names back then) walked in front of us on their way into Sardis. I felt a little guilty that hundreds of people had waited for a glimpse of the couple and they walked three feet in front of me. A little.

Back then Liz and Dick could not make a move without the press in tow, but now his name and face just appeared in the background of a hit series without recognition.

Fame is fleeting.

I felt the same way about Peter Framptom.  A summer or two after HIS summer, I waited behind him in line to check out of a hotel in a Texas suburb. Houston? Dallas? Not sure. It doesn't matter. He was still touring but without a frenzy. He was alone, at the front desk.  Settling his group's bill?  I wasn't sure but I was sure I was the only one who noticed.

Fame is fleeting.

And, my favorite, Walter Mondale. A man who in the summer and fall of 1984 had been greeted by cheering mobs everywhere. This is an exchange I had in 1985. I only know the year because of the content.

Me: I ran into Walter Mondale at the airport yesterday. Didn't he run for president once?

Friend: Last year.

Fame is fleeting.

And, apparently, so is notoriety. 

I was once in line for the DC/New York shuttle behind G. Gordon Liddy of Watergate infamy. He walked away and left his ID on the counter. I stepped up and realized that I could see his home address and phone number. Fifteen years before that might have been worth a lot. But in the eighties? No one cared. The stigma of what he did might have stuck but as far as being the center of attention? He no longer was.

Notoriety is just as fleeting as fame.

UPDATE: April 2023. Shirley Temple’s name just came up online. When I saw her pulling her own suitcase through Dulles Airport sometime in the 1980s, I didn’t think about her early years when she would have been mobbed by fans. She was active in government service and well-known, but no one seemed to notice her. Probably a relief for her. 

NOTE TO SELF: You had actually seen Elizabeth Taylor at a distance earlier. Apparently, she had been with Richard Burton until he went on stage, left the theater and came back to meet him for dinner before his evening performance.

© 2021 Jane Kelly

Why would you look so much like yourself?

Living in New York, you get used to running into celebrities who do not want to call attention to themselves by looking like their public persona. They dress down to blend in although they must realize they call attention to themselves by wearing baseball caps and sunglasses or, in many cases, simply by being extremely thin. People they pass may not know who they are, but they have a pretty good idea they are somebody. 

I understand trying to camouflage yourself, but I have always been floored by celebrities who go out looking like themselves.

Rod Stewart

I once asked a friend with ties to the music industry who that guy was who was always walking around 57th Street looking like Rod Stewart. "Rod Stewart," was his answer. I could not believe a rock star would go out looking so much like himself. If you want to see what he looked like, check any online photo of Rod Stewart.

Madonna

I once saw a woman standing on the corner of 72nd and Columbus and wondered why anyone would dress up to look so much like the Material-Girl-era Madonna. She had the Marilyn Monroe hairdo, very high heels and a mink coat.  Who would anyone spend $25,000 on a mink not to mention whatever it cost to hire a Rob Lowe lookalike to walk her dog just to look like Madonna? Then it hit me. A fake Madonna with a fake Rob Lowe? I don't think so. That guy is so handsome, I don't know if they could have found a look-alike for him.  (It took decades before Rob Lowe admitted he had ever spent time with Madonna. He didn't mention the dog, but he did confirm they had kind of a date.)

Sophia Loren

When I got off a plane from New York to Los Angeles c.1990, I regarded the woman standing at the desk with a a bit of disdain. Isn't she trying a little too hard to look like someone? She was wearing a short tweed skirt, with a patterned blouse, lace stockings, a leather jacket and very high heels. She was wearing glasses. I suppose they were sunglasses. Overdone, I thought.

I don't recall when I realized she was someone.  Maybe when I arrived at luggage claim and saw her standing alone with the prime area at the end of the chute to herself. No one stood within thirty feet of Sophia Loren.

Hugh Grant

 

This involved no glamour, no special effort. Standing on a corner in New York somewhere in the fifties (streets) and eighties (years). He was dressed like one of his characters. Pink shirt. Sleeves rolled up. Arms akimbo. He wasn't famous yet although it might have been the weekend he would become famous.  He looked exactly like one of his 1980s rom-com characters. Come to think of it, that might have been hard to avoid. He looked very much the same on-stage at the 92nd Street Y decades later.

Robert Palmer

In the 1980s, the singer had a hugely successful video for "Addicted to Love." It was so big that it was often parodied largely because of the expressionless supermodels behind him "playing" guitars. So, it seems to me that if he wanted to go unnoticed in Manhattan, he might have avoided charging across 59th Street dragging a model behind him. (No scandalous accusation here. She seemed willing to go with him. Just not that quickly.)

NOTE: You ran into another Madonna with the Morans. You should write about that.

© 2021 Jane Kelly

I was too cool - or sensitive - for the OJ Simpson trial

"I have to go to the LA County Courthouse to pick up some documents . Would you like to come along?"

You have to consider the emphasis ON and the spacing BETWEEN the words to grasp what Steve was saying.

"I have to go to the . . . . LA . . . . COUNTY . . . . COURTHOUSE . . . to pick up some documents. Would YOU like to come along?"

Would I like to come along? The LA County Courthouse was pretty much the center of the universe in July 1995. At least in the United States. Asking me to accompany him to the Courthouse was the equivalent of asking if I'd like a seat in the dugout at the World Series or on the sidelines at the Super Bowl. I wouldn't get on the playing field but I would get closer than I ever imagined.

For those too young to recall, Orenthal J Simpson, affectionately called OJ by just about everyone in the US--some because of his illustrious football career, some because of his Hertz rental-car commercials--was arrested in 1994. The Heismann-Trophy-winning NFL football player had been accused of killing his wife and her young friend and, even though the evidence made it appear fairly certain that he was guilty, the nation was involved in constant discussion about his guilt or innocence. Strangers debated every detail of the trial. It became our main entertainment. There was no need for soap operas. The trial was on all day. Those with jobs came home from work on the east coast to find the trial on the air live from Los Angeles. And then when the day's coverage ended, there was discussion from lawyers with a whole new profession as talking heads on news shows nightly. The country was obsessed with OJ Simpson.

I would never have gone to the courthouse without an alleged good reason. I saw myself as far too cool to visit or even ride by the Courthouse like a tourist. Too cool and too sensitive. Murder trials did not seem like an appropriate tourist destination but I didn't have to worry. I was visiting the Courthouse on official business. I would be no gawker, no tourist, no hanger-on. I had a valid, if weak, reason for being there. Steve did not really need help carrying a dozen documents.

I think we walked over because parking would have been an issue if we drove. Media vehicles had taken over the nearest parking lot. Some official must have checked Steve and me as we entered the courthouse. If not, the place would have been swarming with press and tourists. I don't recall how, but we were admitted. More impressive that summer than gaining admittance to the back room at Studio 54 in the seventies.

I don't recall the floor we went to. Something like five or six. Today, I did a search for "on what floor was the OJ Simpson trial held." The ninth--which made sense because I recall keeping an eye on the elevators in case the doors opened to reveal--what? Something OJ-related that would have story-telling value?

(I also did a search to see what day the prosecution rested which was Thursday, 7/6/1995. I checked because I was there the next day (when OJ was not) when the defense came to ask that the case be dismissed. It was not. So, apparently, this is my memory of 7/7/1995.)

After standing in the elevator lobby for a few minutes, I realized that not every elevator would stop. The real action was probably outside. "I think I will just wait for you out front." I left Steve in the Country Records office to do all the actual work.

On that day, to disappoint as many Angelenos and/or tourists as possible, all you had to do was step out of the LA County Courthouse and not be Robert Shapiro, Robert Kardashian, Johnny Cochran, (Defense), Marsha Clark or Christopher Darden (Prosecution). The disappointment when I exited was palpable. By the time I crossed the small patio area and climbed the few stairs to street level, all eyes had returned to the door. I passed through the gauntlet of photographers and tourists unnoticed. No, not so much unnoticed as rejected. People had put their cameras and their autograph books down. No one even suspected I was somehow OJ-related which, when I think about it, was a good thing.

The hard part came after I was outside. How could I hang around while not looking like a tourist? I was dressed in business attire. DC business attire. I was more formally dressed than anyone but the lawyers. Still, why didn't I bring a notebook? Or a folder? A smartphone would have come in handy, but I was there a decade too early. I looked at my watch regularly, but there was a limit even for someone making it clear she was waiting for someone. I tried not to stand out. Mostly I tried to take in the show that was going on around me while making it clear I was not part of it.

It was hard to ignore the spectacle outside the OJ Simpson trial. Hanging around at the entrance to the courthouse was a little bit like lingering in the open-air lobby of an office building with shops. There was plenty to buy. T-shirts. Hats. Buttons. I wish I'd written down both the inventory and what was printed on them. I suspect a lot of the writing was of a Free-OJ sentiment. 

Tourists came by but business wasn't brisk. A lot of photography was going on and this was before everyone had a camera in their phone.  The Jesus-Saves man who carried his sign in front of the courthouse every day had a national profile. Visitors posed with him. They posed with two luxury cars. I forget which one belonged to Shapiro. Maybe a Mercedes sedan? The Mercedes convertible that pulled up belonged to Johnny Cochran. His driver was happy to take pictures of tourists posing in front of it.

When the stars of the trial exited, excitement surged through the gauntlet, but there was no matching noise, no cheers for the lawyers headed out. I suspected the attorneys met with the press inside the courthouse. There remained, however, an  assembled crowd to gawk at them. The loudest noise was cameras clicking.

Shapiro came first, expressionless, walking unnaturally slow.  Making sure photographers got their shots? Who knows?

Cochran came a few minutes later walking at the same bizarrely slow pace. Did he pose with tourists? I think he did. He definitely traded pleasantries with them as he took off his jacket and slipped behind the wheel of his convertible. Did someone ride with him? No idea. It's too long ago to recall but, if not, what happened to his driver?

What left the biggest impression was what happened after Cochran pulled away. With the major players gone, it was time for the enterprise that was the OJ Trial to close for the weekend. As in any office on a Friday, the workers chatted. Two reporters asked the guy selling t-shirts what he was doing for the weekend. Theirs was not a perfunctory exchange. They knew each other's details, about their families, their travel. I bet a month later the reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer participated in this weekend ritual telling others about his visitors and the trip he was going to take, the trip on which he would be killed in a car accident. I read the press corps felt the loss. I bet everyone there felt that loss as employees in any organization would.

The groups were still saying their good-byes when Steve came out to meet me. Things were shutting down for the weekend as we walked away. The feeling was in the air.

I felt it was unseemly to observe this circus, yet I couldn't resist. Two people, young people, had died horribly to set this scenario in action. Theirs was a personal tragedy but I was observing a historical event. Not a battle or an election, but a phenomenon in the country's social history that would have a larger impact than any of us knew on that afternoon.

All in all, I am glad that I went along.

PS That day I only saw the defense team.  Many years later when  I began writing mysteries, I would run into Marcia Clark from the prosecution at conferences. She too had written crime novels.

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.

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.

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.

Where Have You Gone, Joe DiMaggio?

Someone just mentioned Joe DiMaggio.

I ran into Joltin' Joe several times during his Mr. Coffee years, always at the Sheraton Center Hotel in New York City. My memory must be fallible in at least one way. He had to be taller than I recall. Even though he was older, he could not have shrunk from the six-foot-two height listed in his stats to the height I would have estimated at around five-nine. I guess the point is he was no longer the young, strapping Yankee. But that didn't matter to the people I noticed observing him. And that was the fun.

Anyway, here's the story. It is almost interesting.

One morning I was waiting for the elevator, the only person in the elevator lobby on, let's say, the thirty-third floor when a gray-haired man in a tan trench coat came around the corner. It is an indication of his fame that I recognized him immediately-albeit with a reaction that men of a certain age might deem a sacrilege.  That man slept with Marilyn Monroe.  Okay, I know he did a lot of other things, but that was my honest reaction. He nodded or something and I reacted in a polite manner, giving no indication I had the slightest idea who he was.

Then another man, maybe ten years older than I, just the right age to feel the full impact of DiMaggio on baseball, turned the corner. I could feel the electricity the moment he spotted Joe. He too pretended not to recognize the baseball legend. His face didn't give him away as much as a palpable excitement did. I couldn't help but feel it. I don't know if Joe felt it or not. We had not grown close during our four-minute wait (anyone who stayed at the Sheraton Center in the eighties knows that is probably a conservative time estimate).

When the elevator bell finally dinged, and the door opened, Joe stood back so that I, as the sole woman, could board first. (I bet he did the same for Marilyn, making that the only thing beyond gender that I have in common with that legendary figure.) The three men on the elevator, like the man in the hallway, were the perfect demographic to appreciate the appearance of the baseball legend. I always believed my face said to them, Wait until you see what I've got with me. And then Joe followed me into the car. You could have cut the electric current with whatever you use to break a charge. No one dared speak. Joe just stood facing the door with his eyes downcast until one of the men said, "Mr. DiMaggio, may I remove this piece of lint from your coat?" Joe thanked him and turned his way to acknowledge his gesture. He said something, everyone chuckled and the elevator reached the lobby. And that was it.

I know there are stories about Joe, that he was not the nicest guy, but that didn’t seem to bother the men who stood silently surrounding a boyhood hero.  It was the 1980s so there were no cell phones whipped out for surreptitious photos of the man. No one requested a selfie. We rode in silence. One legend, one woman, and four ten-year-old boys--all dressed to do business in New York.

I bet those four men now heading towards eighty remember that elevator ride and tell the story of their ride with greatness. Any one of those versions is probably more interesting than mine. But whenever anyone mentions Joe DiMaggio, this elevator ride pops into my mind.

NOTE TO OLD ME: You always wondered if the man kept that piece of lint. Perhaps he had it framed.