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.

When I Figured Out Humidity

My mother always wanted me to play tennis. "Dinah Shore still plays tennis and look how fabulous she looks at her age."

I was eight. I really didn't care how a singer over thirty years my senior looked. Citing Sandra Dee might have worked.

My mother bought me tennis clothes and tennis shoes, but oddly enough not a new racket. I am pretty sure I used hers. Well, used might not be the correct verb. I carried her old racket out of the house into the heat and humidity of a Philadelphia summer (notice she wasn't using it) and then found something else, anything else, to do. Indoor tennis wasn't big in the fifties or even the sixties--at least in our area--and I wasn't about to run around in direct sunlight swinging at and missing white tennis balls. (As I recollect that was the only color available back then.)

But I digress.

My point is that, even as a child, I hated heat and humidity.  Not only did I not want to play tennis, I didn't want to do much of anything that involved exertion in the sun. That is why it was an unusual summer morning that I hopped out of bed raring to go--although still not to the tennis court. I remember feeling like a new person, knowing there was so much to do--but not until I ran an errand for my mother.

I am sure my mother sent me to Blob's, a corner store that was not actually on our corner, fairly often. However, I would not even recall the store existed, except for that one day when the air was cool, the breeze was brisk and the sun was bright. I noticed houses, gardens and trees that I had never paid attention to be before. On the walk, everything I saw looked better, clearer, than it had on previous trips. Especially the trees. A light breeze made the leaves rustle and sparkle as they danced in the sun.

I remember only a tiny portion of that morning, a sliver really: me, standing at the entrance to Blob's looking down tree-lined Walnut Lane. This was what life is supposed to be. I felt all was right with the world, like a character in a 1950s Walt Disney television series. I don't know how I found out what made that day so different was humidity--or rather lack thereof. There were other warm, sunny days but that day was the best.

I remember another day like that and recall saying to myself, "If every day was like today, I could live forever." September 10, 2001 was one of those days. I remember because the following day was too.

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.