They're People Too!

One aspect of growing up in Los Angeles that has contributed in the shaping of my character is the fact that I’m not star struck. Celebs, be they actors, athletes, musicians, or media folks, are regular people like me and you who pump their own gas, push their own shopping carts, have doctor and dentist appointments, and patiently wait for tables in crowded restaurants (usually). It hit me at a fairly young age that it was somewhat unfair for celebs to be constantly noticed and harassed simply because what they did for a living made them instantly recognizable. It occurred to me how aggravating this must be, and the only way to battle it is to either stay out of the public or be as rude as possible to little old ladies that only want to say hello, and be able to say to cousin Agnes in Des Moines, “you’ll never believe who I saw in Trader Joe’s.” I’d hate it too. 

I’m not star struck. I’ve never wished to be anyone but myself; I’m OK with my anonymous presence amongst the 7 billion denizens on Earth. But if there was one person in the public eye that I wouldn’t have minded trading places with, it would have been Anthony Bourdain. That’s Bourdain with a few qualifiers; sans the tats, the prior drug addiction, and the suicide that took his life a few weeks shy of his 62^nd birthday. How cool was it for him to travel the world, meet interesting people, and bridge it all through unbelievable cuisine?  He also was an excellent writer, a true bon vivant if there ever was one and he will be missed greatly.

Visitors to LA would always ask for advice as to where they’d likely see Celebs. My response was always the same: if you “look” for them you will be unsuccessful. If you don’t expend energies hunting celebs and merely enjoy the city, you may be lucky enough to have an encounter worthy of telling cousin Agnes in Des Moines. And by encounter, I mean everything from being totally ignored to a brief discussion that truly feels like a friendship (a real skill for a lot of celebs, especially the actors).

The very first celeb sighting that I was privy to happened in the very early 1960s. While lunching with my family at the fabled Hot Dog Show on La Cienega, my grandmother (who was as skilled a celeb hunter as any; more on that later) pointed out that George Murphy, actor and U.S. Senator, was sitting in the next booth. My recollection is that we had a lovely, but brief conversation, and that he was very nice to us.

My last LA sighting was far more significant, an “A” lister, waiting for a table at an Encino Delicatessen and completely unaware of how his presence held the others waiting literally at bay. I assume Neil Diamond could’ve demanded that the hostess seat his party immediately, but I guess Neil considers himself a regular Joe, who democratically waits for a table based upon arrival time, not celebrity status (although not a big fan, and as good a time as any to mention that I HATE the fact that “Sweet Caroline” has become a stadium anthem, but Neil went way up in my book by not pulling the “do you know who I am “ card). As I stood against the bakery counter, gazing out over the 15 or so people waiting for a table, Diamond caught my eye, but I instantly wrote it off as a doppelganger. My eye darted around the room and it was clear to me that many of the people waiting were either not aware that Diamond and party were in their presence, or, like me they realized he was among them but showed him the respect of allowing him to be able to dine out unperturbed.

Between the George Murphy and Neil Diamond sightings, I experienced 20 years of encounters, many forgotten because the sighting was peripheral to whatever I was doing at the time and wherever I was going. Much of the time I merely acknowledged to myself that the sighting was genuine. If I was with someone whom I couldn’t necessarily rely upon to comport themselves in a reasonable manner, I wouldn’t mention the sighting until we were well out of earshot. There were times, however, that I felt compelled to say hello or offer a compliment. An autograph was NEVER requested, which for me is the litmus test of how star struck someone might be.

A few encounters where I initially said nothing, I was roped into a conversation by the celeb. You can imagine my surprise one late evening grocery shopping at Ralph’s on Ventura Boulevard in Studio City. I walked down the paper goods aisle and to my surprise Ernest Borgnine was waiting on a price check. Leaning on our respective carts, we must’ve conversed for 10 minutes as he waited for the checker to appear.  Although I intended to, I never acknowledged that he was anyone but a guy wanting to ensure the price of the product was correct. A few years before, and directly across the street, I was pumping gas when Joey Bishop drove into the next bay, got out and filled his tank. In his passenger seat was comedian Sandy Baron.

Joey asked me how my day was going (I was probably starring at him; I was a huge fan). Nervously I said great and asked him the same. I then asked him if that was indeed Sandy Baron sitting in his front seat. Jokingly he said, “so what, it’s my car!” Bishop was no piker; a card-carrying member of the Rat Pack, it might as well have been Francis Albert himself sitting in his passenger seat.

During my high school years, I worked at a Valley pharmacy at the foot of Coldwater Canyon that had a celebrity clientele. My job was two-fold: stock the shelves and home delivery to the select few that could request it. The proprietor hired me in part due to my indifference to celebrity. Prior delivery boys had been, shall we say, indiscreet around the celebs, which caused great aggravation for the proprietor. The job afforded me daily runs into the Canyon delivering to the likes of Max Baer, Jr (Jethro was NOT as affable as he appeared in character. In fact, he was scary rude), Barbara Eden (very nice and she tipped!), Barbara Feldon (same) and Mayor Sam Yorty.

I probably owe my parents for making celebrity irrelevant to me. Although neither were not born in Los Angeles, they arrived as children and lived in neighborhoods amongst many celebrities so it was never a big deal for them. My father knew lots of studio people, and counted Debbie Reynolds and David Janssen as friends in his youth. That said, the best sighting ever happened to my mother, although she had no idea who she was carrying on a conversation with.

The story goes that she was waiting for her car to run through a Newport Beach carwash. A gentleman, whose car was directly in front of hers, looked familiar but she couldn’t quite identify him. His license plate read “DD53.” No hint for her, she approached and was certain they had attended high school together, as they appeared to be the same general age. She asked if he was originally from the San Fernando Valley. He said yes. She said they were high school classmates from back in the day. He asked her what high school she was referring to. She said North Hollywood High; he said he was sorry but that he attended North Hollywood’s rival, Van Nuys High. She was beside herself as she was certain she knew him, but couldn’t quite place from where or when. As their respective cars were called, my mother said to him that it was nice chatting and that her name was Maxine; he, in turn, told her he enjoyed their chat and that his name was Don Drysdale (That’s the late Dodger and Hall of Famer Don Drysdale!).

The “acorn fell far from the tree” as her mother, my grandmother, may have been the most skilled celebrity sight monger in history. In another era she would’ve been a renown paparazzi. My grandfather had access to beautiful Dodger season tickets, and going to a game was a highlight for my grandmother as she spent the entire game glued to binoculars, seeking out celebs and noting their location for future visits. She was downright stealth. Much to my amazement, she once pointed out an extremely old man walking up a stadium aisle that she was certain would resonate with my grandfather and me. I looked through the binoculars and much to me and my grandfather’s surprise, she had Casey Stengel “locked” in her sight. When my grandparents attended a game without me, the follow-up discussion typically went something like this:

Me: How was the Dodger game?

Grandfather: Great game; walk off homer in the bottom of the 9^th!

Grandmother: I saw Richard Widmark, Alan Hale, Robert Wagner AND Natlie Wood!

My story of celeb sightings in no different than anyone who grew up and / or currently lives in Los Angeles. I read recently that a few celebs who are bi-coastal prefer NYC to LA as they are generally accepted in their neighborhoods and their privacy more respected. Prior to David Bowie’s death, he apparently was such a daily fixture in his area of Manhattan that locals stopped taking notice. Of course that’s David Bowie; he lives here, no big deal.  My advice does not waver; don’t seek them out, and if you are lucky enough to have an encounter, know that while the celeb appreciates your interest, it is not high on their list that you approach them. If you do, you’re on your own. If they have visible security, move along.

Some years ago, I was in a San Francisco Bay Area restaurant dining with friends. Our waiter pointed out that Barry Bonds was at a table in the rear of the house. My friend’s child was excited to hear it, and requested that one of us take him to the table to meet Bonds. Being the only sports fan at the table, and well aware of Bonds prickly reputation towards the press and fans, I deterred the visit saying that it was more likely that Bonds would make the child cry than say hello or sign an autograph. Besides, he was enjoying a meal; he shouldn’t be interrupted by strangers. The waiter took interest in my comment, stating that while he knew who Bonds was, he didn’t know his reputation. By the end of our meal the waiter returned, telling us that he just witnessed Bonds bring a child to tears by refusing to acknowledge him and sign an autograph. The waiter comped all our desserts as he was amazed that we called it before it happened. It was a no brainer.

So, depending on your age and / or the level of dignity you care to compromise, next time you run into Justin Bieber at the Sherman Oaks Galleria or Betty White at the Grove, ignore them. That's what they want, and they deserve not to be waylaid. They don't really care that they are your favorite, where you are from, or who you may coincidentally know.