One of the pieces in Roger Angell’s book of essays, This Old Man, focuses on celebrities that he encountered from time to time in New York. Arthur Rubenstein lived across the street from him, so he didn’t count. He saw Nixon at Yankees games. He chatted with Harry Truman while walking down the street. Paul Newman was in a grocery store. His list is a lot longer than mine, but I thought I’d try, too.
My father, an Episcopal clergyman. agreed that his church would sponsor and host my local Cub Scouts pack. At the age of eight I had only one hero—Ted Kluszewski, the muscle-bound first baseman (with bulging biceps so large that he had to cut off the sleeves of t-shirts), of the Cincinnati Reds, (Alas, Davy Crockett was dead). At one meeting Big Klu, Roy McMillan, and Johnny Temple, three of the four starting infielders for the Reds, surprised us by simply showing up at a Cub Scout meeting, answering questions, talking baseball. After the meeting ended my dad asked me into his office. Standing there, all 6’2” 225 lbs, towered Big Klu himself. He reached down to shake my hand, autograph baseballs, and prevent me from collapsing.
Years went by before I encountered celebrities again. In 1963 we moved to Burlingame, CA, which is adjacent to the tony hillside village of Hillsborough, where lived Bing Crosby. I saw him in a local Burlingame grocery store. Annoyed at me for disturbing him, he nevertheless autographed my grocery list. I didn’t keep it.
Back to baseball. In 1965 I went to Crosley Field to watch the Reds play the Mets. Jim Maloney, the Reds pitcher, threw a no-hitter through ten innings, then lost the game in the 11th on a Johnny Lewis home run. (Never mind that we sat behind the Beau Brummels, of “Laugh Laugh” fame). That’s not the story.
The next day I grabbed my window seat at the Greater Cincinnati airport, waiting for the five hour flight back to San Francisco. I was puzzled that the plane was mostly full of men, some standing in the aisle, talking to each other, some leaning over the seats, chatting with the men behind them. A man sat down next to me in the center seat. I looked at him and asked, “Are you Warren Spahn?” He answered, “Yes, I am.” I continued, “Are these the Mets?” “Yes,” he replied. Instinctively, I asked for his autograph. “Sure,” he answered. I had nothing to write on. No paper. I looked through the pocket in the seat in front of me searching for a pad, a slip of paper, something. I found this:
Trans World Airlines Wow! An autograph of the greatest left-handed pitcher in baseball history!
I asked, “Is Casey on this flight?” Mr. Spahn answered, “He’s in first class.” I excused myself, grabbed my motion discomfort bag, charged through the curtains, found Casey Stengel in an aisle seat, turned the bag over, and repeated the request.
I have this on my wall. I turn it over every few months. It’’s lasted a lot longer than Trans World Airlines. I was willing to give it up if Cooperstown wanted it, so I wrote to them. “We loved the story,” they said, “but no thanks.”
After I graduated from UC I drove back to California, meeting my brother and sister-in-law in Texas, then continuing on to New Mexico. We stopped at Santa Fe at a picturesque hotel downtown. My sister-in-law pointed to two men engaged in conversation. “Look”, she said, “There’s Anthony Quinn!” I began heading over to the two men, my trusty graduation present of a Nikon FTN and 50 mm f1.4 lens around my neck. Suddenly I realized just as they took notice of me, that I wasn’t certain which of them was Anthony Quinn. “Mr. Quinn, may I take your photograph?” I asked to the space between them, hoping for redemption. Just then Anthony Quinn said to his friend, “I think he wants to take your picture,” “Oh no,” I responded, silently congratulating myself for escaping total idiocy. He stood in the lobby, arms crossed, as I tried to hold the camera still with Kodachrome 25 in the camera.
1969
Not done with Anthony Quinn yet. Many years later my mother-in-law told us an unbelievable story about her cousin Larry, a retired Bay Area dentist. “When he was a boy he was in the movies,” she said, “Ducky Louie.” We took no notice of this, knowing that we were as likely to hear truths as falsehoods.
By then Google was in full operation, and we googled Ducky Louie. OMG. Here’s Ducky in action in Back to Bataan. (We saw it on Netflix).
But get this. At the end of the movie, Ducky is riding in a troop transport full of Japanese soldiers. They spot John Wayne leading American troops below and plan to ambush them. Ducky grabs the steering wheel and forces the transport to go over a cliff, killing all the Japanese soldiers. Ducky is thrown out of the truck and is rescued by John Wayne, in whose arms he dies. Ducky died in John Wayne’s arms! What an item on a CV! Oh yes, Anthony Quinn was in that one, too. So add, Ducky to my list of famous run-ins.
I had a portrait photography business. At Ursuline High School’s Father-Daughter dance I posed couples before the background, made sure that their hands were proper, that their weight shifted to the back leg, that they were standing at 45 degree angles to the camera (you look thinner), that their eyes were directed into the camera, their heads tilted slightly to the middle, and their wrist corsages centered. A father, his two daughters, and the grandfather came in, so I spent just a little more time with four than I would have with two. Here they are.
The Father-Daughter Dinner Dance.
A teacher standing next to me turned and said, “Did you realize that was Joe Montana?” OMG. Once again, I didn’t. I spent too much time making sure that they were posed properly to notice who they were. But here’s where the story gets better.
These were the film days. Jadyne was taking the orders, and everyone in line got an 8x10, two 5x7s, and 8 wallets. Joe wanted an extra 8x10 for his father. Jadyne explained that we couldn’t add individual photos to orders. The lab was directed to print the same photo package for every negative. She told Joe that he could have a second package for $20. He declined. Knowing who he was and pissed that he was so tight, she asked him for his name. He replied, “Montana.” “Oh,” she answered acidly, “just like the state?”
I photographed the wedding in Sonoma of a record producer. I was struck by the wedding singer, a man who had such a beautiful voice. After the wedding I told the groom how impressed I was with the singer. “Where did you find him?” I asked. “That’s Aaron Neville,” he said. He sang Ave Maria. I had a copy of it on tape. At home. I’m an idiot.
Well, at least I knew the next two celebrities, people I rode in elevators with. Richard Brautigan, the author of Trout Fishing in America was the first. He wrote that he always wanted to end a book with “mayonnaise.” He did. He also ended himself with a .45. The other is still with us. I was on a local school board. I had business in Sacramento. So did the mayor of Carmel, Clint Eastwood. There were women in the elevator with us. I made little progress with them. At least I knew who he was.
And I certainly knew who James Brown was. He was staying at the Hyatt House in Burlingame facing a paternity suit brought by the president of the James Brown Fan Club. Apparently, she took her position seriously. I was a room service waiter at the hotel, and in 1969 the $20 tip he gave me every time I brought him a slice of apple pie was a fortune.
I also knew who Walter Mondale was in 1984. Major democratic donors had been invited to Congressman Doug Bosco’s house on the Russian River for an evening with Walter Mondale. I took photographs of them with the donee, Mr. Mondale. Again, this was in the film days. I hated asking Mondale to wait while I loaded film into my camera so I asked a man leaning against the wall to hold my camera. “I can’t,” he said. “I have to keep my hands free.” Later that evening Mondale came out to the deck where I was enjoying the evening air, and he began talking about his boyhood in Minnesota. I loved my job.
I also knew Tommy Smothers. I had met Richard Arrowood when he was the winemaker at Chateau St. Jean in Kenwood. He founded his own eponymously named winery and made wines for Tom and Dick Smothers, who grew grapes in the area, all bottled as Smothers Brothers Wines. I photographed Richard’s daughter’s wedding, and Tommy Smothers was not only a guest, but the evening’s entertainment, too.
We sat together at dinner and he commiserated with me about an unfortunate experience I had at the ceremony. The minister made it clear that I was not to take any photographs during the wedding, as it would detract from the sanctity of the service. So, I didn’t. Meanwhile, guests kept popping up and down like “Whack-A-Moles”, shooting images throughout. He said, “I was told the same thing when my brother Dick was married.” I asked, “What did you do?” He said, “As the best man, I entered the church in a suit that was covered with flashing lightbulbs, carrying a yo-yo in each hand.”
Then at a Yankees-Dodgers World Series game at Dodger Stadium I sat next to Billy Crystal. “Who’s that?” i asked my friend. “He’s an actor in a TV show called “Soap.” To be fair he hadn’t really made it yet
My neighbor Mike Dunbar was the defensive coordinator for the Cal Bears football team. He gave me free tickets. I drove him home after the post-game feast. I saw this man at more than one game and was puzzled about why he attracted so many young girls.
Adam Duritz, the lead singer of Counting Crows, an alumnus with a large and very open wallet.
It gets better. My teenage life changed when I heard “Walk, Don’t Run” by the Ventures. Paul Simons and I would buy their albums, learn the tunes, and add 12 new songs to our set list. I had the opportunity to see them play in Berkeley, talked my way into their dressing room, was photographed standing in the middle with them. Alas! Photo fail.
It gets worse. My dad stopped in Corbin, Kentucky on our way to Florida in 1955 at a restaurant called Sanders’ Café. I was served by the owner, a colorful figure in a white suit and goatee.
The coup de grace is as follows. My Kensington friend, David Anderson, is a cardiologist who treated another doctor, another cardiologist, until the patient died. His widow, Rita Moreno, was a guest at David’s sixtieth birthday party eleven years ago.
Rita Moreno, 2011. She was 79. She made copies of this or another image and used them at her 80th birthday party.
As we all sang “Happy Birthday” to David, Rita pretended to be Marilyn Monroe with JFK, singing Happy Birthday to David while wrapping herself around his legs. When I saw this I said, “Hey, it’s my birthday, too!"
I had asked the host if my gay neighbors could come, too. Rita is an icon, I’d been told, in the gay community. At the end of the evening Rita found she had no way to get home. Nick and Russ gladly obliged.
And last. As the English Department Chair, I had the honor of taking each of the school’s four classes to San Francisco to the ACT Theater. The staff knew me, appreciated the numbers of people I had brought to the theater. Coming to a play with Jadyne I was asked if we’d like a private audience in the dressing room of the star, Vincent Price. This was before the maniacal laughter he left on Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” So glad I knew who he was.
P.S. The celebrity I never met. I left teaching in June, 1980. The fall class included Robert O’Brien, Trump’s National Security Advisor. Had I stayed I would have had him in freshman English. I would have suggested that he not to take the job thirty-nine years later.