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Saturday, January 18, 2003 Why do I find this story so fascinating? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And speaking of inexplicable feelings, I've recently found myself wanting to trim my forearm hair (which seems to have grown thicker and more concentrated -- simianlike even -- with age; hair loss does not seem to be my problem, for which I am properly, grovellingly grateful). My question: how the hell do I manage this operation without sprouting another arm or two? For the life of me, I just can't get this bramble-like profusion of follicles to stand up and cooperate. I refuse to seek assistance from any of my Spanish friends/neighbors and I refuse to mousse my forearms. Which seems to leave me up mierda creek without a paddle (though with a fine pair of shears which I try to brandish threateningly at said forearm hair -- I swear I can hear them laughing in response). ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Inspired by fussy: My Close Encounters with The Stars Who: JOHN OATES Where: In an elevator in NYC. When: A spring morning some time ago, when Hall & Oates were still a force in the pop world. What happened? I was there picking up a wad of brand new postcards, the kind aspiring actors get made (bearing my resume shot, my name & phone number, to be mailed to agents, etc. to notify them of my upcoming appearances/performances/money-begging gigs). The outfit that made the cards was one floor down from The Record Plant. I get in the elevator with my cool new postcards, all sporting my silly smiling face, there's another guy in the car, we ride down together. Him: short, w/ dark curly hair, friendly. Us: both in a fine mood. We talk about the weather, we talk about how people love to complain about the weather, we talk about how much fun people are to watch. We walk out of the building together, happily blabbing. We say good-by, go our separate ways, I'm halfway down the block when I realize who I'd just been talking with. And the vibe? Relaxed. I think he enjoyed chatting with someone friendly, absent of any recognition of who he was. My at-that-time wife's reaction: She tried to top my story with a Paul Simon sighting. Didn't work -- A bigger star, no question, but NOT friendly, not happy to be recognized. Who: MIKE FARRELL Where: L.A., in a popular bakery in Sherman Oaks. When: Many years after MASH, before PROVIDENCE. What happened? A Sunday morning, I'd just gone to a nearby gym, was rewarding myself with a post-pumping-up cookie. The bakery had a big, popular cafe. I'm standing at the counter, a group of people walk in the door, one of them a tall guy I know, or at least thought I did (him having been in my living room hundreds of times). In the space of about two-tenths of a second: I see this familiar face, not placing him but assuming he was a friend, begin to smile; he spots me looking at him, sees the smile of greeting taking shape on my face; his expression shifts to displeasure, he looks immediately away; I realize who he is. His group walks into the cafe. And the vibe? Er, not friendly. Not that it had to be. Friends' reactions: No one cared one way or another. Who: NORMAN LEAR Where: The offices of Tandem Productions, where I temped as a word processor for eight months in L.A. in the 80s. When: On a couple of occasions, when he strode through the room in which I worked. What'd he do? Nothing much. Walked through, wearing a Frank Sinatra type hat. At one point during my time there, I converted his address book to a word processing file, getting a poopload of big-time names/addresses out of the deal. I gave Harrison Ford's phone number/address to several women friends for Christmas that year, all wrapped up in teeny gift boxes with little red bows. (To quote George Costanza, was that wrong?) I also, during my time there, word-processed the final version of the script for Blade Runner (produced by Lear's partners Perenchio and Yorkin) just as the film was being readied for first release. Woo-hoo! Friends' reactions: No one cared. It was L.A. -- people had close encounters with famous names/faces all the time. rws 1:56 PM [+]
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