I met George Foreman. His fists were as giant as canned hams. His smile, too.
I had dinner with two porn stars. He seemed bored and sad about not having a girlfriend. She was glowing, chatty, and disintegrated before dessert arrived.
Gorge Carlin stood behind me in line at Charles Schwab. Back in the day, we went to Charles Schwab to stand in line. If Carlin was alive, I’m sure he’d have a joke about that and being dead.
I ate dinner with Wilt Chamberlain and Joe Namath, who was not wearing a mink coat. Wilt’s legs stretched for miles. The Big Dipper, indeed.
I played golf with Mike Connors, Richard Crenna, and Tom Poston, and James Woods harassed them on the first tee while James Garner looked on. I didn’t shoot par.
I sat next to Nicole Kidman at an awards gala. Her skin was impeccable, but the tag from her simple black dress was inside out, caressing the nape of her neck. To this day, I regret not letting her know. We may be divorced now had I been bolder.
I had a job interview with Donald Sterling, then owner of the Los Angeles Clippers. He was a dick. I didn’t get the job. That did not alter my opinion of him.
I had lunch with Janice Pennington, the original "Barker's Beauty " from The Price is Right. Her husband ate crab like a barbarian, and I liked him. She was demure and kind.
I worked with two stars from Shark Tank at a marketing event, but not Mark Cuban, for which I am eternally grateful.
I saw Sylvester Stallone at a party. He looked like a man who was aware that people were always looking at him. He was short, overly tanned, and wearing a white suit, a jarring juxtaposition. I did not call him Champ.
I ran into Don Shula in a restroom. We didn’t diagram any plays, but we nodded to each other like gentlemen while washing our hands.
I attended a gallery opening. Vince Vaughn was holding court, and what’s his name from Entourage was there. He was sweaty and cross-eyed from being too, too high. I’m not interested enough to look up his name.
I saw Larry Flynt wheeling around at a Hustler party but never ran into Hugh Hefner at the Playboy Mansion. I behaved reasonably well in Sodom and Gomorrah.
I recollect seeing Robin Williams eating lunch on a restaurant patio. I don’t remember where I was when he killed Mrs. Doubtfire.
I never saw a torrential downpour of whales hit the Pacific Ocean, swamping the LA basin. That, I wish I had seen. I had lived there too long, an ailing man with a house built on sun and sand.
Hopefully, I would have been granted safe passage on the ark.