Shameless Name Dropping, Part I
They’re Just People Too
Sure enough, we all start walking life’s same path, one unsteady step after another. Eventually, some head up the path towards public service, some down the path of fortune, while most head straight forward on the path of mediocrity. No matter which path we take, inevitably some end up on the path of fame, or infamy. No matter, we’re all humans, earthlings, who put on their pants and shit the same, dust-to-dust. We’re all just ordinary people.
Yet inevitably, some people shine more than others, and we humans are attracted to shiny objects. I have been lucky enough, more Forrest Gump-like randomness really, to have met and known a few shiny people.
I need to stipulate upfront that my daughter hates it when I tell stories that casually include the dropping of a famous name or two. Petra, my dear, you should turn away now, because some shameless name dropping is about to commence. It won’t be too gratuitous mind you—although I can do that—but because many of my memories—the sum of who I am—sometimes does include shiny famous people.
To be honest, the first edit of this piece was a tad gratuitous, with the point of the piece to include 100 famous names—and I was successful in that endeavor—shameless name dropping. But then it sat for weeks, as other things entered my mind, unfinished. Finally, I decided on a different plan of attack, one more intimate in nature. Quality over quantity. So that original piece, as fun as it was to write, will have to wait for another day. Maybe?
In its place, I paint a handful of memories, all of which conveniently include a celebrity encounter of sort:
It is a hot sultry Las Vegas night in late summer 1984. I may or may not have been sleeping in a rental car—napping not homeless—in a casino parking lot waiting for the lookie-loo crowds to thin. I hate crowds. Around 3:00 am I head for the crap tables at Caesars Palace. Always craps, never the slots or Blackjack or poker; my dad taught me all his WWII dice playing tricks. I play alone at one end of the table, maybe $25 bucks spread out among the pass line and a couple field bets. It is relatively quiet. Crapping out, head down, I ready another pass line bet come out when I hear a strong baritone voice asking, “Can I join you?” from the other end of the table. “Sure,” I say looking up. It is Julius ‘Dr. J’ Erving! There is an immediate buzz of whispers among the adjacent pit crews. Dr. freakin’ J is in the house; a NBA legend, a member of the Pantheon of Players. I had posters of him on my wall as a youth; everything Jordan, Dominique and Kobe knew about dunking, they learned from him; no one more graceful or fluid ever played. I remember awkwardly joking that I am not a contrarian bettor, and he responds that he wasn’t either. He graciously asks my name. I ask him how he’d like to be called? “Call me Julius, Bill,” he says in a friendly down-to-earth tone. And for the next 20 glorious minutes, Dr J, Julius and I, play craps together at Caesars Palace. We played the pass line—his chip stack both darker and taller than mine—the field and even a few hard way bets too. Our chip piles grew with our luck and enthusiasm—his a tad more understated than mine. He was so cool; it was so cool. But suddenly, I recognized that I had more than next month’s rent in winnings playing on the green felt before me. The spell was broken. I took a deep breath and smartly cashed in. Julius stayed. We shook hands in several ways as I walked away smiling, beatifically so. He was in every way a gentleman. It was a very good night.
I was in London a year later. It was a typically dark and gloomy rainy afternoon as I perused the bookshelves of my campus bookstore at the London School of Economics (LSE), in between lectures. Better than having a pint of Guinness before class, I wisely surmised. I turn the corner between the political philosophy and cultural imperialism sections and a man scanning a book looks up at me. It is Pete Townshend. Yes, that Pete Townshend!—The Who’s legendary songwriter and guitar genius. A rock god. I saw him play the LA Coliseum in 1982 in front of 90,000 fans—although frankly, I was there to see The Clash. I say hello, continuing my perusing as nonplussed and as nonchalantly as humanly possible. He gruffly says hello back. I quickly scan the book he has in his hand, and desperately hoping for more conversation, grab another copy of it from the shelves. “You into Noam Chomsky too?” Pete Townshend of The Who asks me. I am now! But before I could lie to him, he quickly asks me if I was a student here. “Yes, I am. Grad school,” I reply. Obviously sensing my American accent, in a snarky tone he wonders aloud, “Why do so many Yanks come to LSE.” I vaguely remember a jumble of words coming out of my mouth as I tried to put together a thoughtful intelligent reply that may have included perspective, nuance, and maybe something about erudite literateness. Whatever it was, he liked what he heard, and we continued to casually chat about our mutual keenness for political economic theory. It was more than surreal. Pete informs me Ralph Nader, “a fellow Yank,” is coming to town in a few weeks to which I matter-of-factly inform him that I had met Ralph a few years ago and that he changed my life. He nodded in seeming appreciation. Class beckoning, all too quickly we cordially part, his original gruffness dissolved, and my awe amplified. Only later, after my conversation with Pete Townshend of the great British Invasion band The Who—that did not include even a note about music—did I ponder all the questions I had now that went unasked. Lost opportunity or just another simple human interaction?
In the late 80s, I was involved in a flashy high-roller charity event held at the famous Friars Club in Beverly Hills, called Rags for Riches. One-hundred and fifty guys—yes, a politically incorrect stag event—who paid beaucoup bucks for a night of lavish entertainment and vintage Corvettes as grand prizes. We always seemed to entice top notch comedic talent, think Chevy Chase, David Steinberg and Dennis Miller. At one event I was given the fool’s errand of keeping our emcee, Martin Short, a fellow Canadian, on a short leash and focused. Well…having met together earlier to discuss the events scripted schedule, Marty and I hit it off immediately—mostly because he is just that magnanimous of a person, a genuine man; and funny to his core. But I failed miserably, and instead of keeping Marty on task—it was a rather tough boisterous crowd that night—we started drinking. Heavily at that, sharing in our mutual fondness for iced shots of vodka, to which the overeager wait staff at the Friars Club was only too happy to assist. We both got unceremoniously shitfaced over the next three hours giggling uncontrollably about, well, everything that was uncontrollable. Now that’s entertainment!
Okay, one more…for now. Sorry Petra.
It was late autumn in LA, 1990. That means it was stunningly gorgeous out; sunny with warm breezes coming off the inviting Pacific blue. I am with a few friends along with a busy TGIF crowd at a Pacific Coast Highway establishment, Gladstone’s beach restaurant located at the foot of Sunset Boulevard, all getting ready to enjoy a technicolor sunset drop into the sea. I am several Cape Cod’s and cracked crabs deep into my now glowing early evening. I need to pee. It is the usual remarkable scene walking to the restroom, California’s beauty bountifully displayed. I hit the urinal, head down doing my business, when someone moves next to me. Nice loafers, I noticed immediately. He remarks salaciously aloud, “Gawd, did you see that!?” Alluding I have no doubt, to the statuesque brunette wearing barely anything aside from a stunningly bright smile, that I too saw before entering. “Yes, yes I did,” pulling my head up to grin knowingly at him. But I do a quick double take, and ever so slightly, uncontrollably so, turn my whole body in sudden recognition. It is Sugar Ray Leonard. And then, just as swiftly I awkwardly realized that I just pissed on the pant leg and sweet Italian leather loafers of the not now smiling reigning WBC multi-weight division boxing champ! WTF? “Sorry Champ,” was all I could muster quickly zipping up. To which he graciously said, “S’alright buddy, not the first time that’s happened.” Together briefly at the sink, he was smiling once again, thankfully so, shaking his head, “Gawd, that was an amazing sight…hope she’s still there.” Trying to recover from my bathroom etiquette faux pas, I offered up, “Champ, if she knows you’re in here, my money’s on her waiting for you.” He smiled at me drying his hands, extending me a fist bump as we exited. And now, I can tell my grandkids that one day I pissed on the world boxing champ’s leg, smiled at him…and lived to tell about it.
Now, you’ll just have to wait till we get deeper into the 90s, because that’s when things got weird...and smartphone cameras appear on the scene. I literally have a 100 of them.
Thanks for the privilege of your time, it is the most precious thing we have, and I appreciate it. Be well.
William D. Chalmers © 2022 GreatEscape Adventures, Inc. All Rights Reserved.