Stories I Tell, Part 2

For some reason, we all tend to have an obsession with celebrities, and of course just about everyone is a celebrity these days. I've lost track of who is supposed to be famous and who isn't.

Standing in line at the grocery store the other day, I realized that I must be old when I didn't recognize any of the celebrities on the covers of the gossip magazines. Then again, it could be that I don't that much anymore. That doesn't mean that, like almost everyone else, there isn't at least some little thrill to seeing a celebrity. My last celebrity encounter was with Forest Whitaker, who was take a break on the smokers bench at the Albuquerque Journal last year while filming some movie. He was just sitting there checking his phone. I said hello, he said hi back and that was it.

That's usually the extent of celebrity encounters I've had – an exchange of pleasantries. I smiled at Susan Anton in a bar in Las Vegas once, and it was in Vegas when Tony Bennett gave me a wave. A couple months ago, Denise Crosby patted my son on the head at the Albuquerque ComicCon and said he was cute dressed as Link. I shook hands with Sam Shepard not long after I waved at a hungover Richard Harris and once told Diane Keaton to sit down. Muhammed Ali once shook his fist in my face and Sugar Ray Leonard's bodyguards pushed me out of the way.

But the celebrity encounter that I remember best was with Paul Newman. Yes, Butch Cassidy himself, I had a brief encounter with him and I hope he remembered it because he shouldn't have crossed me. (No, I didn't stalk him.)

If you didn't know, Paul Newman liked racing cars. He got into racing during training for the film “Winning” in 1969 and actually raced Datsuns with the Bob Sharp Racing Team. It was with his racing team that Newman showed up at the 1984 Caesar's Palace Grand Prix in 1984. The race itself was only run for four years in the north parking lot of Caesars Palace, which is now Treasure Island.

I was stationed in the Air Force at Nellis Air Force Base in North Las Vegas, which meant I didn't lack for people coming out to visit me. My father called me and said he got tickets for the race, the final of the CART series for the season. He got pretty good seats, actually, just right on the first turn. I was pretty excited, really, because I'd never seen an Indy Car race.

The track for the 1984 Caesars Palace Grand Prix

The day was nice and before the main race started, there were a couple other races. Including a Can-Am race in which Paul Newman was scheduled to compete. Dad and I were walking around the track, checking out the souvenir stands and looking at the pretty girls. OK, so there wasn't many pretty girls – not big race fans, I guess.

We were making our way back to our seats when from out of an infield gate comes Paul Newman riding an odd little bicycle. In my hand I had a program and in my pocket a pen. At home, I had a grandmother who loved Paul Newman. Let's be real here – lots of women loved Paul Newman.

“So what do think?” I asked Dad. “You think he'll sign a program?”

Dad shrugged his shoulders and said give it a try.

I caught Paul Newman before he could pedal away. And yes, his eyes were really blue.

“Excuse me, Mr. Newman,” I said. “I'm sorry to bother you, but my grandmother is a huge fan of yours and I was wondering if I could get your autograph for her?”

Paul Newman giving the stink eye.

I'm not sure what kind of day he was having. He could have had a hard time sleeping the night before, or maybe his breakfast wasn't sitting well. He could have been nervous about his upcoming race. But it has always been my feeling that celebrities – no matter who they are – owe their fans a least a tad bit of courtesy. I understand that Steve Martin doesn't care to sign autographs and instead will hand out a business card and say thank you.

You see, a celebrity is a celebrity because people put down a couple bucks every now and then to see their movies, read their books or listen to their music. Sure, they can say they really only got into the business to act, or write, or sing, or whatever. The truth is that they like the attention those things bring and it's because of ordinary people.

So I didn't expect the answer from Paul Newman that I got:

“I don't give fucking autographs,” he said, and then he peddled away on his little bicycle.

I'm sorry, Mr. Newman, I didn't get that memo. He could have easily said, no without being rude. Instead, he went that extra mile to make me feel smaller than I already did. What he didn't expect was to incur my wrath.

“I hope you crash!” I yelled to his back. Don't misunderstand, I didn't want to get hurt; I just wanted him to suffer humiliation doing something he enjoyed. Dad was as shocked as I was and we made our way to our seats. Within an hour or so, the Can-Am race was about the begin.

The cars came out and took a couple laps to get lined up and warm up the tires. As I said before, we were near the first turn, so when the green flag was dropped, that's when the racers accelerated up to racing.

The green flag dropped, the drivers floored their accelerators and zoomed by. On that first lap, Paul Newman zipped past and headed into the first turn. Maybe he was bumped or maybe he just messed up, but the result was that his red, white and blue Nissan ended up flipping over and ending up in the dirt. Paul Newman was fine, but I can't help but think his ego was a little bruised.

My father, on the other hand, claims he was spooked.

“Remind me to never make you mad,” he said. He still talks about how I made Paul Newman crash on that day.

Honestly, though, that wasn't enough for me. I determined from that day forward that Paul Newman would never get a dime of my money. This was before the salad dressing, so the only thing I had to avoid at the time was his movies. I understand he got an Oscar for a movie he made with Tom Cruise – I never saw it. And when the salad dressing hit the shelves, I refused to buy it – even though profits went to charity. When Paul Newman movies came on television, I changed the channel.

As you can see, my boycott made a huge impact on his career. For more than 20 years, I was out of the Paul Newman business. But then I saw one of his later movies, “Nobody's Business” on television and didn't change the channel. I still didn't pay money for his work, I justified to myself.

It wasn't until he died that I tried his salad dressing. It actually wasn't that bad, and I do like the thin crust frozen pizza that carries his likeness. But even then, I don't buy it because it's Paul Newman, but because it's a good product that benefits good causes.

I guess at this point, nearly 30 years after this incident, I should just let it go. Paul Newman is considered an American icon who people still adore. To me, though, he will always be a jerk on a little bicycle. I understand that the trappings of fame aren't always pleasant and that when you are a celebrity there will always people who want a piece of you.

That still doesn't give you the right to be rude.