I awoke today to the sad news that the great Paul Newman has died. Paul Newman has always been one of my favorite actors. So you can imagine how thrilled I was when I encountered him many years ago in a New York bar. At least, I’m pretty sure I encountered him, but you be the judge. Here’s a column I wrote about the incident way back when:
I was ogled last night by a very handsome, classy looking, much older man. Now most women (and I’m no exception) are secretly gratified by the occasional gawker … unless catcalls and droopy drawers are involved. (Okay, maybe not the sponsors of the Anti-Ogling Addendum to the ERA.)
Unfortunately, I’m such an unobservant person, that I usually have to trip over an ogler to notice him. Here’s a recent exchange with hubby Mark:
Mark: Did you see that guy leering at you?
Me: What guy?
Mark: The one you just stepped on … over there on the stretcher.
However, even I couldn’t fail to catch last night’s ogling. It lasted forty-five minutes, well beyond the flattering stage into the “keep your lascivious eyeballs to yourself, buster” stage.
But here’s the thing — I’m almost positive (although not lie detector positive) that those ogling eyes (and the rest of him) belonged to Paul Newman.
Yes, I know that sounds unlikely, if not downright absurd. What would Paul Newman be doing anywhere near me? And even if we did briefly and serendipitously share the same piece of real estate, surely he could find something better to eye. And why wasn’t he busy dodging hordes of autograph hounds pestering … and ogling … him? … (Ogling Eyes is continued here.)