Pinching myself
I鈥檝e enjoyed the exploits of politicians since I was a preteen.
One of my mother鈥檚 friends even nicknamed me 鈥淚ke,鈥� since, while I was only 8 years old, I threw my support firmly behind Dwight D. Eisenhower鈥檚 presidential reelection campaign.
(It had nothing to do with Ike鈥檚 stand on issues. It was because of his rhyming campaign slogan 鈥� 鈥淚 Like Ike,鈥� which I took pleasure in repeating.)
I鈥檝e been hooked on politics ever since.
But there are days when I think of other stuff.
This is one of those days.
I sometimes like to look back over my professional career, and I enjoy pinching myself because of my good fortunes.
I once found myself interviewing Academy Award winner Shirley MacLaine along a rope line at some Hollywood event.
She鈥檇 barely begun her answer when she saw another actress out of the corner of her eye.
I learned something new that evening. In Hollywood, even the most renowned entertainers can get starstruck.
The actress MacLaine saw was another Academy Award winner, and Hollywood legend 鈥� Bette Davis.
MacLaine abruptly broke off our interview so that she could rush over to the aging icon 鈥� Davis 鈥� and strike up a conversation.
What a moment to have witnessed.
Just like the afternoon in which I covered a recording session featuring two musical legends 鈥� Ray Charles and Tony Bennett.
While waiting for them to take a break from playing, Bennett walked right past me in the studio鈥檚 control room.
He turned around and had a broad smile on his face while Charles was laying down his accompanying instrumental tracks.
When I did get a chance to interview Messrs. Charles and Bennett, I couldn鈥檛 help but asked Bennett why he was so pleased with what he saw Charles do.
鈥淲ell,鈥� he said, 鈥淚鈥檝e never worked with anybody like Ray before. I just laid down my tracks. And without missing a beat, he just played his accompaniment perfectly,鈥� he said.
I was shocked because I would鈥檝e thought those two had worked together before. But they were in obvious awe of each other.
There was once an occasion while I worked at Entertainment Tonight, which was the Paramount Pictures movie lot, I had an unforgettable experience.
It so happens that E.T.鈥檚 offices were on the same floor as the new TV series 鈥淪tar Trek the Next Generation.鈥�
One afternoon, while I had nothing of real importance to do (something that happened a lot at E.T. 鈥� it鈥檚 Hollywood, you understand), I happened to be standing at the show鈥檚 front desk talking to the receptionist.
In pops Leonard Nimoy. Yes. That Leonard Nimoy. Spock.
Mr. Nimoy was there to speak to the folks at 鈥淪tar Trek the Next Generation,鈥� since he had an ongoing interest in the Star Trek franchise.
Nimoy had never been to their offices because the show was just starting up.
Since I was standing at the front desk, I sprang into action.
鈥淚 know where it is,鈥� I told Spock, I mean Nimoy.
So, there I was, with Spock, er, Nimoy in tow, leading him to Star Trek鈥檚 next generation.
It was a moment to cherish, I suppose.
There鈥檝e been other, more curious moments.
While I was a reporter in the mid-1970s in Columbus, Ohio, I was assigned to cover the president鈥檚 sister (Ruth Carter Stapleton) and her visit to a local children鈥檚 hospital.
Her brother, President Jimmy Carter, was a Sunday school teacher.
His sister, Ruth Carter Stapleton, was a Christian evangelist.
The sister of the president visiting a local hospital for the benefit of helping children would be of obvious news value.
But on that day, there was added value.
She went there to also meet Larry Flynt, the well-known, self-described 鈥渟mut peddler,鈥� whose claim to fame was Hustler Magazine.
There they were.
But they didn鈥檛 want to be filmed together.
They did their interviews separately, in one of the more bizarre stories I鈥檇 ever done.
It wasn鈥檛 a fluke, though.
He later claimed he鈥檇 become 鈥渂orn again.鈥�
That is before he declared he was an atheist.
Edward A. Owens is a multi-Emmy Award winner, former reporter, and anchor for Entertainment Tonight, and 40-year TV news and newspaper veteran. E-mail him at freedoms@bellatlantic.net.
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