Celebrity Etiquette: When in L.A., Just Leave Them Alone

I once answered a Car for Sale ad and discovered that the guy selling the car was Mickey Hargitay--the strongman who had been married to the late Jayne Mansfield.

I recognized Mickey right off, but I didn’t show it. Even when he invited me into his Hollywood home and I saw all the photos of muscular Mickey hoisting shapely Jayne skyward, I didn’t let on. Even when I bought the 1970 Ford Maverick from him--a good deal, too--I merely said thank you and gave him his privacy.

Not that I wasn’t impressed. I enjoy bumping into famous people as much as the next guy. But I realize that famous people probably do not enjoy bumping into me.

Here in the land of liposuction and carefully monitored blood lipids, celebrity etiquette is a major consideration of life. True, it is a problem that makes L.A. the envy of fawning, autograph-seeking star worshipers the world over, but it is a problem nonetheless--something every denizen of this town must come to grips with.

What do you do, after all, when you are face-to-face with the captain of “The Love Boat” at a 7-Eleven? Or Geraldo Rivera at a hot-dog stand? Or if Ricardo Montalban and his Rolls-Royce cut in front of you in traffic?

Consider, for a moment, this last scenario. In any other city, one could opt for any of several responses: a simple flip of the middle finger, a honk, a shaken fist, or even a deferential wave and a smile.

But in L.A., the decision is complicated by the fact that you might recognize Montalban and that you might consider him a fine exponent of his craft.

You could find yourself momentarily befuddled--and, by the time you’ve made up your mind on how to react, Montalban and his Rolls could be gone.

So I have adopted a simple policy: Leave ‘em alone.

This is not altogether altruistic. Aside from simple archaic notions of courtesy, if I see a celebrity I am not impressed with, my lack of attention satisfies my need to show disdain. If, on the other hand, it is a celebrity I happen to respect, well then, the nicest thing I can do is allow the person his or her privacy.

Take, for instance, the time I was sitting a few seats from John Forsythe in a bar, close enough to know that his brand of Vodka is--or was--Absolut, and that he likes to say “Absolutely!” when he orders it. But I left the man undisturbed. After all, what would I say?

Why don’t they ever rerun “Bachelor Father” ?

Or: I never saw you in “Dynasty . “ ?

One night I was dining in an Indian restaurant when Mick Jagger, Jerry Hall and a few friends sat at the table next to mine. I was close enough to hear Mick say, “I love mulligatawny soup,” but I let him enjoy it in peace. Why start him up?

It is disorienting, though. The line between movies/TV celebritydom and life in L.A. is momentarily indistinct (which is probably the way most people like it, anyway.)

Once, for instance, only minutes after watching the movie “The Time Machine,” in which Alan Young of “Mr. Ed” fame plays Philby, the Scotsman, I ran into Young at my corner market. He was wearing a muffler, as Philby had. For a millisecond, my mind registered, “Oh, there’s Philby,” before reality sadly took over. And as much as I wanted to compliment Young on his performance and inquire into the fate of Mr. Ed, I said nothing.

Further examples are legion:

I have squeezed fresh produce side-by-side with Steve Allen. I have listened to his wife, Jayne Meadows, ask a producer-manager if his peaches were “mealy” (they were, he admitted).

I have shopped for milk with former Mouseketeer Annette Funicello. Rocker John Fogerty nearly tripped over me in a parking lot one night. I munched a Sizzler salad one booth away from Kirstie Alley.

Sondra Locke and I actually had eye contact, but no conversation, in a Valley coffee shop. Mae West crossed my path in a dusty black limo in Santa Monica one morning, fresh from a gym where she had been visiting musclemen. Carol Burnett eyed me--for an uncomfortably long time, I thought--at the Shubert Theatre. Donna Summer sat next to me--for an uncomfortably short time--at the Music Center. One night, in that same structure, I held a door open for Burt Lancaster.

And I gave them all their privacy.

My record, however, is not perfect. I have to confess that I once spoke to actress Mimi Rogers, the former Mrs. Tom Cruise, in a courtroom after both our cars were sideswiped by someone driving under the influence. She wasn’t famous then, though, and I must point out that since she has become a celebrity, I haven’t given her so much as the time of day.

Oh, and I did have one very, very close call, in which I nearly disturbed the peace of an especially acclaimed human by the name of Michael Jackson. Right, the singer. Liz Fortensky’s best man.

It happened at the Sherman Oaks Newsstand one Sunday night. Michael was standing next to me, and we were quietly perusing magazines.

He was all rouged up and wearing dark glasses. I was not. His father and a portly bodyguard stood a few feet behind, eyeing me closely. My father was in another city, and I had no bodyguard.

For several minutes, I struggled mightily with a desire to speak to him. I had several issues in mind, among them why Lionel Richie calls him “Stinky,” or exactly how a guy who is “bad” could let the world know he has a chimpanzee named Bubbles. But mostly, I wanted to stare manfully into his famous features and ask:

“Why do you insist on licensing Beatles songs to commercials? Don’t you have enough money?”

But I said nothing. I figured that, at worst, the bodyguard might do something semi-lethal to me or that, at least, I would upset Michael’s evening. And he seemed to be having such a wonderful time, reading magazines just like un-famous people, so I gave him his privacy.

I broke my own code of celebrity etiquette once.

I was in Westwood many years ago, waiting in line for a movie, when a black limo slowly passed by--a black limo containing a blonde at the wheel and a diminutive elderly man in the passenger seat. The man was wearing a beret and a thick, gray mustache.

I added this scene to recent newspaper reports of a blonde named Erin Fleming who had a controversial relationship with an aged, fragile comedian.

And then I yelled, “Hey Groucho!”

Groucho Marx did not turn his head but raised his hand and moved it back and forth. In an aged, fragile wave.

OK, I admit it. It made my day.

And incidentally, I gave Montalban and his Rolls a deferential wave and a smile. But I never let on that I recognized him.