David Byrne after a NIN show in NYC.
We nodded to each other as I rode by on my bicycle and he was bringing his out from his home in Greenwich Village.
As for "most famous," it's a generational toss-up.
I collected tolls one summer on the bridge that goes from Wethersfield to Glastonbury. Katharine Hepburn pulled up, looking a bit lost. She wanted to get to Rt 9, likely on her way to her home in Fenwick. I was so flustered that I gave her incorrect directions. Three years later, I was doing the same work, but this time at the northbound Milford plaza where the Merritt turns into the Wilbur Cross. I saw her coming, and had a chance to redeem myself. I composed myself and said, "I admire your work tremendously." With a tremble in her voice, she replied, "Ah, you're too kind." Ever since, I have taken care to focus on my respect for the famous person's work.
Two years before the Hepburn encounter, I was working retail at Sam Goody in Playhouse Square Westport. It was Christmas Eve 1977, ten minutes from closing time. A guy with sunglasses and dark razor stubble asked for some help and bought a cassette of James Taylor's "JT." Co-workers swarmed me afterward, as it was John Travolta during the year of "Saturday Night Fever." In the moment, I'd missed who it was, but then instantly recalled the deep cleft in his chin and his smile.
Also at the tollbooth: Jane Fonda, Dustin Hoffman (a smile & a wink as he went wide for some kind of express lane), and McCoy Tyner (completely uncomprehending that I could know who he was).
Also at Sam Goody: Robert Redford.
