I used to see Paul Newman from time to time in New York concert halls. I remember the first time, very well. There was this old man — old, short Jewish man — who was shockingly good-looking. I stared at him, because the sight was so unusual. And only after I stared at him for a bit did I realize it was Paul Newman.
He glared at me, hard. I didn’t care — I stared at him anyway. Screw him. He had to be used to it, and his shocking appearance garnered him worldwide fame and many millions of dollars. Pay a price, bub.
I once read a story about him. He was somewhere wearing sunglasses, and a woman said, “Would you mind taking off your sunglasses, so I can see your eyes?” And he said, “Would you mind taking off your shirt, so I can see your t**s?” Hardly the most gracious thing ever (and hardly the most logical).
Anyway, it was true: He had freaky electric blue eyes. Barely human.
I realize he was no friend of the likes of us — of conservatives. And about his acting skills, I really can’t comment, although they seemed above average to me. When I was a kid, I watched Butch Cassidy, The Sting, and the others. And was completely entertained. Would I still be entertained? I think probably. And I was glad to have encountered him, a handful of times, in the aisles.