My Year of Hotness

This blog is dedicated to my high school friend Jane Barrell, who, so far, is my only follower.

In 1975, while still in high school, I attracted the attention of a disproportionate number of famous men. By disproportionate I mean three: Michael Palin, Raul Julia, and Tony Randall. The circumstances were as varied as the characters involved.

That year, Monty Python and the Holy Grail debuted at a theater on the East Side of Manhattan, with a promotion that the first 200 ticket holders would be handed a coconut by the Python crew. My friend Daphne and I were among the lucky ticket holders, but this brush with greatness was way too brief for our taste. (I mean, Terry Gilliam just handed me a coconut in the theater lobby, and then I was out on the street before I could say, "umm . . ."!) As we were arguing with theater security that we should have more access, someone broke into a sidedoor. Security went on a high-speed chase, and we went in through the front door.

"Michael!" I cried, as Michael Palin emerged from somewhere in a white suit and fedora, followed by Jones and Gilliam. "Could I have your autograph?" Certainly, he said, scribbling it on a piece of paper - to which he added his hotel phone number! This I handed off to Daphne, who was more of a Palin fan than me (how much more, he would soon discover to his utter dismay), while I had my coconut signed by Jones and Gilliam. 

In my mind's eye, I often wonder what prompted that phone number invitation. I see myself wearing overalls, Olaf Daughters clogs; my long brown hair in braids, my eyes bespectacled.

The encounter with Raul Julia was normal, by comparison. Alfred Uhry, who would later go on to win awards for Driving Miss Daisy, was then teaching acting at our high school, Calhoun. Alfred allowed us to see his play, The Robber Bridegroom, which was then in rehearsals. In the lead (in a role that would later fall to Kevin Kline and then to Barry Bostwick) was Raul Julia.

You who only know Julia as Gomez in The Addams Family have to understand: In 1975, he was attached to all the cultural touchstones of '70s Manhattan. He had appeared on Sesame Street as Raphael; he was part of Joseph Papp's Public Theater and had helped bring Two Gentlemen of Verona from Central Park to Broadway. He would go on to star on Broadway in The Three Penny Opera and Nine (and take over from Frank Langella in Dracula); and where other actors put their CVs and shoutouts in Play Bill, Julia wrote poetry. So when Alfred introduced his students to Julia, I was one of the most dewy-eyed. But when he later told me that Julia had said of me, "Dot's a cute girl," I was transported. 

And what was I wearing? Overalls, Olaf Daughters clogs, braids, glasses. The only differences were a brown suede poncho, fringed and Hot Sox.

The most incomprehensible encounter was with Tony Randall. I was a babysitter for two children who lived in a Central Park West apartment house, and I was waiting for them in the building's lobby, when Tony Randall entered, wearing sunglasses. Seeing me, he immediately charged at me, yelling, "I TOLD YOU TO WAIT IN THE . . ." When he got six inches away, he whipped off his sunglasses, stared intently at my startled face, said, "Sorry, wrong person," and disappeared into the elevator. The doormen ran up to me, saying, "Do you know who that was?" Yes, I answered, "but who did he think I was?"

And what was I wearing? Overalls, Olaf Daughters clogs, braids, glasses.

Obviously, dressed like that, I wasn't expecting to woo any of these men with womanly wiles (had I wanted to, I would have donned French jeans, a peasant blouse, and some glitter eyeshadow). But a social historian might say that this was the uniform of most mid '70s New York City women, aged 15 to 35. We were Godspell ragamuffins, on the brink of transforming into either Annie Hall ragamuffins or Spandexed disco queens. 

But if it was a uniform, it didn't stand in the way of my getting attention from the most unlikely prospects. Score one for hotness.