Condemned To Leisure

Being John Lithgow

My favorite John Lithgow memory is a shared moment we had one hot, lonely summer. It was 1996 and I was in Los Angeles on business (staying in the Manchurian Candidate hotel on Sunset!) and I had an afternoon with no appointments, so I thought I'd take the rental for a spin and maybe take in a musical. I get in the elevator down to the lobby and, holy shit!, John Lithgow is standing right fucking there! Like I said, this was 1998 or 1999 and "3rd Rock on the Moon" was the second top-rated television show in the country. It was a show with zeitgeist. Lithgow was a god in a godless country. We needed him more than he needed us, and he knew it. He was wearing sunglasses and sipping on a diet snapple. I spent ten floors getting the nerve to say something to this great man, and was finally able to mumble something about how much I loved "3rd Rocks."

"You don't have to say that," he said.

Humble too? I thought I would faint.

He invited me to join him for dinner and drinks at The East End (is there one in every city?), and offered to give me a ride in his stretch limo parked out front.

When we got outside, a toothless homeless man approached us and mumbled something about needing change, and John gave him a wad of one dollar bills he had in his pocket. Then there was this horrible smell.

"What's that awful fucking smell," Lithgow cried out.

It was the bum.

The bum shit his pants!

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