I was eating with friends at Chaya Venice. As I came inside after a cigarette, I held the door open and let an older couple exit. I entered and looked back through the etched glass to the street. I turned forward, eyes looking down. All I saw were brown shoes and the cuffs of crisp slacks.
Startled, I stopped, gasped, and shuffled to the side. My eyes followed the pleat up to his torso, then up the breast of his jacket to his face and bald head. The man was tall. The man was John Lithgow.
I apologized; Read more