by Bob Johnson
Being a celebrity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. We hear lots of stories about actors and singers sacrificing and working tirelessly to become stars, only to lament their inability to go anywhere without being recognized and asked for an autograph or to pose for a selfie.
I grew up on the Balboa Peninsula in Newport Beach, Cali. Before you start making assumptions, we were part of the blue-collar Newport Beach crowd. My folks owned a bakery, and my brother and I would arise each morning at 3 a.m. to put in a couple hours rolling dough for pastries, frying donuts, and baking bread before catching the bus for school.
While our family was far from rich, we lived amongst very well-off people, including a handful of celebrities. Buddy Ebsen, a fine actor sadly best known for portraying Jed Clampett on “The Beverly Hillbillies,” lived across Balboa Bay from the bakery. So did John Wayne.
When he wasn’t off filming a movie, Wayne liked to spend time at his home on Balboa Island, where his 136-foot yacht, the Wild Goose, was docked. On weekends, when he’d navigate the yacht to Catalina Island or up the coast toward Marina del Rey, he’d call the bakery and order several dozen donut holes for the crew.
On sailing day, in the pre-dawn hours, he’d hop on the Balboa Island Ferry for the short ride across the bay to the peninsula, then stroll a block-and-a-half to the bakery. He’d knock on the locked door, and my mom would greet him with four or five cardboard boxes filled with just-fried and glazed donut holes.
After paying for his order — our donut holes were priced at “two for a nickel” — Wayne would ask my mom if she had time to chat. She really didn’t, but she always said she did. Wayne asked her to call him “Duke,” as all his friends did, and they’d sit on the public bench right outside our bakery, light up cigarettes, and shoot the breeze for a half-hour or so. He would leave when the sun was starting to rise and always made a point of telling my mom how much he appreciated being able to chat with someone who “wasn’t all starry eyed.”
Wayne enjoyed the spoils of his success — the home on the bay, another in the San Fernando Valley that provided easy access to the Hollywood studios, a ranch in Arizona, the yacht — but he lamented the loss of privacy that came with it.
I had close-up experiences of my own with the double-edged sword of celebrityhood during the 15 years I lived in Chicago as a magazine editor. One time, I had walked to the downtown ESPN Zone bar and restaurant to watch the Green Bay Packers game. I was “between wives” at the time, so I grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a burger.
While waiting for the food to be delivered, a man sat down in the seat to my left. I immediately recognized him as one of the stars of a movie I’d seen just weeks earlier, “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” There was no entourage. There were no groupies. Just a guy who wanted to watch a football game.
The arrival of my burger coincided with a commercial break in the game. That’s when I broke my silence and said, “I really enjoyed the music in ‘O Brother.’”
He looked at my burger, looked at me and said, “T Bone knew what he was doing.”
T Bone was T Bone Burnett, who selected the music for the film and later oversaw the accompanying soundtrack.
When his salad arrived with a chicken breast on top of it, George Clooney added, “By the way, thanks for letting me enjoy the game.”
On another occasion, I was noshing on a hot dog at a little joint in the Streeterville neighborhood, just off Michigan Avenue. Seating was limited and it was common for strangers to share tables. As I took a sip of Diet Coke between bites, a man with long hair came up to me and asked, “Mind if I join you?”
I looked up and was face-to-face with the lead singer of a group whose songs I had butchered countless times singing in my shower and car over the years. Had I been on my toes, I would have said, “Walk this way.” Instead, all I could muster was, “Not at all.”
The seat at my table made it possible for the singer to have his back to the window and enjoy a modicum of privacy. We finished our “meals” at the same time, and as we got up to leave, he said to me, “That was the first peaceful meal I’ve had in a long time. Thanks.”
I again missed out on opportunities to demonstrate my fandom. I could have said, “That’s a sweet emotion,” or, “That’s what you get for livin’ on the edge.” Thinking about it, though, either one of those comments probably would have ruined the experience for Steven Tyler.
Back then, I was simply being polite. Today, I fully understand the perils that accompany being a celebrity. Ever since the February 2026 issue of Huckleberry Press came out, I can’t go anywhere in the Inland Northwest without hearing the whispers…
“There’s the moose guy!”
“Oh, yeah! He doesn’t believe in them, right?”
“He didn’t even know that moose are part of the deer family.”
“The newspaper ran a picture of a moose with his column, but he still doesn’t believe in them!”
I could be mistaken, but I think I saw a TMZ truck camped out near our driveway the other day. The next day, when I attempted to trace the number of a dropped call on my mobile phone, the search rendered this message: “Might be ‘Entertainment Tonight.’”
I did pick up a call from a guy claiming he was from People magazine. When I asked him why he was so interested in my doubts about the existence of moose, he said, “It’s because of your friendships with George Clooney and Steven Tyler.”
Friendships? I’d met each only once, and our “conversations” couldn’t have amounted to more than a couple dozen words – total.
“Even so, you can’t deny the connection the three of you have,” the “reporter” countered.
“Connection? What connection?”
“Moose.”
“Moose?!?”
“Yes. Moose.”
I’m not sure why, but I bit.
“What possible connection could George Clooney, Steven Tyler, and I have with moose?”
Turns out these People people know a lot about a lot of things.
In a 1991 episode of “Roseanne,” long before George Clooney became the George Clooney, the character he played, Booker Brooks, attempted to flirt with Julie while wearing a moose costume.
Further, 18 years later, Clooney starred in a movie called “Up in the Air” in which characters would pose with a small, cut-out photo of a moose as they traveled around the country.
“A coincidence?” the People person asked me.
“I think so,” I replied.
“Well, then,” he countered. “What about you and Steven Tyler?”
“What about me and Steven Tyler?”
I was informed that the Aerosmith song, “Big Ten Inch Record,” which I’d admittedly listened to many times on the radio, was a cover of a song originally recorded by blues singer Benjamin Clarence Jackson in 1952.
“Okay,” I said. “But I’m not getting the connection.”
“Do you know what Jackson’s nickname was?” the People person asked me.
“No.”
“It was ‘Bull Moose.’”
Well, I guess that explains the obsession with my moose missive among Huckleberry Press readers, and why I now must don sunglasses, a fedora, and a fake mustache whenever I go out in public anywhere in the Inland Northwest.
Still, the whispers seem so impolite and unnecessary. But this is the celebrity-obsessed culture in which we live.
It’s too late to show some respect for and keep some distance from the Duke. But could you please do Gorgeous George, the Demon of Screamin’ and the Wordjohnson of the Moose Missive a favor? All we really want is to be able to watch a football game, eat a hot dog, or take a walk in the Inland Northwest without a bunch of groupies or celebrity-stalking media members hounding us. Is that too much to ask?
And please keep that moose muttering to yourself.
Award-winning journalist Bob Johnson and his award-winning photographer-wife, Michelle, enjoy exploring the Inland Northwest and sharing their adventures with Huckleberry Press readers – the ones who’d rather eat mousse than whisper about moose, that is.
