I just received an e-mail from my brother Ken who usually reserves e-mail to send me some item or another about goats (although his previous e-mail was about different type of animal). Yes, my brother seems to have a fixation about small farm animals; don't ask. Anyway, here's his comment on Ray Bradbury:
SUBJECT: RAY BRADBURY AND ME
In, oh, 1971 or so USC was putting on a play based on one of Ray Bradbury's stories and I wasn't able to get a ticket. Hearing that the master himself was going to be there, I wandered over and got to shake his hand. Somehow I ended up in a group of about a dozen students and Bradbury, sitting in a lounge and just talking. That's when I heard him tell this story, almost word for word what was recorded at the National Book Awards ceremony in 2000.
And here I thought I was special. Sigh. Quoting Dashiell Robert Parr, (Everyone's special) "Which is another way of saying no one is."
No goats this time.
My folks wandered out to Los Angeles because my Dad was looking for work in the Great Depression and I was enamored of movie stars and I wanted so see famous persons so I puit on my roller-skates, I was 13 years old, and I roller-skated out to Hollywood and there standing on the steps of Paramount Studios was everybody's hero, Mr. W. C. Fields himself.
I roller-skated over to him; I said, Mr Fields, May I have your autograph? And he signed it and gave it back to me; he said, "There you are, you little son-of-a-bitch."