In 1980 I was 22 years old and deluded into thinking I was smart and sophisticated. In the summer of that year I was in Detroit at the Republican National Convention. Elizabeth Taylor at the time was married to Senator John Warner of Virginia, and she was socially a good friend of Nancy Reagan.

On Sunday before the convention started, I stepped into a reception and there stood Elizabeth Taylor. Someone introduced me, I don’t remember who or why I was introduced to her. It was certainly not because I was anybody because I was nobody.

I don’t remember what was said. I just remember her eyes. They were really violet. I couldn’t believe it. I looked three times–they were violet. And I remember her looking bothered and annoyed that she was there or meeting people she didn’t care about. Hell, I thought at the time, I didn’t blame her. If I’d been her, I wouldn’t have been there. She was just doing the Reagans a favor to ingratiate her husband with them.

The crowd pushed me on through the reception, but I didn’t care. Her eyes were still with me. They’re with me now.