Seeing “The Guilt Trip” reminded me of one car trip with Norman Mailer. Like Barbra Streisand, he was Jewish and strict with everything.
While he was on a book tour for “Tough Guys Don’t Dance,” we drove up the Coast from San Francisco and passed San Simeon.
“Norman, where are we going?”
“A friend has lent me his house on the bay with a spectacular view, and I wanted to show it to you.”
“How long will the drive be? I’m hungry?”
“It’s not far,” he said with a slight smile.
After driving three hours, he said, “We’re here!” I was expecting a Frank Lloyd Wright-style home and a waiter serving cocktails -- instead the driveway had a broken tricycle blocking the entrance and, inside, cobwebs hung from the ceiling.