I swear to God, last night I sang Mustang Sally to the little one. That's her name and that's one of her songs.
In the 1980s, I worked as a writer and producer for WNBC-TV News in Rockefeller Center. Our studio, 6B, was across the hall from 6A, where they taped Late Night with David Letterman.
They recorded the Letterman show at 5:30, as we did our live evening newscasts, and often guests from Live at Five would walk across to do the Letterman show, or in the case of Don Rickles, walk out of Letterman’s studio and crash our newscast.
There was a men’s room by the elevators. It was used by staff and guests from both operations.
One evening, after dropping off a script in the control room, I stopped in before heading back up to the newsroom.
I walked in, turned right and headed to the urinals. I unzipped, glanced around-- and realized the man in the sharp suit standing next to me was none other than Wilson Pickett!
I didn't check him out.
I thought about it. I had the argument in my head as I stood there next to the still-powerful and virile performer. He was the Wicked Pickett, the Midnight Mover, standing right there next to me. There could be valid reason to check out the stature of such a legendary soul man. Either way, it would have been a good story to tell. But I did not look down or over.
I kept my eyes straight ahead.
We exchanged nods at the sinks as we washed our hands.
He went off to sing with the Late Night band. I went back to planning my escape from the news business.
Wilson Pickett story.