I once took Madonna to the airport. She was standing by the side of the road with a mountain of high priced luggage two miles west of McPherson Kansas in 1993. I pulled over in my 1963 sky-blue Ford Fairlane and asked her if she needed a ride.
She asked me to take her to the Wichita airport, and I agreed.
She had eight bags with her, all expensive luggage. I threw the bags in the trunk and back seat, and we were off.
Trying to remain cool, I pretended not to recognize her. She was wearing sunglasses, and her hair was pulled back in a pony-tail, and she was wearing jeans and a simple white top. But I knew her instantly. She was really pissed off.
“That twit Raphael is going to be so fired when I get back to L.A.,” she said. In ’96 she had yet to put on her ridiculous fake British accent, so her saying “twit” was sort of prophetic.
She didn’t even pretend to care who I was. She didn’t even ask me my name.
“I’m Dan,” I said. “I’d play the radio, but it’s broken.”
“Brilliant.” She said. Again a British expression, no British accent.
“Well, I was going to get it replaced. I like some of your songs.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said, and she finally smiled, showing the famous gap between her teeth.I drove her to the airport. She gave me gas money and autographed a Domino's Pizza box I had in the back seat. I still have that pizza box. I have it framed in my office. No one believes me when I tell this story.