Back in Los Angeles, in 1956 or 57, one afternoon after school, when I was 14, I was peddling my bike going east on Pico Boulevard at about 5 miles an hour, at the most, to get to my Flamenco dance class, which was near La brea. A man in a big convertible started driving slowly beside me. I was in the right-hand lane and he was in the middle lane, which is suppose to be for fast traffic. The man looked over and smiled at me and I smiled back. He kept looking over and smiling at me for what seemed like a long time to me, but it was only a minute or two, maybe This mustached-man wore glasses, a funny-looking cap and had a cigar in one hand as he steered his car with the other. He was going as slow as I was on my bike and the cars behind him were starting to form a traffic jam. Angry people began to honk their horns. He ignored them. He just kept smiling at me and ahead intermittently. A car finally passed him in the far left lane, while giving him a quick nasty look to see who in this big car was being such a nuisance. When this driver saw who it was driving the car with a benign smile on his face, his face lit up and he yelled with his head out the window “Hi, Groucho.” This little episode ended after about 1/2 mile when Groucho Marx sped up in front of me and turned right off Pico into Hillcrest Country Club. He waved good bye to me.
I always thought this as my Groucho Marx incident.