One time at a motorcycle convention in Manhattan, I ran into some of my former Israeli co-workers, all really nice people. And one of them remarked on my style of dress at the time that I looked like a “Representative,” at which I must have frowned imperceptibly over not understanding what he meant, because his eye sparkled immediately and he seemed to correct himself. He said to me, smiling - that sly smile that landed him in jail at least the one time I worked with him, “Superstar, I mean.”