What is Arnold Schwarzenegger doing making bigger news than ever? This guy was yesteryear. For me, he has built-in nostalgia. I recall an interview I did with him in Chicago in 1982. It began:

Arnold Schwarzenegger, budding film stars, puffs on his pipe like a banker on holiday and sends leisurely little clouds of smoke in the air. "Let me tell you something," he says. "'Conan the Barbarian' is the first movie I can watch myself in. I never could before." For a former Mr. Universe, accustomed to scrutinizing himself in mirrors with the professional vanity of a body builder, that must be an embarrassing admission — though to judge from his most recent TV role as Mickey Hargitay in "The Jayne Mansfield Story," it is not difficult to believe. Yet Schwarzenegger tosses off the remark with a certain pride.

Now he's taken seriously as a candidate for California governor ?

And what about Bill Murray? I've admired him for years, mainly for his subversive sense of humor. Now he's being touted for an Oscar nod, long denied him, for the "revelation" of his "subtle, aching, witty performance?" (Free registration required.) I recall an inteview I did with him in Chicago in 1981. It began:

When George Hamilton went on a publicity tour several years ago for "Love at First Bite," he took along his Count Dracula cape and at each stop climbed out of a coffin. Bill Murray doesn't have to go to that length for his new film "Stripes." He simply has to roll out of bed. At the Pump Room the other day, Murray looked less like he had just stepped off a plane from New York than out of his starring role as Winger, a sad sack rescued from civilian life by the Army. He was lunching at the VIP table with the white telephone and wore scuffed sneakers, creased pants and a sweater that barely hid the design on his T-shirt. Day-old stubble darkened his chin. His red-rimmed eyes were bleary from lack of sleep. When the waitress in the tuxedo jacket lit his cigarette, behind her gracious smile seemed to lurk the thought: "We're all kidding, aren't we?"

On top of that, I see Yoko Ono may go naked for peace today in Paris. I recall an article in an avant-garde literary magazine I edited — this goes back to 1968 — that led off with a photo of her in a nude happening by Jean-Jacques Lebel at an underground film festival in Belgium. There she is, unidentified and full frontal, competing for the title of "Miss Festival." It's satire, of course. One of the contestants, with a luscious body, wears a sign: "Hors concours" (meaning "Disqualified" or, more to the point, "No contest.") Yoko's sign reads: "No. 9" — and she's holding it sideways.

All this makes me feel like Rip Van Winkle. I think I'll go take a nap.