starstruck.

The thing about being a New Yorker is that you're supposed to be cool about fame. Famous people are supposed to be no big deal because you're too busy being fabulous and famous in your own right. Famous people are to be given wide berth, are not to be gawked at, and are to be respected, because, like, we're not in Hollywood. Like, we're not fucking paparazzi. Famous people are just people. They put their pants on one leg at a time (or have an assistant put said pants on one leg at a time for them). They're just like us . . . only famous.

By this equation, Mayumi doth not equal a New Yorker, because Mayumi is not at all cool about famous people.

The first thing to mention is that I am legally visually impaired without corrective lenses. Without them, I cannot drive a car, operate any machinery (including, like, a TV), or even walk in a neighborhood I don't already know intuitively without becoming horribly lost. The second thing to note is that prior to May 2007 I did not have contacts and I hated wearing glasses. Therefore, the entire time I lived in or around New York (August 1998-December 2005), I did not see many people--famous or otherwise, stranger or friend--unless they were directly in front of my face.

I now have contacts and even wear my glasses sometimes, which convinces me 200% that with this move back to New York city, the streets will be dripping with fame and I will be positively tripping over celebrities.

My list of famous people sightings is a short one:

1. Candace Bergen. circa 2002. at Serendipity iii. It was definitely her because she was seated right next to me and I saw her closely when I banged my head getting up from the table.

2. I swear I saw Claire Danes in the West Village, circa summer 2004, but don't listen to me because, again, I was without corrective lenses on this day.

3. Keanu Reeves. circa June 2005. At the Public Theater's Shakespeare in the Park and the afterparty in Belvedere Castle. I was, like, ten feet (and sometimes less) away from him and I didn't even talk to him. Nevermind throw myself at him, hug him, ask for an autograph, make out with him, or at least touch some part of him, like my 11-through-18 year-old self was screaming for me to do. Yes, I still hate myself for this, a little bit.

4. Phillip Seymour Hoffman. circa June 2005, also at Shakespeare in the Park.

5. Alec Baldwin. circa April 2007. in the lobby of the Central Park West apartment building on the UWS where my SLC don was having her book party. I know it was him because I was wearing glasses. Dave elbowed me, subtly, to which I responded by (a) trying to play it cool, (b) failing miserably, (c) doing a little hop-skip-dance thing, and (d) giggling in the elevator all the way up to the twelfth floor.

and, finally . . .

6. Brandi Ryan. Some of you might wonder who the hell she is, and I would have to stop being friends with you because if you don't know that means you didn't watch "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila." I didn't love Brandi the way I loved Dani Campbell, but I did think she was pretty smokin' hot.

So. The Brandi Ryan sighting happened circa, umm, LAST NIGHT. At a bar called Heathers (yes, like the movie) that I wasn't even supposed to be at. That was kind of the theme of the evening: the way your night can surprise you when you're willing to roll with the punches.

The evening kicked off when Wife sent me an e-mail asking Dave, Androoo, Wife's friend Liz, Liz's "wife" Alex, and I to dinner to celebrate (1) Androoo's recent birthday, (2) Dave's recent birthday, (3) Liz's start of grad school, (4) Dave's and my return to New York, and (5) everyone's general fabulosity. Not only was the restaurant she picked booked till 11:45 pm but also Androoo was out of town at a wedding and Liz was stuck at work. So we scrapped the plan, ended up having dinner with Wife, our dear Luke, Dave, and I. Liz and Alex showed up at the end of dinner, ready to drink. We tried to get into Max Brenner's for "choc(olate)(cock)tails" but the wait was too long. Then we tried to get into Angel's Share, but every seat in that tiny little bar was filled . . .

INCLUDING TWO THAT WERE FILLED BY OUR FRIENDS FRANK AND BENNETT! ACCKCKCKCKCCK!!!! This was hilarious because Wife and I used to live with Frank, and we all view it as this halcyon period in our lives where the livin' was easy, before Frank and I both moved out, got married, and ended up, respectively, in Canada and California. So we were all understandably thrilled to see each other. Perhaps if my sense of shame could have held a candle to my joy I might have been embarassed that the entire bar whipped around to glare at us for shreiking FRANK! like wicked banshees when we saw the two of them. But no, the joy won out. (It always does.)

From there, Frank, Bennett, Liz, Alex, Laura, Dave, and I all ended up at Heathers in the EV. We fought viciously for a table and eventually landed a good one in the corner. We tucked ourselves in with a few rounds of drinks and gossip, grooved to the DJs, and then . . . then . . . then Dave saw Brandi Ryan at the bar, chilling with two older (late 30s?) dudes, who--may I add--were not quite up to par with Brandi in the looks department. From the moment that Dave elbowed me about Brandi, I spent the majority of the rest of the night semistaring at her, trying to figure out if she was indeed herself, trying to be "cool" in case she was herself, failing miserably at being "cool," freaking out when she left the bar, vaulting over three people to catch Brandi's guy friend before he left the bar to verify her identity, doing a little OMG she is herself dance when her identity was confirmed, gloating about how I would so blog about the sighting later, and then trying to play it cool again--and failing again--when she and her two guy friends came back into the bar.

I am such a freakin' loser.

Okay, and no. I didn't even talk to Brandi by the end of the night, but I did declare to David that if I weren't totally in love with him, I'd probably be a lesbian. Maybe. Or maybe I'd just try it on for size. Then I'd look at Brandi some more, giggle, and then declare to him that I'd definitely be a lesbian. Except for the whole vagina part. Sorry, but no thanks. If I were a lesbian, I think I'd just make out, cuddle, touch ladies' boobs, and giggle a lot. This is why I am not a lesbian.

So, there it is: the truth. I am a fucking retard when it comes to the famous folk. Dave told me I should have just gone up to her and said, "Are you Brandi Ryan?" And if she confirmed, say "SWEEET!," and walk away. Wife--being "marginally famous," in her own words, herself--discussed further with me that it is a little different to talk to a reality TV star than an actor because it's not like you can say "I like your work." (To which I quipped, the best you can do is say: "Whoa. I saw you on xxxx show and you are a piece of work." Ha.). Wife said that, instead, perhaps I could say, "Are you Brandi Ryan?" and if I got a yes, that I could simply say that I was a big fan of "A Shot at Love" and I had been rooting for her (Brandi).

Now, why couldn't I think of that instead of giggling like an idiot?!