As the title implies I share a few attributes with our own Ms. Night. The celebrity run in is one of the most anticipated perks of New York living, and I couldn’t wait to start seeing familiar faces on the street. What I’ve come to learn, and enjoy maybe even more than the sighting itself, is the “look.” The face you know so well, contorts ever so slightly in anticipation, praying to blend back into the surroundings.

Example: My most recent run-in was with Jesse L. Martin, best known these days as Tom Collins from Rent. (Given my female friends’ reaction to his visage, he’s just as loveable as his characters liquory name-sake.) Just a few blocks from my local bar, I spied him on the phone just outside a theater. Our eyes met, and immediately came the “look.” It wasn’t fear, exactly, merely intense trepidation. His eyes watched mine for a second, as if chanting, “Don’t recognize me! Don’t recognize me!” His breath even seemed to catch for a second, waiting to see if he’d have to leap into PR mode. Instead, I nodded and moved on, happy to put another chance meeting in my deck of celebs. I’ve learned from past mistakes.

Who wouldn’t blame them for the “look?” Just out for a stroll on the street, looking to get to some restaurant, or just grab the paper, they get spotted, and suddenly it’s all forced smiles, autographs, and pictures. The five minute trip to the bodega turned into a thirty minute PR session full of awkward conversation and subtle attempts to wander back on their given direction. Not to mention the possibility of the dreaded psycho-fan.

The worst “look” I’ve gotten was from Dave Attell. I did the early show at Stand Up New York, performing a fairly craptastic set, before sitting myself down on the curb outside. A friend of mine had left a bundle of crap over at my apartment, and as he’d finally gotten a hold of a car, he was going to give me a ride back to BK, and pick up all the empty CD cases and animal print boxer shorts he’d left molding in my domicile.

He was an hour late. During those strained sixty, I sat outside the club, waiting for his dumb ass. And who should be outside slurping down a smoothie prepping for his set on the late show, but Mr. Insomniac himself, Dave Attell.

The sidewalk was empty. All the comics and guests had floated off to Happy Hours and taxi’s home…except me. For an hour, we danced around each other, me cursing my perennially late friend, and him mumbling into his cell phone about “some fucking blond kid that won’t fucking leave.”

Maybe, years ago, considering how much respect I have for Attell, I would have approached him and tried to explain myself. But there too, I now know better.

Wandering Times Square a year earlier, I happened by Alex Desert. The man had been exiled to the Ted Danson tainted hell of Becker for six years, where he’d been the only consistently funny actor involved, but I knew him from a string of movies close to my heart. In Swingers, only Alex could muster the cool to sigh, “Yeah, this place is dead anyway,” in a bar so crammed with people no one could move more than three feet without crowd surfing. In PCU, he scammed Jeremy Piven into community service. He was in High Fidelity, just because what other brother could diss on Black, Cusack and Louiso, and live to tell the tale?

Still, despite consistently being the coolest cat in the room, he’s been offered few leading roles. I pray for the day when someone gives this guy a shot, and I meant to point this out to him, but it came out a little off:

“Ummm…excuse me…are you Alex Desert.”
Insert the “look” here.
“Yeah, man. Yeah.”
“Wow, I fuckin’ loved you in Swingers and PCU. You were hilarious in those flicks.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Whenever I see you in the background, I know it’s going to be a good movie.”
“Yeah…yeah…yeah…”

I figured out by the third “yeah” that he was actually saying “fuck you,” and quite rightly so.

Thanks to the fact that I’d insulted one of my favorite actors, I made it a point, upon getting the look, to nod, smile and wander off.

Elijah Wood in a bad trucker cap, and some nasty facial hair? Nod, smile, wander off. Even got a smile out of him. As if thanking me for not making a scene out of a what should just be a walk with some friends on a summer day.

Then again, I know I’m missing out on some good stories. The ultimate celebrity run-in story of mine, doesn’t even star me. Instead it stars Manny, a fellow comic, handing out flyers for the now defunct Boston Comedy Club. His famous sighting? The now defunct Brad & Jenn.

The way Boston Comedy Club worked is, four comics hand out half price tickets on different corners around the village trying to get people in. Known as barking, we’d generally just babble at people, hoping one or two might be in the mood. Just before the show, we all reconvene, head in, and perform. I had just finished off pestering the public, so I turned the corner back to the club. There before me was a very familiar hair cut, and a somewhat familiar pair of shoulders. Brad & Jenn were all cuddled up, so I didn’t even recognize them until they recoiled from a quick peck.

I’m not easily star struck, but, come on…Brad & Jenn at the peak of their popularity. Even my jaw dropped a little. The rest of the comics began to round other corners, and each spotted the couple. As their eyes bugged, we started catching each other’s attention, sharing in the “Christ, it’s actually them” moment.

Amidst all this wonderment, and the sizing up the occurs whenever you see a star in real life for the first time, we heard a voice. So distracted was I that I barely heard what it said. Luckily it repeated itself.

“Hey, Boston Comedy Club. You guys want to see a show?”

Manny, the comic barking right outside the door of the club was actually holding out a flyer to Brad Pitt.

“We’ve got a great line-up tonight. Comics you’ve seen on HBO, Comedy Central.”

None of the other comics moved. We just stared at Manny. Meanwhile, Manny was on the receiving end of one of the most potent “looks” I’ve ever been a witness to. Part fear of being recognized, part shock that they hadn’t, they stared at the little guy, stunned at his invitation.

“Just getting started in a few minutes.”

Brad nodded no, and they plodded down the block looking at each other quizzically, almost amused that they’d been offered a pass to see some second-tier comics in the Village. I ran up to Manny.

“Dude! You just barked Brad Pitt!”

Manny sighed.

“Fucker didn’t even take the flier.”

Pictures c/o Movies.yahoo.com, Ticketservice.com, www.paramountcomedy.es, news.bbc.co.uk