Felicity Huffman, who I saw in my first weekend here and who I wouldn’t have noticed except that my boyfriend-at-the-time, Todd (who would secretly like me to mention here that he’s written for Rolling Stone), was in love with her and practically peed his pants at the sight.
Ted Allen, who went casually walking past me late one night in Chelsea.
Ann Coulter, who looked like a hag.
Conan O’Brien, who I never actually saw myself, although I tell everyone that I did, because my friend Meredith saw him, and for some reason, that makes me think I did, too.
Ethan Hawke, who came into my Barnes & Noble frequently to check if his book was being showcased appropriately.
Colin Farrell, who tried to use the restroom at my Barnes & Noble but was denied because it was closing time.
Michael Stipe, who shared eye contact with me for several seconds over a table of bargain photography books at Barnes & Noble and who was wearing an amazing pin-striped outfit.
Chuck Klosterman, who did a reading of his new book at my Barnes & Noble in which he mentioned that he’d never seen the movie Mannequin. I bought him a copy (with my discount, mind you), and when he happened by the section where I worked to ask me where the restroom was, I told him to pee and come immediately back, whereupon I gave the film to him with a note about how he’s half a man for having not watched it before. And also my e-mail address. Which he never used.
Molly Shannon, who had a discussion with me about stickers and Chapstick in the children’s section of Barnes & Noble.
and Rosie Perez
and Kim Raver
and Lindsay Price.
with Guy Pearce
and Busta Rhymes.
Jackie Mason, who was eating dinner at the Irish restaurant my friends and I were.