I have lived in New York City my entire life. I often feel privileged to be a part of the energy and magic of this Mecca of celebrity. Under the semi privileged dome of my existence, I encounter the rich and famous at every turn. When I was a teenager, I crossed paths with Jerry Lewis in Times Square and bumped elbows once with Marvin Gaye.
As a passionate college student of Cinema Studies, I dined across the room from Woody Allen and stopped to compliment his latest film. At Caf Des Artiste, a rather high end restaurant in Manhattan, I was celebrating my thirty-fourth birthday when lo and behold, charismatic Mayor Lindsey walked past my table. At a function at the World Trade Center many moons ago, I stood next to Barbara Walters and had a chat about something terribly mundane. I walked away feeling we were friends. I caught the eye of Andy Warhol window shopping on Madison Avenue, admired Faye Dunaway on Fifth and called after Joni Mitchell on the corner of Forty-Second and Third, just to say I was a fan.
I could go on and on. Bill Clinton even used the bathroom in my building once. This is truth. I guess he couldn’t hold it and his bodyguard entered our...
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