ast night I took my friends visiting from Austin to a tiny unmarked bar in the theater district. There were only about 20 people there, and one of them was David Canary. Now, David Canary is a famous soap opera actor, and if you dibble-dabble in such things you probably know him, but even a crack pop culturist like myself could not come up with "David Canary" on a moment's notice. Instead, this is what I texted to a friend: "Sitting next to retarded brother twin from All My Children." She wrote back: "David Canary!"

The funny thing about celebrities in New York is that you never know where you're going to see them. I've caught Natalie Portman hanging out in front of a Williamsburg bodega; I sat next to Steve Martin at a diner. And when you're entertaining out-of-town guests--as I have been doing for the past week--you always want something magical like this to happen. Now, does David Canary even count? Well, that depends, and possibly on your gender. But fortunately, he wasn't our only celebrity sighting at the tiny unmarked bar. Because in walks Tyne Daly, aka Lacey and/or Cagney--or, as my friend called her, "That old lady from television I know her but I can't place her." And then--AND THEN--in hobbles Joan Didion, on the arm of some man. They sit down across from us, and there's a collective gasp. Joan Fucking Didion. She's brilliant. (And tiny!) And as I'm going to the bathroom, I notice that the man she's with is totally checking me out. Like, obviously checking me out. And then I notice the guy she's with is DAVID HARE. The playwright. Or should I say, "Sir David Hare," because he's been knighted.

And so this is the point of the story, folks. Sir David Hare checked me out.

Oh, and also, I wrote a story for Nerve about my sexual fantasies concerning NPR personalities, and if you are not related to me, you should read it.