I recently met up with a very important man for drinks. I suppose I stalked him. It turns out I have relative success with pseudo-stalking male celebrities and masquerading as a girl less desperate and deranged than I truly am. In the past year I have finagled my way into a personal email correspondence with Woody Allen and a personal Escalade ride through downtown Manhattan with Leonardo DiCaprio. Two days ago it was the love of my life, the ultimate man, the real deal (other than, sigh, Jack Nicholson, for whom I will forever have a special place in my heart). In psychological ways, this week’s man is bigger, much bigger, so big in fact that he is referred to as such on a certain sex-and-shoe-related show.

We met over drinks at the Plaza Athénée Bar, one of the Upper East Side’s rare (though decidedly square and semi-elderly) gems. The day itself had been surreal in terms of celebrity run-ins: I had stood a mere three feet away from Bill Clinton on my way home from an early-evening stroll through Central Park. He was friendly, with a head of bountiful white hair and a winning smile. Later, I walked right by Debra Messing and Katie Couric on their way to an event.

The stars were aligned, as I entered the dark-hued imperialist Morocco ambiance of the hotel bar to meet the man whose screen image lulled me to sleep almost every night of prep school (and, sad to say, most of college). Before he arrived, I encountered yet another middle-aged heart-throb who was sitting in the lounge: Pierce Brosnan. It was utterly uncanny.

So there I was, perched at the bar with two flesh-and-blood James Bonds, and only after leaving a single pseudo-prank cell phone message. So I guess it goes to say: a little stalking can go a long way on a Manhattan Monday of male mania.

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