After putting out his cigarette, he returned my smile and said, "Have a great day, sweetheart." I thought perhaps I had met him earlier at the conference, since his greeting was warm and he seemed somehow familiar. It wasn't until I left a restaurant that evening that I figured out who the man was.

His image was on a large poster outside a theater, where he was portraying George Burns in a one-man show. Who was the man? The Riddler from the old television series, Frank Gorshin. Now, did the sweetheart from Frank's greeting really come from Frank, or was it from the ghost of Mr. Burns?

By the way, the image above the story isn't mine, but she is indirectly related to the story. Can you guess who she is?

My AA admission may be different in substance from the more well-known AA introduction, but it describes a connection just as addicting. I bought the Pride and Prejudice DVD in the spring of 2006. It wasn't until my fourth viewing, two months later, that I realized I was hooked.

I watched the movie over and over. I started to fast-forward to the romantic parts between Lizzie and Darcy. My family and friends thought I was demented. Matthew's portrayal of Darcy did something no other performance had ever done: It seemed to reach out from the screen and grab my heart.

In my quest for any and all things Matthew, I came upon a public forum on Topix devoted to Matthew. I had never been part of a forum, blog, or chat room before. As I read the comments, I couldn't believe it! Every person's description of how they felt exactly mirrored my own. Everyone was supportive and assured me that the overwhelming feelings would eventually evolve into an appreciation of Matthew's talent, and that the daily viewings would eventually give way to less-frequent doses of Matthew in Pride and Prejudice. They were right.

My most astonishing adventure was actually meeting Matthew in New York. I would never have had the courage to seek this experience had it not been for three fellow forum members who accompanied me, and a British Topix friend who found out he would be in New York to see the play Frost/Nixon, as he had been cast in the movie version.

So, on three days' notice, four of us in the Tri-State Area made arrangements to be there, hoping we would meet him and get pictures and autographs. Here we were, two pregnant women and two mother figures, staking out the Bernard Jacobs Theater. Definitely not your typical celebrity seekers.

We had all but given up hope when, five minutes before the show, he appeared. He seemed quite surprised as we bombarded him with requests for autographs and pictures, but he was wonderfully accommodating, and his companion, Ron Howard, was teasing him as they were both wondering how we knew he would be there.

After the play, we were able to talk to him again as he waited for his friend, Michael Sheen, who played David Frost. His graciousness, as we conveyed our admiration, only endeared him to us more.

I have tried to analyze why he is the only actor to affect me so, but I can't explain it. I know that, as a teacher, I am always uplifted when appreciative former students take the time and make the effort to let me know that I have had an impact on their lives. For a few moments we, his ardent admirers, were able to enter Matthew's life to show him what an impact he has had on ours.

I had been watching Janeane Garafolo order lattes for about a month before I had a chance to talk to her. Then one evening, I dressed in drag to attend an open-mic amateur night at a club on Robertson. Looking up from my cocktail as I sat at the bar, I said hello to Janeane, who sat on the stool beside me. She turned her attention toward me and, without skipping a beat, introduced me to her companion as the "young lady who gets her coffee."

I explained that I happened to be dressed in drag as part of an acting exercise I was doing to hold character. Because I was often sent out on auditions for roles requiring a gender displacement, being undetectable was necessary. I told her I had often seen her carrying boxes down Fountain Ave., which she explained was part of an exercise regime. "I want people to think I am moving, but I am really only working out," she said.

I found it rather odd but expected nothing less from the kooky comedienne. She invited me to stay and watch her friend perform, noting that I might recognize the tarty redhead from her role on Suddenly Susan, the Brook Shields sitcom. I admitted that I had seen her but secretly wasn't entirely thrilled.

Years later, when Kathy Griffin's My Life on the D List achieved an Emmy and worldwide fame, I fought back tears as I remembered the way I casually passed up a chance to meet the irreverent funny lady in person. Janeane and Kathy had been friends since meeting at the Groundlings. Lisa Kudrow was among their castmates. Kathy was the last to achieve groundbreaking fame.

For the rest of the time I worked at Starbucks, I fostered a rapport with Janeane that transcended drink orders. How I have since yearned for a date with Kathy.

Dean Winters was once like everyone else. He had taken an ordinary job and lived a regular life--but then opportunity found him. And he took flight, racing across that sea of dreams and enveloping the screen with the depth of his heart and soul.

But do I dare approach him?

Some stars love the attention, love the fame, but others seek escape from all the glory when they return to a normal day of life. Which kind was he?

Gathering up my courage, I took a step closer to him. He turned and gave me that charming smile. I tried to think of something to say, but all I could muster was, "Mr. Winters, I liked you in Rescue Me."

My response was a laugh, and he said, "Please, call me Dean." And that was my highlight of that night.

Earlier that morning, mall security had informed us that Arnold Schwarzenegger would be coming through to do some holiday shopping, and that he might come through our department. Store management had instructed us not to ask for autographs or take pictures with him. (Of course, someone from cosmetics on the ground floor rushed up to the third floor with a Polaroid camera and broke the rule.)

Halfway through building my display, I was kneeling on one knee and working close to the floor, sorting through goods. That's when I saw a pair of custom ostrich-leather cowboy boots walk next to me. I thought, "Nice boots!" As I looked up to see who was filling them, I caught sight of a huge silver belt buckle with jade stones--it looked handmade and expensive. Simple jeans and a smart sportscoat completed the attire.

Then it dawned on me, as the glare from the halogen display lamps blinded me momentarily. I stood up straight to let the gentleman pass by. "Arnold Schwarzenegger?!" I half-asked and half-stated.

I felt stupid for stating the obvious. What was I supposed to say--"I like your boots and belt buckle"?

Thankfully, he didn't roll his eyes. He just said, "Ya!"

Not expecting him to make his way to where I was working, I had made a mess of my area. I said, "Would you like me to move these boxes aside?"

And, no lying, he stared me straight in the eyes and replied, "Don't bawtha." He looked left, then right at the display I had partially built, and did an about-face.

How cool was that? Actually, not very. He pointed at something in a display that a co-worker had built the day before, and someone in his entourage picked it up and brought it to the counter for purchase.

Later, during my lunch break, I was walking to the food court when I spotted Arnold again. People were noticing him, but they were giving him a wide berth. Yet, curious people kept pace with him and followed him down the second-floor promenade.

I had my moment with him. I didn't need to see him anymore. To this day, I swear to people that he stood in front of me and we were almost eye-to-eye, no more than an inch taller than me. There is no way he's taller than six feet. Or maybe my spine was crooked that day.

That's my brush with fame.

My classmates often arrived in limousines. I was a pauper by comparison. But they were nice to me anyway. And I could learn the words to any song, including "O Come, All Ye Faithful." In Latin. Which I did for the school's winter pageant.

The night of the winter pageant, I was all set to sing "O Come, All Ye Faithful" in Latin. I was nervous but well rehearsed and not in nearly so dire straits as the asthmatic boy with whom I was doing the duet. He was having trouble breathing. We finally made it onstage in our red velvet clothes--though we were not long for the spotlight.

For just then, Michael Jackson, a guest of the Bee Gees, arrived in full Thriller regalia: I'm talking epaulets, white glove, and sunglasses. He took a seat in the back row but remained as conspicuous as if he'd charged the stage.

Being five years old in 1983, I had only a murky understanding of who the Bee Gees were, but even I knew who Michael Jackson was. Michael Jackson sang "Billie Jean." I loved "Billie Jean."

I sang "O Come, All Ye Faithful" with my gasping duet partner. Michael Jackson applauded politely.

After the pageant was over, I asked my mom if we could get Michael Jackson's autograph. I had the natural enthusiasm of a five-year-old combined with the fervent fervor of a Michael Jackson fan. My mother said, "Sure." She pulled an envelope from her purse and a pencil (yes, a pencil) and sent me scurrying toward Michael Jackson, who had nearly reached his limo. There was even a red carpet from I don't know where--down which I chased him.

When I caught up to him, I tugged on his sleeve and said, "Can I have your autograph?" in what I hoped was my cutest little girl voice.

Michael Jackson smiled at me and said, in his cutest little girl voice, "Yes." Then he signed the back of my mother's water bill and returned the pencil and envelope to me.

Then he went on to become the King of Pop.

I have no idea what happened to the autograph.

Long live the King!

I was a bartender at Terra Blues, a club on Bleecker St. in New York. Mr. Hall--Mike, as he was introduced--had come in. This wasn't geeky, cute Anthony Michael Hall, screaming "Jake!" underneath a glass coffee table. This was a sort of 'roided, mature "I'm the dick in Edward Scissorhands" Anthony Michael Hall.

Mike was friends with one of the guitar players. If I remember this right, he was trying to make music, had a very bad demo, and was clearly in love with his drum machine. I was friends with the guitar player, too, and we did what people did way back when. We hung out after hours. After too many beers. And no one had a BlackBerry or cell phone, for that matter. At least I didn't.

So we end up back at Mike's place. Me, the guitar player, the drummer, Mike, and his friend, who I believe was a stewardess--really--and was not winning any prizes at the science fair, if you catch my drift. We get the "mi casa es su casa" speech from our gracious host, and I think I helped myself to some cold cuts in the fridge while the others listened to music. But honestly, all I really wanted to do after work--you could still smoke in 1991--was take a shower.

So I decide to see if he's for real on the whole "while you're here you're family" stuff and go into the bathroom, and there is a really, really nice bathtub with all of these cool bubble baths. I had a very rusty shower stall back then in my 175-square-foot apartment, and Mike's tub just looked so inviting, so shiny and porcelain and, well...Mike, could I take a bath? "Uh, sure."

I locked the door and ran a hot tub and poured all of this crazy blue bubble bath into it so I looked like I was swimming in an airplane bathroom toilet. And I sunk down into it thinking, I'm taking a freakin' bath in Anthony Michael Hall's tub. The kid from the The Breakfast Club and Weird Science, both of which I could recite front to back with my sister.

And all I can think is, you know, he's a totally shitty musician (drum machine, drum machine), and a kind of uneven actor (this was before Dead Zone, where he nailed that limp). But he's a pretty good guy.