I unexpectedly, and not due to my own merits, was pulled in to have a private lunch with Quentin Tarantino and Eli Roth, in a small international city, while they were preparing to shoot Inglorious Bastards.

On a flight, from a smaller midwest city, not during the NFL season, I was seated in coach next to coach John Harbaugh. No one recognized him. Once the cabin doors shut an attendant announced names for comp 1st class upgrades. They mispronounced, repeatedly and differently, Harbaugh's name. I had to let him know he was who they were likely calling. Moving from my aisle seat to let him out, he simultaneously dropped his glasses on the ground and I stepped on them, crushing the frame. He brushed it off, I apologized, he sent me a drink back mid flight...fuck the Ravens though.

This fall, on an Amtrak (non-Acela) NE corridor train, which was unusually so crowded after the first stop, a handful of new people in my car just sat on top of their luggage instead of moving car to car to look for an open seat. After a second stop seats opened up, including the one next to me, and the tenderest(middle-aged)roni sat in it. After smoothly cursing someone out on the phone who apparently suggested she take the train, she fell asleep partially on my shoulder. We didn't speak beyond pleasantries during the remainder of the trip and I didn't really know who she was, but knew she looked familiar. But being the most beautiful woman I've seen get on a train in Newark, and the creep I naturally am, I Googled her luggage tag later that night. Turned out to be Mara Brock Akil. Considering those tabloid stories weeks later, I could have not impossibly shot my shot and we could have had our own affair.

Oh, and Rand Paul lives on my floor, in the building I'm moving out of this week. He's only given me a cordial hello once, when his young son was with him, so I never hold the elevator or main door for him if I see him coming.