When my cell phone rings I think someone has died. By the time my wife had been out of work for 36 hours, she had nine meetings set up, entertained a couple of job offers and, I think, a marriage proposal. Her phones, both of them, were ringing like she was a bookie before the Super Bowl. She went to work on a whole new gig today. Three days off. That’s it.

It’s the nature of the business, I guess. When the screws get tightened, the people who actually bring in the money (as opposed to those spending it on photo shoots) are moved to the head of the line.

So the smartest guy I know got laid off yesterday. I asked him, “What the fuck took them so long?” And we laughed at the absurdity of it. The full-time landscape is bleak. And he’s just another really creative person trying to squeeze money out of a bunch of scared rabbits, already (understandably) too nervous about their own jobs to help another.

On a related note, I had dinner last night with the second smartest guy I know, an entertainment agent at a big colossus agency repping artists, model and athletes. We were also discussing how will help sell something I have written. Something so nuts, that you would seriously not believe what it was, even if I told you.

He said that, for a lot of creative people, the goal for the next few months is to network, freelance, and wait for the rising, when all of the morons will be flushed from their jobs and the smart people get to go back to doing what they do best: rolling their eyes. And complaining about how hard they work.

From his lips to God’s ears.

If I told you that I was not the kind of person to approach a celebrity just to say hi, would you believe me? Probably? Good enough. Because I wouldn’t.

I’ve met a few, and had some pretty good encounters over the years, but never under a circumstance like, “Hey, there’s Mick Jagger eating dinner with his family. Let me go talk to him about how much “Tumblin’ Dice” meant to me during freshman year of high school.”

The most famous person I have ever met was Michael Jordan, but he was forced to interact with me on several occasions. It was as meaningful a get together as one could expect.  Like dining with a wax figure.

The celebrity I was most excited to meet? Does Phoebe Cates count as a celebrity anymore? Because we met her on vacation in the Caribbean and I was very excited about that. She was lovely in every way. Her husband, what’s his name, was cool, too.

My weakness however is that I have a real soft spot for actors. I have always hoped to bump into Brooklyn’s own Maggie Gyllenhaal to tell her how awesome she was in Sherrybaby. And I would probably be dumbstruck if I met Frances McDormand or Joan Allen, two extraordinary talents.

That Philip Seymour Hoffman character has an office down the block from me, and occasionally I see him shuffling along. I would rather drive a nail into my forehead than to say something about how wonderful his acting is because he seems disagreeable. Not because he’s a dick, but because he as trouble taking compliments, like some of the rest of us. (Not GG, however.)

I’ve always been concerned that the person I approached would behave like a douchebag and then I would forever hate them. So usually I mind my own business. A far smarter friend of mine would always tell me to separate the artist from the art. Bad people make good music. And movies.

So, Maggie Gyllenhaal if you are reading this (I am told I am very popular out in the suburbs where you live) I just wanted to say what I wouldn’t have the guts to say if I met you in person:

Why the fuck don’t you live in Manhattan? And great job on Sherrybaby. Seriously, wow.