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I spotted Sam Shepard, accompanied by an unidentified, mildly schlubby male, walking south on Fifth Avenue near 13th Street.
I served Shepard a cocktail or two on more than one occasion back in my bartending days -- in fact, one quiet Sunday night, a few months before I departed on my four-month, 48-state, cross-country excursion in 1992, we spent a couple of hours talking road trips, and he offered me a tip or two on places I should visit.
It crossed my mind to stop him and say hello, see if perhaps he recalled that conversation. But then I came to my senses. Not only has it been 16 years since we chatted about travel, I served him probably three or four Jack Daniels (if memory serves) that night.