Bruni-On-Ice

Not that I'm stalking Frank Bruni (ok, maybe I kind of am stalking Frank Bruni, but I swear it's coincidental), but we just keep crossing paths.

I've seen him in review-context exactly five times.

I read a book in which an entire chapter was dedicated to him.

I know someone who made out with him at a bar.

And recently, a close friend of mine started a huge (and still unresolved) argument with me based on whether or not I knew that Bruni had made an appearance at an East Village spot that will heretofore go unnamed.

That's not even the weirdest part. Not five minutes ago, just as I had finished the mental preparation necessary to get me out of the apartment and into the cold, cold city, my bberry buzzed. "Bruni in house as a heads up," the text read. It was from the bartender of my favorite bar.

The man is everywhere, so maybe it's high time I embraced my fate. I'm thinking of rethinking my evening. Next on tap? Maybe drinks with the New York Times restaurant critic. There are worse ways to spend a Friday evening.