Familiarity: Or, Name-droppy as hell, but in a good way; or, it would be funnier if, Dyna Moe or Andy Rocco wrote it.

So I was riding the F train from Brooklyn this morning after a hearing, and I could have sworn that I was sitting across from Will Hines.

Now, I don't know Will Hines, personally, all that well. He's an enormously talented and funny performer/writer/filmmaker sort of fellow; I know him "well enough to say hello to and have pleasant/amusing conversations with at a show" but not "well enough to have in my cell phone and ring up to go to a movie." I'd venture as far to say he's even a "friend of a friend," one degree removed from someone whose number is in my cell phone on the Recent Calls list. He's also very polite. I'd say that Will Hines is someone that perhaps I'd like to, given the opportunity, get to know better.

At any rate, the gentleman sitting in front of me was, within 90% accuracy, a stunt double for Will Hines. I blinked, but something was off; perhaps the shape of his head, the hairstyle. He was wearing a business suit; it wouldn't be completely ridiculous for Will Hines (unlike some other improvisor types; sorry, Curtis Gwinn) to wear a suit, at least in my estimation. The resemblance was that close. Every so often I'd look up, pretending to stare off into the middle distance, at the nonexistent subway map over faux-Hines' head, just to make sure.

I wished it was Will Hines. I'd be assured of a pleasant, amusing conversation about people we knew in common, perhaps; I could share the news of my recent comical legal victory. It would have enhanced my subway ride greatly. He lives somewhere in Brooklyn (I don't know him very well; see?); maybe he was going in late to work, or to an interview. Good luck!

At Delancey Street I thought I caught a glimpse of Amey Goerlich, but my perspective was way off; halfway down the car, I was visually conned by a taller, heavier woman. Where have you been, Amey Goerlich?

At Second Avenue I got nervous. Come to think of it, I haven't seen Will Hines in a while. What if it was him and he was ignoring me? Or worse, what if I was ignoring him? I got nervous.

Two Mexican singers entered the car. He played guitar; she sang. Apparently they were also evangelists of some stripe, because there were a healthy dose of "Allelujias." They canvassed the car for donations, then tried to sell their CD. Faux-Hines didn't look up; I was relieved. Real Will Hines would've certainly, in my estimation, happily purchased the CD and incorporated it into some potantially amusing bit down the road (or at least blogged about it in some far more eloquent way than I'm doing now). Really committed to the bit. Cause he's funnier than me, I thought, as I saw them slipping into the next car, me frustrated and a dollar short.

An Asian man sat down next to me, eating a sandwich apparently made of dead-and-buried-and-then-excavated-cat salad. The purulent odor distracted me from further musings on the subject. Probably for the best.

My accidental-doppelganger-traveling-companion, who'd unintentionally amused me after all, pocketed his Treo at 34th Street, gazed longingly at an overstuffed blonde in tight capris, and got off the train.

And, did I mention, that while killing time at the Transit Bureau, I spotted Matt DeCoster of the future? With slicked-back hair (barely receding at all), and snappy maroon suspenders that matched his half-framed reading glasses. Smart!