Well, beloved friends, that was the end of me. I made a brief attempt to explain the joke to him: "I know, I just figured you get tired of hearing about 'Ferris Bueller.'" And then Matthew Broderick nodded at me the way a fellow might nod if you had just told him that you like to pee in your own socks, and then he turned away.

Sarah Jessica (the real star of this scene, no doubt -- yes, she's very pretty) didn't hear a word of it. She looked stressed. In the city.

My joke? Just a bit of wink-wink irony, as if to say, "You've probably been thanked for 'Ferris Bueller' a thousand times, so I'll just thank you for a movie you weren't even in, as a sort of acknowledged irony between two clever chaps." But actually, it was more like, "Hi Matthew, I'm stupid -- no, just kidding, but I am tremendously ludicrous and abstruse. And did you know that I like to pee in my own socks?"

Maybe I should have said, "Man, 'War Games' was awesome. That HAL was one tough computer!"

Rabbi-to-be Justin Kerber, who is now my lawyer on a $30 retainer, was more straight with the star:

"Matthew Broderick? I love your stuff." Glorious simplicity. Perfection. I've been reading the wrong lifestyle magazines.

So now I'm stuck with this moment, this shame. I just wanted to use a bit of irony. You know, a reversal of what is expected, like Sarah Silverman signing my own name on my breast. I told my new doctor, Dr. Craig Blinderman, that my joke was akin to telling Clint Eastwood that "Death Wish 3" was his best. Or even better, thanking Harrison Ford for being the saving grace of "Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace." Dr. Blinderman thought that the Star Wars joke was funny, but didn't like the Broderick one.

Neither did Broderick.

Prior to this devastating encounter, I had met my new shrink, Dr. F, who has served in the past as a lay rabbi, outside the theater. He was outside the theater looking for a convenience store, and I was outside the theater looking for a new perspective. I told him that I wanted to bring a fiery Pentecostal spirit to Reform Judaism. He gave me his card.

After the Matthew Broderick incident, I crossed the lobby to seek out Dr. F. I was beginning to admit the foolishness of my ways to the doctor when the box office fellow arrived and began to admit standby people into the theater. I made it into the show, but I don't think that Dr. F, whose companion was the ex-daughter-in-law of Mia Farrow, got his name called, so he didn't get to hear Sarah Silverman say, "We really have no good reason to make fun of midgets. But we do, because we're not scared of them."

I want to use this moment to apologize sincerely to Matthew Broderick and his stellar wife for the stupid thing I said. It was presumptuous of me to attempt to overturn the entire celebrity-fan dynamic by accosting him with an unprovoked bad joke, and it was cocky of me to assume that he (you, Matthew) would actually be receptive to my tragic efforts at clever intercourse. I hope you can find it in your hearts to let this one go so we can start fresh. If you like, you can both join me and some friends for the next two episodes of Kieslowski's "Decalogue" this Wednesday at the Lincoln Plaza Cinema. Tickets and Raisinets are on me.

Speaking of intercourse, Sarah Silverman ends her show with a rendition of "You Are My Sunshine," sung in three-part harmony by herself, her vagina and her ass. Honestly. She uses three microphones. The anal voice was quite deep, and it made me think of some of my own issues. I'll probably discuss them with Dr. F when next we meet. He says that he'll give me a therapy session if I buy him lunch at Katz's Delicatessen.

A little beef and sympathy.

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