When first I moved to NY, 17 years ago this year, I was struck by the blase attitude most New Yorkers seemed to have when confronted with famous people. I was from San Francisco, where sighting any of the handful of immediately recognizable local celebrities — Robin Williams, Sam Shepard, any member of the Grateful Dead — was cause for comment for days. It took me a while to appreciate that one of the reasons celebs like NY was that people didn’t bother them on the street, no matter how much they might secretly crave the recognition.

Then again, the stars I spotted at first were of such low wattage that they hardly recognized themselves. I remember having lunch at Wolf’s Deli on 57th Street and sitting next to Steve Allen, who was speaking into a minicassette recorder. The only person I could think to tell who would care was my mother back in Petaluma (“That’s nice, dear.”) Wolf’s is gone now, as is Allen and my mother.

As time went on and my social circle grew I came to understand that the rules were not so simple. While New Yorkers feign a blase attitude, I have many friends (and friends’ wives) who never miss making an opportunity to tell me what famous actor/writer/bon vivant they have recently supped/weekended/gone shopping with. They will even underline the connection, giving me the celebs bonafides and intimate details (names of pets and children, make of automobile, visible tattoos) so I don’t miss the point. Whatever it is.

Plainly, this isn’t a regional conflict. The other night I had dinner with a few people from the midwest who I didn’t know. Within minutes it was made plain that the woman beside me was related by marriage to the most famous person in her city, one with more than its share, and what a burden it was for her and her family that everyone knew and made a point of belaboring the connection. (One I would not have been aware of were it not for her.) She told the table of a stranger who said to one of her children, “I just read a book by someone. Do you know who it is?”

The kid, for whom books still have pictures and end with a goodnight kiss, blanked. “Santa?” he said.

Just a reminder for all the egos in the room: there is fame and there is international superstardom. Any fool can write a book/host a show/star in a movie. Come see us when you’ve given away a few billion gifts.