Clare Danes is just about as attractive in person as she is on screen.

I stole several discrete glances at her as we were both waiting outside a restaurant in Williamsburg on Saturday night. Her frumpy skirt and random t-shirt were topped off with a complete disregard for her personal appearance. While the absence of pretension might be refreshing to some, I found it to be largely disappointing. Take away the celluloid mystique and she'd be just another Williamsburg trend-surfer out with her disheveled boyfriend.

Of course, the disheveled boyfriend happened to be Ben Lee.

The pair stood around with a few chums and waited for their carryout order to be prepared. Eventually their food arrived and they strolled off to wherever celebrities go when they want to pretend they are "real". Shortly after they left, billionaire businessman and mayoral candidate Mike Bloomberg arrived to partake in the splendor of culinary Thailand.

The celebrity sightings almost made the hour-long wait worth it.

Seeing Clare Danes in person made me realize that I am attracted to her only because she is a celebrity. While she is physically pleasing and my vague knowledge of her personality leads me to believe that she would probably be intellectually stimulating, the real drive to be with her is based entirely on her residency within in my television set. Were she not famous, I would most certainly walk past her to stare longingly at the adorable young woman I spotted as I was walking out of the Bedford Avenue stop. Her short semi-french haircut and glowing smile inspired visions of Audrey on a Roman Holiday.

She blew tiny kisses to her friends before parting, and I wished that I could catch one of them for myself. Our eyes met and locked for a long moment before bashful embarrassment averted my gaze.

I feel no shame in participating in the almost pornographic objectification of our culture's celebrities. We ruthlessly pick apart every cosmetic flaw, every article of clothing and every celebrity paring that fame presents to us. When confronted with the real-life version of a young Hollywood starlet and her songwriting boyfriend, I easily dismiss her for being exactly what I expect her to be: normal.

But then a young girl on a random street catches my gaze and I find myself staring into the eyes of Audrey Hepburn. Our shared moment seems to betray my heartfelt appreciation and some forgotten childhood modesty forces me to avert my eyes. In that moment, I understand the truth of beauty.

These perfected images that take up residency in our hearts are nothing more then idealistic dreams that quickly pale in the face of kinetic tangible beauty. Perhaps that's the real tragedy of celebrity: they must always bear comparison with some idealized version of themselves. When given the choice between some silver halide idol and the living embodiment of all the charm that her memory invokes, the decision becomes clear.

I don't want Audrey Hepburn, I want the girl that can remind me of her.