I suppose, if I were fishing for big traffic numbers, I should headline this EXCLUSIVE PICS! J.LO KISSING ANOTHER MAN!

Ah, but that's getting ahead of myself. You see, my block in the West Village of New York City is particularly charming -- or so says Hollywood's shoot scouts. It's probably most famous as the home of one Carrie Bradshaw, whose stoop is directly across from my own, and which draws hundreds of "Sex And The City" tour-takers every week. They line up in front of my building waiting their turn to stand in front of the majestic brownstone where Carrie fought with Aidan, pined after Big and modeled some of oddest clothes since Lucy went to Paris.

Among my most cherished New York memories came one balmy summer night after I had just moved back and, after attending a rare (for me) glamorous book party, wandered home after midnight to see Carrie holding forth in my well-lit street, yelling at Berger. I perched on the stoop of my  dilapidated tenement building (I'm rent-stabilized) in my good suit, feeling smack dab in the middle of it all. Before I knew it, Carrie -- perched on her stoop, 20 feet away -- locked eyes with mine. Then she whispered something to a crew member  -- who quickly announced "sight line!" -- and a production assistant soon asked me to sit down, out of the actors' direct gaze. Duly chastened, I sat on the steps next to a neighbor. The night, though, was complete. I had distracted Sarah Jessica Parker! I was, as Carrie might say, over the moon!

After shooting on "SATC" stopped, I think the whole neighborhood sort of paused. The shoots can be a royal hassle -- the PAs accusatory and rude -- but it added an undeniable excitement to your day to see Kim Cattrall in full nightclub drag leaping into a taxi in front of your building under klieg lights at a groggy pre-coffee 7 a.m. 

Thankfully, the movies have taken up where SATC left off. It's rare that  a few months pass without some big production shooting somewhere in the neighborhood, and for the past two weeks in a row, two big productions rolled onto my little block. First was "The Bounty," with Jennifer Aniston and Gerard Butler -- and I'm sorry to say, I saw none of it.  But the very next week, J.Lo blew into town to film "The Back-Up Plan," and our cycles seemed more in sync than a couple of Tri-Delts. I couldn't walk out to get a coffee without seeing J.Lo having her makeup done. I couldn't  pick up my laundry without seeing J.Lo roll up, surrounded by bodyguards, in a big black SUV. I couldn't sit on my stoop and gawk without having to watch J.Lo make googly eyes at co-star Alex O'Loughlin. 

But I did take some cell-phone snaps:

I knew something was up before I even can (shove my way through to) leave my apartment. View from my foyer: The paps are here! 

Why, who is this tiny, curvy beauty across the way? I ask an elderly neighbor. "I haven't known any movie stars since Jean Harlow," he cracks. People chuckle. He uses that line all the time. 

 As the shoot drags on into night, they float what look like illuminated weather balloons  up and down the block. They're beautiful but oddly unsettling, as though Mars has sent its stealthiest invaders to capture the Earth's finest back. 

 A hush sweeps the set. There's magic in the air -- and I'm not talking about those 10-inch heels. And then. . . 

Cooing breaks out among the dozen or so spectators who live on the block, and are therefore allowed to watch. And yes, the quality of my cell phone camera is terrible, but just pretend it's an impressionist watercolor. 

And then, by the next morning, we've all come back to Earth. 

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