Story Time! And now, because you all keep asking and asking, gather 'round, little Dave Droolers, settle back with your steaming mugs of Dave-love, and I'll tell you the Incredibly Embarrassing Story of How I First Met Dave.

It was a sweltering Toronto day in June of 1996. My friend Erica and I decided to take some time out from our Meeting-Internet-Friends and do a little walking around in the neighborhood which, according to a magazine article, housed the object of my fluttery-teenage-heart's affection. I think we realized how awkward and stalkish-bordering-on-illegal this simple walk was but, you know. We were in Toronto, damnit. So we did. We didn't expect to see a strangely familiar woman on the porch of one of the beautiful houses in this incredibly swanky neighborhood, but I noticed her, recognized her as Dave's wife (I'm cringing remembering it) from her two appearances on The Kids in the Hall, and we certainly didn't expect, after retreating a distance and catching our breaths, to notice Mister Foley himself pop out onto the porch with a cup of coffee. Our instincts screamed at us that approaching him would be a TERRIBLE thing, but the fearless Erica somehow convinced me, and half-dragged me over to introduce ourselves. (You know, "Hello, we're your teenage stalkers. Before you call the police, may we please have an autograph?")

Dave was awfully, awfully nice, considering his wife and child were behind him and two strange girls who may or may not have proved to be crazy lunatics were standing in front of him. He shook our hands and chatted and smiled and posed for a picture with us and gave us our autographs and, blessedly, refrained from referring to the fact that I was wearing a picture of him plastered across my front, in the form of a KITH tee shirt.

"This is Tavie," Erica said helpfully.

"Oh, yes," he said, turning to me, "I know you from that internet thing."

I was beet-red. "I'm all muddled," I said.

He grinned boyishly. "It must be the heat."

We left the scene (after apologizing several times) with no one having being injured or humiliated to the point of hospitalization, but I never forgot the awful embarrassing Dave-itis I suffered for days afterwards (god bless Pepto Bismol), or his incredible kindness for trying to make someone who never should have been there feel at ease.

The moral of this story is, do NOT go up to your favorite celebrity's house and ask for an autograph. It will destroy the lining of your stomach.