It'd be like when I met Christina Ricci on the street, and managed to keep it together to have a chat about the ice-cream shop we were standing next to instead of how much I wanted to have an orgasm inside of her body. She scabbed a cigarette off me, we talked crap about accents, and then she had to go back to being an indie film goddess and trot out the one act she does instead of working, while I went to feed ducks on the long pond instead of working.
Or, you know, the-actress-formerly-know-as-corky might be a shy introvert, and avoid any opportunity to chat. In that case I'd pretend to be homeless and pester her until she gave me some spare change. Then I'd keep the change in an sterile, airtight container in the hope that scientists develop a cloning device powerful enough to make me a creative, shy, arty, batshit-in-a-good-way teenager from her DNA left on the metal.