Life in the #4 neighborhood in New York is very complicated. One day you’re hitting on the girl with the yoga mat in the local cafe, the next your 2-year-old son is trying to impress Michelle Williams’s daughter. So it goes, writes Albert Stern (“a writer, lives in Brooklyn”) in the Times‘ “Modern Love” column:

Ordinarily my son comports himself as if he’s the reincarnation of Sammy Davis Jr., but with Matilda Ledger, the trophy playmate of our neighborhood, he sat still as a Golem.

I admit I was aware of the stakes. After all, it’s easy to imagine that if Matilda and your child hit it off, you and your family might find yourselves having a play date with Matilda and her mother. Even for a non-enthusiast of play dates — and I would never put myself in that category — that might actually be interesting.

But Eliot wouldn’t budge, and soon Matilda became more interested in her bagel, ignoring him. Michelle Williams had long since refocused, absorbed in text messaging. I went back to my bagel and newspaper. I noticed, however, that Eliot was staring intently at Matilda as she ate. After a minute or so, he broke the silence.

“Nanas!” he exclaimed.

Clearly, this kid is impressing no one, least of all Matilda and her celebrity mother.

And in my opinion, that’s sort of sad. Because here in BoHi, as nobody calls it, we just don’t have that many celebrities around. There’s Michelle Williams, who I’ve been told lives in this gorgeous green building, and there’s… um… Oh! That is, Sandra Oh, who reportedly lives two or three blocks from me. I’ve never seen her, and if I had I would’ve made damn sure my Sasha impressed the fuck out of her. None of this “Nanas!” bullshit—Sasha would’ve broken out her best tricks, which include… um… looking really, really cute.

But this hasn’t happened, and probably never will. Instead, dads like Albert Stern will be presenting their ill-bred crotchfruit to the fabulously rich and famous of the neighborhood, and probably terrifying them into moving away. Which will depress property values—my property values! Which sucks.

So, Mr. Stern (and anyone else reading), next time you see your kid getting outclassed by a girl who will probably win an Oscar in two decades, just tell Michelle Williams your son is actually a dog, a Brooklyn hairless trained to imitate a toddler. Before long, our streets will be teeming with celebrities, and I can sell my place for millions, and move somewhere quieter and less pretentious, like Gowanus.