"It's supposed to be 1969. We can't have any of you in the frame."

New York hosts so many movies and their film crews every year, it's not uncommon for residents to go about town minding their own business and then, oops, look up and find that they've walked straight into the middle of a scene.  Crew members hee and haw demanding that you STAND BACK.  And then you get all pissy that you're going to lose six minutes of your day just standing there until they finish the scene.

This afternoon, I watched as a fleet of classic American cars drove up Madison Avenue.  The street name signs had strangely changed from green to school bus yellow and all the people walking around me looked like they had stepped off the set of Mad Men.  Wait, was that Mrs. Cleaver who just walked by?  Women's hair sat high or in perfect ponytails, men wore tight-fitting slacks, and everyone was just so incredibly...put together.  Eerie.

I was heading east when a petite little size 2 production assistant rudely crossed my path and motioned her hands to my left announcing all the while, 

"Please come this way and do not cross the street.  We're shooting a film. Cars need to drive by.  It will take four minutes.  SIR, PLEASE WAIT.  SIR?  SIR!"  And off she went.

As she chased after the unknowing sir, some tourists whipped out their phones and cameras.  They smiled and clapped that fate had so kindly landed them into a classic New York moment.

"How far up is the crew filming?" I asked the assistant when she returned.

"To 30th Street."

Ugh.  That's where I was headed.

"Honestly, it'll probably be faster if you went around to Fifth."

Um, hello?  I've got to be carrying at least 15 pounds of groceries and if you can't tell, I'm sweating like a dog.  I am not walking one avenue west, the polar opposite direction of where I am headed.  (To those not very familiar with Manhattan, please note that avenues are like 3 city blocks in length.  To those that are mathematically challenged, 2 times 3 equals 6 blocks out of my way.)

The assistant balked at the people inching to take a closer look at the impressive parade of classic cars waiting for the director's cue.  "PLEASE move back.  It's supposed to be 1969. We can't have any of you in the frame."

I'm not gonna lie.  I wanted to smack her.  Instead, I asked, "What are you filming?"

"Men in Black."

I looked at the other locals around me who were just as annoyed as I to be standing around trapped, forced to make room in our schedules, unable to get to where we were going, just so that some folks could take footage of cars driving up a street which will probably get about three seconds of screen time in the final cut of another Hollywood megabuster flick.

"Where's Will?" I scoffingly inquired.

The production assistant ignored me.  Oh.  No.  She.  Didn't.

So I cheekily asked again.  "Where's Will?"

"He's not here today.  We're just shooting cars today.  Just cars.  Very boring."

She caught a family emerging from Madison Square Park.  "PLEASE STAND BACK.  WE CAN'T HAVE YOU IN THE SHOT.  PLEASE GET OUT OF THE FRAME.  IT'S 1969.  WE CAN'T HAVE YOU IN THE SHOT!"

Stress.  It's not a good look on anybody.

When the crew finally called "scene" (yes, it turns out that they really do say that on set) and let us cross, I walked straight up Madison.  For seven blocks, I felt like I was on the set of Pleasantville.  The costumes were extraordinary.  It really was 1969.  The only thing out of place was that almost every movie extra was affixed to their Blackberry or iPhone screen.  It was between takes, after all.

And something else.  All the extras were white.  I think I saw one African-American lady.  I can't remember the last time I walked down a NYC street with so little diversity.  If Will had been on set, that would have at least made for some variety.