This is my tenth column, and I'm celebrating my ability to do over a thousand words each week and still not relate anything even somewhat remotely revealing (or even somewhat remotely interesting) about Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back. Ah, the ability to say so much without saying much at all. When I'm done with this film crap, I'm heading straight for the political arena where this talent will, no doubt, serve me well (you heard it here first: 'Silent Bob' in 2008!).

So it's still Saturday, and David Duchovny has just joined Mosier and I at The Ivy in Santa Monica. It's a lunch during which Mosier says almost nothing, because Dave and I talk about religion and children for almost two hours. We both have new kids, and we both share a passion for the subject of faith. Mosier can lay claim to neither, so he mostly sits there, stirring his iced tea, wondering how two non-Mormons can discuss the Mormon belief system for as long as we do without laughing (at least, that's what I hope he's wondering).

Duchov and I dissect Christianity, Judaism, Satanism, and the rest of the 'isms. We've both written scripts about religion (me, Dogma; him, the X-Files episode "Hollywood A.D."), so we do an hour on that subject alone. Then we start in on our kids. Needless to say, Mosier's in Hell.

We gloss over Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back because Duchov wouldn't be available for any lead roles in our flick even if he was foolhardy enough to hitch his wagon to our imploding star. He's knee-deep in a flick called Evolution, and following that, he still has his remaining X-Files episodes to shoot before the potential actors strike. But his affinity for Dogma and his curiosity about Jason Mewes ("Where'd you find that guy? Is he really like that?") has him asking to read the script all the same. I promise to get him a copy.

It's at this point that my wife Jen shows up, after having been shopping in Santa Monica for an hour ('shopping' meaning 'killing time until she could bum-rush Duchovny'). She joins us and the subject of our dogs comes up. We now have to confess that our two yellow labs are named Scully and Mulder.

"Oh, that bums me out," David deadpans.

David deadpans a lot. He's a really funny and well-versed guy who I instantly love. There's no bullshit about him - no pretentious air that makes most actors and actresses insufferable. And when the subject of The X-Files finally can no longer be avoided, he indulges my fanboy-ism-ness and suffers through my Chris Farley-like probings along the lines of "Remember that time when Mulder was trying to find the truth, 'cause it was out there? That was awesome!". But I don't beat the topic into the ground, because I know personally that cult roles have a way of haunting a motherfucker (ask me how many times people point at me in the mall and say "Fly, fat-ass, fly!" Mind you, I'm only assuming here that they're reciting the line from Mallrats). Indeed, as we're waiting for our cars outside the restaurant, a guy walks by, points and says "Whoa! X-Files!" Without missing a beat, Duchovny offers "This is my life."

Then, once Duchov's car is pulled around by the parking attendant and he's about to go, the strangest thing happens: the man writes down his phone number and tells me to give him a call when I'm back in town. "Maybe we can get together with our kids, or just shoot the shit," he shrugs.

Now this is noteworthy because I've never... NEVER had an actor just give me their phone number - particularly one who doesn't want something from me. Granted, when Affleck was leaving the set of Mallrats, he handed me his digits and insisted that I call him when I get to L.A., as he was, in his words, a "good guy". But this was after we'd shot a movie together, and Ben Affleck was about three years away from becoming BEN AFFLECK. The Duchovny phone number trade falls under a different category all-together, because while we've not spent the last two months shooting a film together, we apparently like each other enough to stay in touch.

And just like that, I've made a new friend.

But the night is young, and there are still even more new friends to make. I head back to the hotel for another meet-and-greet, this time with Eliza Dushku. Some cats may know the young actress as Ah-nuld's daughter in True Lies. Some cats may know her as the street-cred Cheerleader in Bring It On. But most cats would probably know her as Faith, the evil Slayer on those Buffyshows.

I've gotta plead ignorant on all accounts. I fell asleep during True Lies the one time I saw it in the theater; I missed out on the cheerleader flick because the wife cheer-led throughout high school and felt she'd seen enough sweater meat to last her a lifetime; and I've never watched a single episode of Buffy.

Yes, I know. I can hear the collective gasps of Buffy fans the world over as they read I'm Buffy-challenged. This is, of course, assuming there are at least one or two fans of the show who log onto the Internet daily (and before you start feverishly rocketing those "FUCK YU! BUFFY RULZ AND'S GOTS TONS MORE FAN SYTES THEN YU DO, SILENT FAT CUNT!" emails my way, let me assure you, I'm being facetious; I'm well aware that the 'net was practically built by 'Buffy' devotees - as was Rome, Mount Rushmore, and the Mir space station). But I missed the 'Buffy' boat early on, and since it seems like the kind of show you have to watch every week in order to keep up with the breadth of its mythology, I was always too intimidated to throw myself into the water and swim after it. Rest assured, when they start releasing the shows as full season, DVD sets, I'll be scooping them up like a poseur and pretending I've been a fan since the pilot's original airing. But until then, I'm as decidedly Buffy-dumb as they come.

On the other end of the spectrum, however, you have Jason Mewes - my cinematic better half. He didn't watch the show from day one, but you better believe he makes up for it now - voraciously. The motherfucker loves it like Joanie loved Chachi. He builds his life around Buffy night, and the next day, without fail, he'll ask me "D'jou watch'Buffy last night, Moves?"

He calls me 'Moves'. Long story.

Invariably, I say no, and he launches into a narrative of the episode with all the passion and emphasis that a Ritalin kid who's not been given his Ritalin displays while detailing for his incredulous classmates a Cirque De Soleil performance his parents took him to the night before. I'm talking an incomprehensible line-by-line breakdown of the show in which no character has a name beyond "That one guy who was in that movie we saw once," and "That American Pie flute-chick," and, of course, "Buffy" - complete with physical recreations of the slaying techniques exhibited that episode, using me as the Vampire stand-in (needless to say, I've been 'staked' three or four times a week for the last two years).

But I ain't Mewes (in oh-so many ways, thank Christ), so initially, I'm at a loss when I meet Eliza Dushku. Eliza, however, is not the kind of gal who leaves a brother at a loss for long - which Mosier and I discover mere moments after sitting down with her.