Bringing you up to date, or something

Over the last couple of years I have written a few stories about my secret life as a recording artist. Well. Not just as any old recording artist: my stories involved Stewart Copeland, writing a bunch of nonsensical songs about him, meeting him, making a critically acclaimed album with him, breaking up his probably very successful and loving marriage, making my own (wonderful) husband a cuckold, and, at the height of my fantastical imaginary doings, getting interviewed by Terry Gross on Fresh Air on NPR.

Boy that was fun!

You can read all about it if you troll the archives (check the right sidebar). Some of the other content is just my own brand of fanaticism (I have an obsessive habit of writing about him and whatever news articles/blog stories/YouTube videos I can find on him). For the most part, I've been having a fine old time idolizing this particular former blond, and it's proven to be a good source of stimulation for my uh, imagination.

What I'm about to say may come as a bit of a surprise:

None of it is real.

The problem is, I'm stuck. I started writing that crap for laughs - I thought it was funny that I even had the idea in the first place; once I started actually writing it, while it's certainly not great literature (or even crappy literature; or even literature at all), I was having so much fun I didn't care that it wasn't very good (making me laugh was the only rule; as all my friends know, I will pretty much laugh at anything), and and I didn't bother to plot ahead what was going to happen next.

Until I did just that.

When I first started writing the stories, I sat down one night and discussed with Patrick what I had been doing. He finds my obsession amusing and only slightly annoying, sometimes (he does, once in awhile, compare Stewart to Orville Redenbacher; but the guy's a Leo: he has to have some macho thing to say once in awhile). I didn't want him to one day stumble upon my blog or the entry that's all describing the way Stewart Copeland and I "fell in love," and wonder what the hell was going on. He's understanding and very not-jealous, but there are limits for everyone, I'm sure. So we talked about it. And I, having put myself on the spot, came up with a storyline.

Yep, folks, I had thought ahead through to the end of the Saga of Stewart and Irene, and then I voiced it out loud, and in doing so, I think I killed it. Mainly because the ending is a bit of a comeuppance, for me. I decided that if I was going to write about having a fake affair with a famous person, that the only possible way to end it and not be totally selfish is to have it come off where I get what I deserve for being a (fictional) lying, cheating whore.

So? Do you wanna know?

Because chances are I'm not going to write it. It's too depressing. Who wants to maintain a fantasy when there's a moral at the end of it? Yeah: not me.

Here's what's not going to happen next:

After touring small venues for about six months with Stewart Copeland and my band (Patrick's cousin, a very talented guitarist in real life, Adrian Esparza, on guitar; some chick like Tina Weymouth on bass; Patrick filling in on drums when Stewart needs to attend to me or sing or play something else, like percussion or guitar), we head to someplace exotic to wind down and recharge (Fiji?), and to think about writing the next album's songs.

Obviously some sort of trouble in paradise theme would emerge. Perhaps Stewart, having now seen me in a bathing suit, realizes that he's walked away from a real family and children close to my age who are more mature to be with a woman who can't be bothered to you know, diet or exercise. Maybe Patrick meets some alluring island girl and I get jealous. Whatever, it turns into a Fleetwood Mac-type implosion, a love triangle of jealousy and fractured relationships, until Stewart hops on a private plane, leaving me stranded on the island.

Instead of patching things up with Patrick, it turns out that his parting words to me are "good-bye," as he's leaving with Stewart, who has promised him a record deal of his own with his band, Melic Sub Rosa. Patrick and his band go on to major stardom, and I rot away on the island of Fiji, a cleaning lady in some fancy resort, a footnote, forgotten by my fans, and unable to even blog ever again.

The end?

Maybe.
Maybe not.