Why Stewart Copeland should invite me to London

Stewart should invite me to London as his personal guest (do you like how I've enlisted the same pattern of elementary school kids and pageant contestants when they answer questions?) because the wife of the director of Ben Hur Live stole my thunder (a phrase I, under normal circumstances, hate, but I use now because Ben Hur Live sounds thunderous, and because I'm fake almost pissed and using a ridiculous phrase like "stole my thunder" sounds more threatening?):

From a London Times story about Ben Hur Live (regarding the music):

It’s all provided by Copeland, because, one night, Abraham's wife woke up and shouted his name. The couple had been worrying about who should do the music.

Oh, sure, so now you tell me: write a spectacle, get the thing produced, and all you gotta do is DREAM ABOUT HIM and he'll show up to do your thing?

Um, hello, I've been waking up at night shouting his name for awhile now (okay, so I exaggerate, but... close. Very close)... I've got something spectacular for you to narrate, Stewart (that sounds dirty, doesn't it). And while you're at it, could you write something for flutes?

Also, I really would like to discuss with him his comments about "fan love" vs. "real love." I think he's making an unfair distinction. Yes, one is certainly better than the other, but that doesn't make the other wrong. How does that cheesy old song go? "If lovin' you is wrong..."? Sure, knowing him would probably affect the levels of my actual affection but, why not let me find out for myself? In London?

Finally, while we were waiting in the Chicago airport on Tuesday, I thought I heard his name over the loudspeaker, and I mentioned this to Patrick, who was listening to music at the time (I think it was something our friend Jeff had recorded on bass). I was reading "Middlemarch," for those of you who need superfluous details. Patrick goes, "Oh my god, you and your old man!" He said it teasingly, and with love (real love, for your information). For the rest of the day anytime a good looking older gentleman walked by, Patrick made it his duty to point him out to me (well, they weren't all good looking; Patrick's not, you know, a master at discerning male good looks, thankfully), and to threaten to have a bumper sticker made for me: I Brake for Old Guys.

Seriously, I don't know what his problem is, he'll be one of them soon enough. I believe "old" is relative. I discovered this when we met and I was 17 and he was 22.