What the hell is this?

I Can't Stand [Meeting] You is a collection of all the ridiculous things I've written to and about drummer and composer Stewart Copeland.

I actually did meet him for about five crazy seconds in 2007, again for a few exciting moments in August 2009, and my most recent (and most thrilling!) encounter took place in October 2009, where I proved myself capable of being, yet again, a total dork in the man's presence.

I can't believe what I get up to. And neither should you.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Dear Stewart,

(As an aside, today is my 18th day as a vegetarian! I'm much better at not eating meat than I am at writing to you every day! Sorry!)

Tonight on my way to Santa Monica, I was listening to music, and "Fields of Fire" by the band Big Country came on. The actual song isn't really necessary for what I'm about to write (though, I was reminded that that's a terrific song, and then I thought about how I wasn't sure if the lead singer of Big Country had died, and that made me a little sad [he did die, in 2001]), but I did think, at the time, that when it came time to retell this story, I would like to remember what song was playing when I had the following thought:

"Stewart's going to be at the show tonight!"

I came to this realization in steps. The first step required me to be thinking about why I was cruising to Santa Monica by myself in the first place: my friend, with whom I usually carpool, decided that he wanted to ride alone tonight (this is a whole other story that I'm not going to be telling you about tonight; I'll just say that it was fine, and no feelings were hurt in the making of that decision, which, to be honest with you, is rather unusual in itself), and I started wondering if perhaps the reason I was alone was really because he had been instructed to ditch me because it had been discovered that you were coming to the theater tonight, and he would need his own ride home.

See how my little brain, like a white rabbit, hops ahead and pokes around in places it's best not to even go?

I drove along the 405 north, and got on the 10 west (now listening to one of my favorite songs of all-time, "Pulled Up" by the Talking Heads), and by this point I was positive that you were going to be at the theater. Positive. Dude: I was so sure of it I didn't even go straight there: I made a quick stop at the Gap. For some reason I wanted to prolong this anticipatory feeling.

$250 later, at just past 7 p.m., I strolled down the alley and peaked into the theater... where there were about five people milling about... and none of them was you.

It's okay. I had a good time fantasizing about our dinner together after the show, the things we would talk about, the way I would attempt to be interesting and charming to your wife, about how shiny and healthy my hair would look. I felt pretty good about myself, though why, I'm not exactly sure: tonight I was wearing a four year old ratty Gap jacket, holey jeans that are, let's face it, a little too big on me, and my hair, though appropriately shiny, needs to be cut. It's just as well you didn't come tonight. Your absence gave me a chance to have a quick but important conversation with the production designer about the lights/sound, and to sit and visit with my friend Paul.

Your absence gave me something to think about, and it's fine.


While your passport to see the show never expires, this show will end soon (February 21). Don't wait too long, okay?

Love you,

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