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.

Monday, October 15, 2012


Dear Stewart,

Last night I had another dream in which Patrick and I bought a new house.

I say "another" because I dreamed last week, after reading a spectacular home listing about a 3 million dollar house in Beverly Hills, that Patrick and I had bought it. That was an Italian style home. It had those arched windows (the ones that flare out at the bottom) and wood everywhere It was beautiful, though in real life I'm not a fan of "theme" houses. My style is probably a little more modern than most, but I like old fashioned details. And I'm not really looking to move: I love our tiny 1950s modern/1950s grandma house. Sure, it needs a dining room, laundry room, master bathroom, remodeled kitchen/bathroom, more open floor plan... but it's pretty perfect for us, right now, and I love our quiet (if you ignore the dogs), safe street. And the work we did last year on the outside and the landscaping (windows, too) really makes it look nice.

There wasn't much going on in the Italian style house dream.

Last night I dreamed that Patrick and I bought another house:

It was on a busy, urban corner, in a city something like Venice, or maybe San Francisco. Our backyard and driveway opened up right onto the sidewalk. There was a lot of foot traffic, and strangers walking by all the time. In fact, somebody knocked on our door while we were unpacking. The house was full of the previous owner's junk, and it was really dirty. We must have just moved in that day, that second, practically. When the knock on the door came, we were dealing with a bunch of barbecue (?) equipment that had been left in the kitchen. I saw a rat.

The people who knocked on the door turned out to be a bunch of my old high school boyfriends; however, they'd been turned into famous people. For example, there was one guy I dated who was not quite Lloyd Dobbler perfect, but very very close (for instance, if he hadn't dumped me, it would've been much better, though I'm satisfied with the way that story ends. I guess I wasn't his Diane Court). So John Cusack was on my front porch, Fishbone t-shirt and everything. There was the guy who was as cute as Luke Perry, minus the James Dean hair/attitude (I only went out with this guy for a very short time, about two weeks; he also dumped me. I made a big deal out of him: I guess I was really in love. Later that year Missy wrote in my yearbook "there will be other boys." She was wise beyond her years). So Luke Perry was on my front porch, looking all slouchy and adorable. There was the guy who was not as good looking as Brad Pitt - not by a mile! I'm not pretty enough for a Brad Pitt lookalike! Still: he was very cute, at least as far as my memory of him goes. Here's the surreal conversation I had with "Brad Pitt" while standing on my porch:

Me: Huh. So it's you guys...
Brad Pitt: Yep.
Me: This could be awkward.
Brad Pitt: How so?
Me: Really?
Brad Pitt: I get it.
Me: Well... do you really think _ _ was as good looking in high school as Brad Pitt?
Brad Pitt: Am I the right person to be asking this question of?
Me: Who else?
Brad Pitt: Wasn't that guy a total dick?
Me: Hmmm. You're right.

Brad Pitt didn't really date me enough to "dump" me but yeah, you could say that's what happened (he wrote in my yearbook something only an asshole would write, like "Between us there can be no goodbyes." We went on a couple dates, he went out with a bunch of other girls, and then - well, that's a story for another time, maybe. Suffice to say: he was an asshole. Obviously I haven't forgiven him. Forgetting him would be a better idea.) Interestingly - and I am only just now making this connection - none of the guys dumped were in my dream. Hey! There were a few like that! Nor could I turn them into movie stars - not one of them. I'm sure something interesting and/or fairly obvious could be construed from this but let's not psychoanalyze me today any more than necessary, okay? There's already enough here for that, anyway.

Okay, so Luke Perry, John Cusack, and Brad Pitt (Brad Pitt with long hair) are on my front porch. Oh, I dated other guys, but these three were pretty significant, I guess, because there they are, in my dream. Patrick and I are all dirty, the house is all dirty, Jules is running around all dirty, and these three really attractive men from my fake past are on the porch.

Patrick is pretty cool - in real life sometimes he is shy, but never intimidated. He has the healthy ego of a drummer/Leo. In real life, I don't think he's ever gotten jealous of me and anyone. Or if he has, he's hidden it very, very well. In my dream, he welcomed these three dudes into our mess of a house, and the five of us (plus Jules) went into the living room. That room was full of shit - our stuff, the previous owner's stuff. We had our work cut out for us, because this house was trashed. The living room had an old TV, which was on, playing music videos. Guess who was on our TV?

It was a Stewart Copeland video, but I have no idea what song it was. You were playing all the instruments, but you weren't dressed up like Klark Kent. I don't think the volume was on. Patrick, Brad, Luke, and John and I all stood around watching this video. You were wearing a black shirt with big red roses on it and a tiny pair of white shorts (what else?), playing all these drums and guitars and running around like a crazy person. Your hair was very blond. All the guys were like, "of course this is what you're watching," but it was a great video. You looked amazing.

Brad kept trying to hand me a piece of paper, but I was distracted by everything else going on in the room. Jules, the TV, the other guys. Patrick was talking to Luke about something, and John was reading a book he'd picked up. No idea if it was my book, or something that had been left. I kept trying to get lemonade from the kitchen for us all but Brad kept talking to me, not really saying anything clearly. And then the telephone rang.

It was you.

I'm standing there, at this old-fashioned telephone stand, holding this old-fashioned black phone in my hand, talking to you while Brad Pitt keeps trying to hand me a crumpled up piece of paper. Across the room, John and Luke have noticed me on the phone, and they're looking at me. Patrick and Jules have gone to get the lemonade.

You say,

"Hang up the phone, Irene."

I hung up the phone. I woke up.

Love you,

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