I Can't Stand [Meeting] You

I think you should sue.

2012-02-09T14:04:00.000-08:00

Dear Stewart,

I finally saw the "Storage Wars" show with you. Thanks for doing that. You've been suspiciously absent lately. I was starting to get worried.

So, hey, I'm at work, inputting (is that a word?) a million employees into this database thing I'm in charge of (some of our employees have awesome names: Saturnina, Senen, Yoko, to name a few...), and because tasks like this tend to make me a little cuckoo without music (the background noises in my office somehow come to the forefront of my brain; when that happens I type a lot slower. Oh, and a couple diet Cokes helps, too), I'm listening to my "Klark Kent" Pandora radio station. I'm about 12 songs in, and still no actual Klark Kent, though. That tricky Pandora!.

Anyway, a "Hootie and the Blowfish" song just came on.

WTF, Pandora? Graham Parker, the Jam, the Vapors (and not "I Think I'm Turning Japanese," either, which was surprising but fine with me): those bands make sense on a Klark Kent station. But HOOTIE and the BLOWFISH? I put a big thumb down on that one. Hopefully they get the message. And play me some KK hotness soon. I'm getting impatient, Pandora. Make me wait any longer and they can suck my socks.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2012-01-31T15:07:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile since I've written to you, and I wouldn't be surprised to learn that you've given up on me. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that you have no idea who I am. Really. I'm not delusional.

However, writing to you has always been a fun exercise for me, and if pointless, well, hey, what's the Internet for if not pointless exercises? This is what I do instead of watching cat videos. Or I should say, this is what I used to do instead of watching cat videos: my now (adorable, music-loving) one-year old baby keeps me pretty darn busy.

Anyway, imagine my surprise the other day when I got a message from my sister-in-law that said:

Stewart Copeland is on Storage Wars!

The baby was sick that week, so I was a little distracted. Putting him to bed was really hard; he was pretty miserable. I was concerned because he wasn't eating that much; he had a low fever for several days. This meant that I didn't get a chance to watch any TV that week. I was worried about him, and tired.

Now, let me be totally honest: "Storage Wars" isn't a show that captivates me all that much. Mostly because it seems to be another version of "Pawn Stars," and I got bored with that show pretty quickly. Maybe the concept is OK but it's the people who annoy me? I do kind of like Mike and Frank from American Pickers, but I can't do a whole hour of that show, either. I say that knowing full well that you are (apparently) buddies with Barry Weiss, one of the "characters" on Storage Wars. He's just about the only person on the show who has a personality worth watching on television. (Those two with the "store"? No. I can't even be bothered to learn anybody's name; seriously, this show is not for me.)

However, knowing that you were on made me want to watch.

For the next couple of days after I heard about this, I did tune in to A&E to see if I could magically catch your appearance, but my timing with you has been off for awhile, and it just didn't happen. I found a clip on Huffington Post but I haven't gotten a chance to watch it yet. Dude. I've been really busy.

Still, I know where it is when I finally get a chance to watch it, and that right there makes me very happy indeed.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2011-10-05T14:11:00.000-07:00

So, one thing being a mother (for only 8 months, but seriously, time is flying by too fast) has done is, it's removed my sense of embarrassment about certain things.

Well, one thing in particular, and I bet you can guess what it is:

I am no longer afraid to sing in front of Patrick.

Yeah, I know: shocking, right? One time, a long time ago, we were on a long car ride, and I just happened to be singing along with Sting, who was on the radio (as opposed to, say, in the back seat). I think the song was "Every Breath You Take." I'm not the world's greatest singer (though I believe I possess an innate musicality that makes up for my lack of skill and/or vocal training), and Sting is hard to sing with for those of us with... limited range. But we were somewhere on the road, and howling along with ol' Sting-o was fun for me, and, I thought, fun for him (Patrick) too.

Little did I know that my attempts (at harmonizing? Remembering all the right words? Hitting all the notes?) were annoying him, until... he told me.

Knowing Patrick, he probably told me that his ears were bleeding (not literally!) in a polite way (because my man is nothing if not conscientious), but knowing me, I probably took more offense than was actually necessary. Anyway, that short episode of marital discord (see what I did there?) meant that for years, my singing out loud was limited when he was around. I stuck to solos in the shower but no more belting it out while vacuuming or washing the dishes (which I did quite happily when I lived at home with my parents. Have I never mentioned that my mom is hard-of-hearing?) if he was in the room.

All this was balanced by the kibosh I put on his whistling, which, to be fair, he actually does quite well. I just don't like the sound of whistling.

Anyway, when our son was about 5 months old, I discovered (while alone with him) that my version of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody was quite successful at calming him down if he happened to start crying in the car. I'm not sure what made me sing that particular song to him, maybe it was on the radio, but boy, launching into the first words ("Mama! Just killed a man!") made him sit up and listen. He also stopped crying, which was a good thing.

Then one day Patrick and I were driving around our neighborhood, checking out the work of a company we wanted to hire to paint our house. It was getting late, and JP had been fed, but we were sort of rushing about to beat the sunset, and so may have neglected to check his diaper before we left. May have: newborns cry for lots of reasons, not all of them so obvious.

Anyway, I was sitting in the backseat with him (JP, not Sting!), and he started getting sniffly and cranky. And I decided to break my silence, in a big way.

I said to Patrick, who was driving, "Watch this!"

Jules cried.

"Mama!" I said. "Just killed a man..."

And suddenly... the only sound in our car was me, singing the piano parts and the guitar solos and the drum effects (I love that faded out gong or whatever it is at the end), and all the words I remembered/successfully made up. JP watched me, opening my mouth as wide as possible, taking lots of big breaths, and he got very, very quiet. Patrick did too, up there in the front seat, not so high and mighty now about any pitchiness on my part, now (actually, I'm quite impressed with my falsetto, which isn't great, but isn't as bad as you might think it would be).

Since then, I sing all the time to the baby (he really loves my version of La Bamba) and sometimes Patrick even joins in. It's a wonderful thing, to have our voices join together for the entertainment of a tiny little baby. Sometimes he babbles along, sometimes he stares at us, sometimes he keeps on trying to pull my glasses off. Either way, it's so much fun to be silly and to let it rip.

Love you,
Irene

*Earworm (Letter to David Grohl)

2011-07-14T07:38:00.000-07:00

Hey, Stewart, you don't mind if I use this space to address another drummer, do you? I know, it's only two days before your birthday, but if I can make the following funny, it might be worth it. We'll see, okay?

Dear Dave Grohl,

I have spent the last two days humming your damn song "Bridge Burning," and I'm starting to get annoyed. You've written many catchy, bouncy, peppy, slightly derivative pop songs in your career, but this one takes the cake.

It doesn't help that your voice is unmistakable. I hear your screeching and whispering, the songs that vibrate between loud and soft, and I worry about you. Have you been trained to sing like that? I don't know what effect all that yelling will have on your voice in 20 years; I only know I've been listening to you do it for what feels like forever and your voice, which in my mind has a beard the same as you do, tickles my chin and gets in my head and I can't get it out.

You should know, Dave, that I used to think I was too cool for your music. I used to think, Dave Grohl! He gave up the drums to be a front man. Even Phil Collins and Don Henley stuck it out behind the kit (dude: Don Henley! You just made me invoke Don Fucking Henley). Ringo Starr looks like a giant fool when he sings at the mic, and you know why? Because that dude is a drummer. But did you notice I said "I used to think..."? I had to give up thinking that, and I'll tell you why: I was never cool, that's why. I play the piccolo, Dave. I wear glasses. I have a blog in which I write to Stewart Copeland. I drive a Honda.

It's either that I'm just not cool, or that you are one big ol' talented guy, because, like Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, I like you, no, I love you, in spite of my best efforts not to. (My husband and I saw you open for the Police at Dodger Stadium, and I couldn't get into your act. I realized later that I was just jealous because I was a hundred miles away from your little spectacle.) I even had a dream about you the other night; (a PG dream, sure, but you should know, Dave, that I was pregnant. BY YOU.) and in that dream you broke my heart. I woke up and played that dream over and over in my head all morning. Luckily it was a Sunday.

Don't break my heart, David Grohl. I started listening to "Better Off" on the way to work this morning and I had to smile, because I think that's going to be the next "Bridge Burning" for me. Bookends, huh. You really know how to play me.

Love,
Irene

Psalm 115

2011-06-01T13:22:00.000-07:00

How does that saying go? I have ears but I cannot hear? I think it's from the Bible?

(Psalm 115)

(Don't ask me why I'm getting all biblical on you today; I really couldn't say. It has nothing to do with this post.)

In 1989 Patrick gave me the Nirvana album Bleach on CD. I was a junior in high school, working at the library as a page. He was 22 or 23, a library aide, with a moustache and a raised truck. We were just friends.

I'd never heard anything like Bleach before, and I wore that CD out (I had to buy a replacement copy a couple of years ago). He gave me lots of music over the years, and introduced me to stuff I'd never heard before. Some of it stuck (Afghan Whigs, Captain Beefheart, Melvins, Black Flag*) and some of it didn't (and never will! Rainbow, Ornette Coleman, Return to Forever), but the point is, that Nirvana album was the start of us listening to a ton of music together. Usually at maximum volume!

All this time we both assumed that Dale Crover (from Melvins) played drums on the entire album (without bothering to look or otherwise investigate). To be honest, I like Nirvana (to a point; I don't really like any of the songs from their third album) but I've never really listened that much to the drums on Bleach because Kurt's the star of that show. I mean, it's kind of a big sloppy mess, or at least that's how it seems at first. Anyway, this morning "Negative Creep" came on while I was driving to work (right when I was passing the 5 on the 710!) and I finally heard the difference between Dave Grohl's playing on Nevermind and what I thought was Dale Crover's playing on "Negative Creep." I know, I know, "finally heard the difference" makes me sound pretty inattentive but what got my attention was the pretty gnarly double bass drumming. A light bulb went off in my head! Ah ha! This is why we prefer Dale Crover to Dave Grohl!

(Don't get me wrong: I love the Foo Fighters but for me it's like loving McDonald's: you try not to tell anybody about it. And Dave's a cutie. I mean, really: even with a psychopath beard that guy's really attractive. Possibly a sell-out, definitely good-looking. And my liking the Foos and Dave Grohl will be our dirty little secret.)

(If you go to this forum, you will see that I am not alone in assuming it was Dale Crover, and also in not bothering to do any research. And you'll see that Dave Grohl admits that he sucks at double bass drum and so, never does it in the studio [I didn't research if he "never does it at all"]. And you will see that some Nirvana fans have a sense of humor... and some do not.)

So I had to look it up, where I found that while Dale does play on three tracks on Bleach (and one of them, "Floyd the Barber," is one of my favorite Nirvana songs of all time! "Lounge Act" on Nevermind is another), that's Chad Channing on drums on "Negative Creep," NOT Dale Crover.

Teenage boys across the world have made this discovery millions of times before I did, it pretty much means nothing except that my ears are now opened (praise Jesus!), but still, I thought I would share it with you. It makes me wanna get my iPod out and listen to... "Blood Witch" by Melvins! Woo-hoo! Let's go Melvins!

*King Crimson, the Birthday Party, Bad Brains... it's a long list of stuff we both now love!

P.S. Since I'm writing about music here, I want to also add: over the weekend, 100.3 FM played their Top 100 Rock Albums of All Time, and I happened to be in the kitchen with Jules in the Moby Wrap when the album "Crosby, Stills & Nash" came on. I love this album! They played the whole of side 1, and me and Jules were rocking out. "You Don't Have to Cry" is so beautiful. I love that song. I always try to fit my crappy voice somewhere in the middle of the harmony (with little success, but I love singing along). So in case you were wondering, I don't just like music that's all grungey and loud. Hopefully Jules will like lots of different types of music too!

Dear Stewart,

2011-05-23T03:59:00.000-07:00

The other night I had a dream that I was about to walk into the Beethoven Market when a group of guys on bikes pulled up to the corner, waiting for the light. They were on Palms, heading toward Centinela. It was nighttime, and I thought one of them... was you. He had your fluffy hair and your profile, and in the dim light, looked just like you. I walked over to say hi, and realized it wasn't you (also the guy wasn't wearing a helmet, and I bet you do), and the guy said something rude. I went into the market.

When I came out, "you" had stolen my car.

I've never been in Beethoven Market but I've driven past it many, many times. Once Patrick thought he saw his friend Dave walking his dog near there and we pulled into the parking lot to try to catch him, but we didn't go in.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2011-05-17T16:10:00.001-07:00

My kid is 4 months old, this Friday.

While sometimes I think about my life before he came, I never miss it.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2011-02-26T12:44:00.000-08:00

Hello, friend,

So, his name is Jules. You can read all about it, here, if you haven't already (dare I wonder if you've read it already?).

We're pretty blown away by him, and how cute he is, and how sweet he is, and what parenting is, and the changes it's wrought, and our total happiness and lack of sleep... and I'm having a hard enough time keeping up with my "real" blog, so yeah, this one is sort of falling by the wayside a little. I'm sorry.

I did want to ask you if you'd heard about that woman who wrote a book about David Cassisdy...? It's called "I Think I Love You," and it seems to me that maybe I should read that book (I heard about it NPR during a late night feeding). On the other hand, maybe not.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2011-01-04T14:13:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile, so I thought I'd check in with you. A lot of people have been asking me, now that my due date is sort of looming (I'm due in exactly one month, on February 4th) if I'm "ready," and my answer so far has been, NO!

I'm really enjoying being pregnant, and that seems to surprise people.

I mean, I don't want to rub it in or tempt fate or anything, but aside from some pretty uncomfortable back pain for the past couple of weeks (checked out with my doctor; no, not pre-term labor), I've been doing great. I feel good, if pretty tired at times, and though I wish I'd done a little more research on safe skin care during my pregnancy (I stopped using anything remotely medicinal or, dare I say it, effective, leaving me with what I see as red, blotchy, spotty skin), my hair and nails look healthy. Everything seems good. I'm having fun.

How are you, my friend? Are you staying active? Been riding your bike? Oh, man, I miss riding my bike! It's been pretty rainy around here as I'm sure you know, but even still, I haven't been on a bike in months. More than nine, I got a little lazy about it. Still, even if it didn't seem dangerous, I just don't think I could manage, to say nothing of looking ridiculous. And if people are giving me a hard time about walking up and down one flight of stairs at work, imagine the comments I would get should I attempt to lumber up on my bike!

We're still debating what to name this baby, and it's kind of become a joke. Even my dad is calling him "what's his name," which seems a bit... hard. You're welcome to make a suggestion (though I think I mentioned that my husband is dead set, I mean, DEAD SET against "Stewart," a position I think he's taken up rather too militantly), which I promise to strongly consider (your kids have great names, so either you're very good at this or your wife was. Her suggestions are of course welcome as well).

So, okay. I'll keep you posted on the baby. I hope you keep working and playing as much as you seem to have been lately (I so wish I could go to Dallas in February, but I'm going to be a little busy!), and that I have more opportunities to grin like a moron in your immediate vicinity.

Happy new year, Stewart!

Love you,
Irene

P.S. No doubt you heard that "Who is Sting" was the question on Final Jeopardy last night? Hearing Alex Trebek say the word "Symphonicity" cracked me up. I think even he thinks it's pretty stupid.

I wonder...

2010-12-16T09:26:00.000-08:00

I wonder how Patrick would feel if instead of attaching my fantasies to Stewart Copeland, I had instead turned into the world's biggest George Hurley fan? He might like it better.

I saw him many times live during those important formative teenage years and in my very early 20s (including one amazing fIREHOSE performance at McCabe's, where I think George hit every cymbal within a five mile radius), probably could've met him more easily... in the late 80s, early 90s, the Police were so over it wasn't even funny, and at the time, they seemed to me like I'm sure the Doors seem to kids today (kids who like the Doors, I mean). This is a jacked up comparison, so:

Anyway, to be honest, I think that wild hair of his back then was the deciding factor. Anybody who refers to their own hairstyle by a name ("The Unit") is probably waaaaay out of my league, especially back then. I didn't mind long hair (still don't) but his was a little too out there for my itty bitty 17 year old mind; he seemed like a real man (and sweaty), and that too was off-putting (luckily), so whatever, things worked out the way they did, and that's fine.

Still. I wonder what ol' George is up to today?

Should we name our kid "Hurley"?

Dear Stewart,

2010-12-06T09:36:00.000-08:00

I missed you.

On November 22, you appeared at an event at the Grammy museum that, when I learned of it about a week before it happened, I was pretty excited about. Patrick even agreed to go.

Unfortunately, it was on a Monday (work) night and in Hollywood - not very convenient for me. And then while I was still considering it, I got sick. In the last two weeks I've had some interesting stomach problems (twice, now) about which (in case you get concerned about stuff like this) I've already consulted my doctor. As far as I know everything's okay, but you know, I want to be careful. I didn't think it was appropriate to go when I wasn't feeling well, though I was disappointed.

I hope it went well.

Anyway, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I couldn't make it. There's a lot going on right now in my life - my parents have some health issues, I have three upcoming recitals for which I'm a tad under-rehearsed, I'm 8 weeks away from having a baby, and I have all the various household, practical and emotional preparations to do that come with that. Oh yeah, and it's Christmas. I hope to be able to keep in touch with you, but I also hope that you will understand that, as one-sided as these conversations have been (and that's still lots of fun for me), I'm not sure if I'll be able to devote the same amount of time to it. I'll try, but I can't promise. I hope you understand.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-12-02T07:28:00.001-08:00

This morning I think I saw Venus.

That is all.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-11-10T08:22:00.000-08:00

I received some information last week, or maybe it was the week before, that you would be making an appearance at the Grammy Museum, here in Los Angeles, later this month. The week of Thanksgiving, right? I think what the notification was, it was for American Express cardholders (where I got this information, I can't recall. Twitter, maybe), but at the time, there was zero info on the Grammy museum website, and the initial response I received from my inquiry was an out of office auto response, which, to tell you the truth, didn't instill a lot of confidence. What, they have one person answering email at the Grammy Museum? Times really are tough. However, a couple of days ago someone from there contacted me to let me know that the event was on, that info was on their site, and that I, or any other non-American Express cardmember (I had an American Express card back in the 90s but I got rid of it) could buy tickets beginning November 19th.

So, if tickets are still available on the 19th, I'm going to try to get some for us. Which means we'll hopefully be seeing you on the 22nd. This blog needs some updated photos, and I'm still angling for an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner with the Copelands. <-- That's a joke. You know that by now, right?

I just want to warn you: I'm looking pretty pregnant these days, and I'm a bit self-conscious about it. Be nice, okay?

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-11-01T09:39:00.000-07:00

I just realized that last week when I wrote about being glad I hadn't been contacted by your representatives and harassed/berated for my idiotic low-ball offer of $200 for your presence anywhere in my vicinity, that if Miles had contacted me, it wouldn't have necessarily been the worst thing that could happen.

I don't think I could parry, verbally, with Miles; I'm sure I'd be just as tongue-tied and dumbfounded as I was on the three occasions when I had the opportunity to speak to you but still, getting cussed out (or whatever) by Miles Copeland would have been pretty damn cool.

I'm just saying.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-10-25T13:55:00.000-07:00

So, a long long long time ago (last year?) I found a website connected with your (I think) talent representatives where one could enquire about hiring you for a personal appearance, or performance (!) or something. I don't know, I don't know how this celebrity crap works, and as you can see, I'm apparently not in possession of my memory anymore either. Anyway, though I don't remember when I did this, I do recall that I put in a (incredibly low-ball) bid of $200 for your presence... somewhere.

Needless to say, I received nothing in response.

And seriously, I wasn't surprised. In fact, I was mostly just glad that a pissed off intern/assistant/agent/Miles Copeland didn't contact me and berate me for being such a cheap-ass. The dollar amount, believe me, wasn't a reflection on what I believe to be your worth as a person and/or entertainer; it was more like, "I want to do this for laughs because it's the type of thing someone who writes daily to Stewart Copeland would do, but Patrick will kill me if I put an actual reasonable amount and they take me up on it and then I have to fork over the dough because OH MY GOD Stewart Copeland!" Yes, this is how my brain works. When it works. Anyway, all that is meant to say that I didn't mean to offend. It was a complicated process for me, filling in that online form, and kind of reminded me of some of the excitement and yes, shame I felt during my high school experiences writing anonymous letters to the cute senior boy in the drum section of my marching band.

Oh, yeah, that happened. (The Police were involved in that whole debacle but it's a story best left untold, I think.)

Anyway, then I saw you last year and gave you the (apparently lost and forgotten) tickets to see a show at City Garage, where I am the resident light/sound booth operator (can I say "extraordinaire"? No, I guess I can't), and I thought, well, this is at least a $200 value (tickets are $25 per adult), and I felt a little better about the whole thing.

But time, well, as you know, it's passing.

In December, we will be packing up everything at City Garage and moving to an as yet undetermined new space (don't worry, we'll still be somewhere in Santa Monica, just no longer in the awesome little alley location), and the current (and final) show there is closing relatively soon (November-ish) (go to http://www.citygarage.org/ and sign up for the mailing list. You'll be guaranteed to get information about the new location that way). And you know, I'm having a baby. I'm not going to be able to hunt down your appearances at Guitar Center and Amoeba records quite so easily with an infant strapped to my body ("Hi, Stewart! Can you hold on a sec? Junior needs his diaper changed!"), and I'm not going to be dragging my baby three nights a week to the theater (though, I did consider it, and am still leaving it a tiny bit up in the air; sssh, don't tell Patrick yet). Since you and I haven't, unfortunately, struck up a (real) personal relationship, I think it's safe to say that unless we happen to go to the same flute repair shop, my chances of meeting you again in the next 5-10 years are looking pretty dismal.

All this is to say, again, time is running out.

My friend Sarah is going to be planning my co-ed baby shower soon, and if you'd like to attend that, I'd be happy to send along the information as soon as we know what we're doing. I've already requested NO GAMES, not necessarily for your benefit but rather, for MINE (I hate baby shower games!). I just want to hang out with my friends, hear their funny parenting stories, and be the center of attention one last time. Or if, after the new year, you'd like to see a show at City Garage with me as your, oh, I don't know, date, that could be arranged as well. Hopefully by then I'll have lost the baby weight and have a decent haircut but let's not get crazy. Contact information for me is available if you click on my bio on the right side of this screen.

(Third time's the charm:) Time's a wastin', my friend.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-10-13T10:20:00.000-07:00

Hey, there,

I think it's time we brought the topic back around to where it belongs (by "we," I of course mean, you and I), which would be, obviously... you. It's been awhile, and maybe I haven't had anything new to say, and maybe that's going to be happening with more frequency, but I just wanted to remind you why we're here. We are here together, are we not?

Anyway, how are you? I'm fine. What exciting things have you been up to? A couple of online friends of mine are getting ready to go see Andy Summers talk about his photography - they both live on the East Coast. I tried checking out Andy's website for information, to see if he was coming to LA, but it looks like his site hasn't been updated since 2009. That's unfortunate. And of course we know that Sting has embarked on his (ill-named) "Symphonicity" tour (oh my god I seriously hate that name! Sting! Dude! It's a dumb name!), so while that's probably not the only thing he's working on, it's the only thing I know about and/or care to mention in this space.

I read, via stewartcopeland.net, that you're going to be in the Netherlands in November, and that sounds very fun. Patrick had a trip to Amsterdam and Germany when he was in high rock & roll party mode back in his early 20s, but I've never been anywhere (except France, New York, and a few states in between!), but your trip and reason for going will be exciting.

Anyway, that's about it - oh, I also read the online interview with you at MusicRadar.com, and though it was too short, you were charming, as usual. And I really enjoyed the advice about relaxing, though I guess you were addressing yourself, there. Still, it's good for musicians to be relaxed, and I know sometimes I get too tense in the arms and hands, and it makes things much easier to just take a deep breath and let that stuff go.

Good luck in the Netherlands with yet another world premiere, and all the best to you! Don't forget to smile!

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-10-01T22:56:00.000-07:00

No one would be surprised to learn that I listened exclusively to the Police on my way to and from the theater tonight, but it might actually surprise you to know that it's been a very long time since I've had an all Police commute.

Giving myself a little respite, I guess, and listening to other things. I mean, the songs aren't going anywhere, are they.

Tonight on the 405 south, on my way home, right about Rosecrans, "Does Everyone Stare" came on. For the most part, Sting's vocal range is either too high or too low for me to really feel comfortable singing along with him, but the beginning of that song is sung, I've always thought, by you, and so as I sang along tonight, as I always do, possibly an octave higher than you but not sounding too bad, I hope, I got a little gleam in my eye, a serious thrill, hearing our two voices together like that.

It's fun to hear you, and to layer over you, and to drive 80 miles an hour down a mostly free moving freeway singing along with a song that's what, 30 years old, that still gives me total enjoyment and makes me think about the man who wrote it and what that was like, in 1979 (wow!) writing that music and playing it and living it, and all the roads and freeways and songs you've written since. And what you, and what I might do in the next thirty years. And my son.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-09-23T09:39:00.000-07:00

Hello, friend!

My apologies for my long silence. Things have been going really well, and I've been a little busy, but I have been thinking about you. Is that weird? I think that's weird. Yes, I do, but I do it (and tell people about it) anyway.

I've actually been considering dropping this blog for awhile. What will my son (oh, yes, did I tell you? I'm having a little boy!) think of this enterprise of mine in a few years? Or my son's friends? Or the parents of my son's friends? It's a little strange, no, for a grown woman to have as a hobby, don't you think?

Anyway, I haven't made any decisions yet. I'm still here, and (I hope) you are too.

So what have I been so busy with?

Last Friday, City Garage opened "Paradise Park" by Charles Mee. This show runs through November, and it's a lot of fun. I was in tech rehearsals for about a week and a half, and they went surprisingly well. Hey, no tears or meltdowns. This show is technically a little more complicated than usual (it's a short show, there are a lot of cues, and I have to use this crazy machine that controls two slide projectors; the machine apparently has a mind of its own and requires no less than 11 steps to set up: I suspect there are simpler systems at NASA), but it looks amazing and got a great review from the LA Weekly. Unfortunately this will be the last production in the awesome alley space (a decision on the new location hasn't been made yet), so hey, you really should come see it. http://www.citygarage.org/

Otherwise, I've been doing great. I'm having a really easy pregnancy, from what I can tell (and I hope I didn't just jinx it by saying that). My husband and I are excited and freaked out and happy and scared and I guess those are typical feelings for new parents? Well, I hope so. What was it like for you when you had your first baby? Weren't you a burgeoning rock star at the time? No such pressures on us, but we do have to figure out how we're going to juggle work and everything. It's not quite the same as what I guess you were probably dealing with! I was having a little anxiety over my size (no surprise there) but yesterday at my check up, the doctor weighed and measured me and told me that I'm right where I'm supposed to be. I was feeling too big/too small on alternate days but now I'm satisfied that it's okay.

Oh, and while she was listening to the baby's heartbeat on her little machine, he kicked! His heart was beating at 156 beats per minute, and I swear, that kick came right on the one. She had asked me before if I'd felt him moving around, and I wasn't sure - how am I supposed to know what a baby inside me feels like when it moves around? I wasn't sure if I was just digesting lunch! But the kick during the exam confirmed it: my kid has a heart, and he has rhythm (we've seen ultrasound photos; he also has a head, arms and legs [the required amount of each] and a spine... we were happy to see an intact beat as well). Needless to say, Patrick was pretty excited about that. I am too.

Listen. I'd love to see you at City Garage. You will really enjoy this show, I promise. And aside from being our last production in the alley, it's also my last show, if not forever, than for a long while. No, I'm not in the show, but I have a job to do, and it's a pretty important one.

Think about it. I might even let you put your hand on my perfectly sized belly.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-08-30T17:26:00.000-07:00

Hello, my friend,

Last night was a rough one. Patrick's band played and though I didn't go with him (I'm really not crazy about going out on work nights), I didn't go to bed until he got home, and even then, I stayed up a little later than I should (with a 5:30 a.m. alarm time, I'm smart if I get in bed by 9:30 and go to sleep by 10. Last night we stayed up until 11). After finally falling asleep, I found myself awake at 2 a.m. and unable to get back to sleep. I tossed and turned until about 4:30.

It wasn't just random wakefulness (though a few friends have told me they too were awake around the same time)... I guess I'm starting to panic a little.

In two weeks I will be halfway through my pregnancy and I have no idea what to expect.

I know nobody does, really, with their first baby, so I realize this isn't anything unique to me. I was just thinking about what kind of parent I'm going to be, if I'll be able to keep my house clean enough, how I'll handle doing things outside my comfort zone (conversing with strangers, for example; having people over to my house; feeding people), what I'll do if my baby requires extra stuff (therapy, medication, whatever), what it's going to be like to breastfeed and then to eventually have to go back to work... and to all these questions, and a whole bunch of other ones, I was just coming up with a big fat "I don't know." I was really getting a bit worked up about it: hence the 2.5 hours of lost sleep. I think the key to my anxiety is that I just need to relax and take it all one thing at a time.

That is so not my usual method of dealing with things.

Did you (or perhaps your wife) ever notice that when you tell someone you're expecting a baby, many people take that as an opportunity to tell you about their near-death, traumatic experience? Two of my co-workers did this to me and while maybe if I weren't pregnant now myself, I wouldn't mind hearing these stories and could provide the required amount of empathy, now, I'm usually just sitting there in shock wondering what the hell these people are thinking. One of the stories, as hard as it was to listen to, however, had a theme that (had my co-worker known) was custom-tailored for me.

I won't bore you with the specifics, but in a nutshell, what my co-worker realized was necessary in order to make it through the experience, was to force herself relax. And God help her, I don't know how she did it, but she did. Because "force" and "relax" are two words that really don't belong in the same sentence.

(All the stories people told me luckily had happy endings.)

I've mentioned before (somewhere) that every time somebody tells me to relax, I pretty much instantly do the opposite. This goes for high school boyfriends (well, come on, like you didn't tell some girl to "relax" when you were in high school), former bookstore co-workers, massage therapists, my flute teacher, manicurists, the dentist, and various other clinicians and/or doctors. I think it explains why I really enjoy yoga, and also why I don't ever go. If you think about that, and what you know about me, it will make sense.

And I know that in order not to stress out my baby, my child, my teenager, and to instill confidence and security and all those feelings that I know little kids need, I'm going to need to start now by relaxing. I mean, I don't want to be so laid back the kid walks all over us or goes nuts with the rebellion or whatever, but see? I'm even all worked up about not getting worked up.

How do I do this?

Is this whole thing going to knock me on my ass? Am I going to rise to the occasion? Will I be an interested, involved parent? Will I be like the friends who are great parents and have super kids, or will I make too many mistakes or spoil my kid and end up with a nasty stranger in my house? Will I listen and inspire? Will I listen and be inspired? How do you know if you're going to be any good at this?? I wish I'd figured this out ahead of time. Because now, you know, this train's a-rolling. My shit has a finite amount of time in which to be together.

I know that Patrick will be right in there with me, but he doesn't worry about this stuff. He has fine tuned the art of relaxing about things. He takes things as they come.

I need to be like that.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-08-24T19:07:00.000-07:00

Hey, there,

Sorry I haven't written much lately. There really hasn't been that much going on. Work, home, etc. In a couple of weeks I go back to my light/sound operator duties at City Garage, but until then, it's pretty much business as usual. On Sunday night I helped a friend with a headjoint purchase for her flute, and that was actually very fun. Lots of listening, playing, and trying to describe what I was hearing.

Oh, on Thursday, Patrick and I are going to see James Galway at the Hollywood Bowl... I'm pretty excited about that.

Otherwise I'm feeling pretty good. The so-called morning sickness phase seems to be over. It was also pretty mild, and for that I'm very grateful.

Patrick and I have started thinking about names. We have a few up our sleeves, but we still don't know the sex of the baby. I do like some names that could be either for a boy or a girl... but for now I'll hold those cards tight.

One thing I would like to know from you is, what was Miss Gradenko's first name?

Just curious.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-08-09T17:28:00.000-07:00

Hello, my favorite imaginary friend!

It's been about three weeks since I last wrote to you. How are you? Did you have a nice birthday?

Nothing much on my end... I am now in the middle of my 14th week of pregnancy. It's been pretty smooth sailing so far - the "morning" sickness B.S. appears to be tapering off a little. I'm not as tired, but that could be because we've been going to bed earlier, and I've started taking an iron supplement along with my pre-natal vitamin. In previous weeks I'd been pretty much exhausted. And, I'm thinking a bit more about the food choices I make, which I think helps too. No maternity clothes yet but I have a feeling I am very, very close.

The only downside I would say is that I still don't really look pregnant. I feel like I just look fatter, and that's not a good place to be. I know I need to re-evaluate the way I think about my body and what I expect for myself. Does that make sense? I got on the scale the other day, and realized that my weight right now is about what it was about 8 years ago when I was the heaviest I'd ever been. I then lost 25 pounds on Weight Watchers and boy did I feel like a million bucks. I hadn't been that size since right after high school! There's an upside and a downside to everything, I guess. I just don't want either the weight or the way I feel about it to get out of control. Even though I know that I'm having a baby and I have to gain weight, I can see that my thinking about the weight gain could easily become Not Right.

I've had some time off from the theater stuff for a while now... the next show opens September 17 and runs through November. I don't start rehearsing with them until about the week before opening. This will probably be my last show with City Garage (I'm pretty sure I can't be nursing a baby in the booth), so if you're looking for a good time to use that Passport I gave you at Amoeba... well, this would be it. I would really, really love to meet you again. Just to reiterate what I'm sure I've said before: I'm not crazy! The purpose these letters serve is to give me a safe place to write about stuff I don't always feel comfortable about talking about on my other blog. I can address you like I would anyone I admire, and not share too much. Over there, I'm supposed to let it all hang out... and some things I'd rather not treat that way.

If you think I tell you overly personal things now, just imagine what I keep back!

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-07-17T10:54:00.000-07:00

The first thing I want to do is of course wish you the happiest of birthdays. I hope that you are able to spend it with your family and loved ones, and that it's a very nice day for you all. Eat something yummy, do something fun, and hug and kiss everyone you encounter. I wanted you to know that I'm thinking of you and I hope that gives you the teeny tiniest of thrills (and if it doesn't, I don't want to know!).

Also, I want you to know that I'm done slamming Sting on this little blog of mine. Yay! Live and let live!

I have a little birthday announcement to make, and I've been saving the news for a loooong time. In fact, I've been fairly bursting with eagerness to tell people. I suck at keeping secrets, I mean, truly, I'm very bad at it. But then I realized that jumping the gun was good for nobody, so I decided to wait until 12 weeks had passed. And this day, exactly, your birthday, is the 12th week. Funny, isn't it? Honest to god I didn't plan it that way.

I think by now anybody reading this with half a brain (these letters really don't require more than half a brain) has made the connection between the time frame I wanted to work with and what it is I have to say, which is:

Stewart, my favorite imaginary friend, let me just say it: I'm having a baby. He or she is due to arrive in early February 2011.

This is the first ultrasound I had, at about 7-8 weeks, on June 24th. The baby is the little walnut-shaped creature lurking in the dark. I guess that's my "womb." After inserting the... thing, the doctor moved it around, looking for a picture, like she was steering a boat, and I readied myself for another 9 months of being poked and prodded like a cow. And for looking and feeling like a cow. It didn't hurt, wasn't really all that uncomfortable, but felt unreal, and I got emotional. What can I say? That little walnut-shaped creature is my baby. And, as I learned at this appointment, my teeny tiny child has a heart. A heart that beats, even. It was pretty incredible.

I am really, really excited. And terrified. And happy. And a little vomit-y, but everyone tells me that's going to go away real soon. Oh, and I feel fat and ugly sometimes, but then I look in the mirror, and my hair hasn't looked this full and lustrous in ages. I haven't started to show or anything yet, but I feel very full and a little bloated. My pants are tight, and I'm peeing all the time, and I could take a nap at the drop of a hat.

It would be unfair for me to say that the impetus for me and Patrick getting off our butts and doing this, now, was your book (at the age of 38, me getting pregnant definitely is a "strange thing that happened"!) but your words about how being a father and having a family are more important to you than the fame and fun of being "Stewart Copeland," did make an impact on me. Patrick and I have been married for 12 years: this was going to happen eventually. Our life together has been fun and loving and everything I hoped it would be. But you did sort of open my eyes to the fact that there is more, and that even for a rock star, a family can be all a person needs. I'll never be a rock star, but...

So did I mention I'm scared? I'm really scared! But Patrick and I can do this. And we will raise the cutest, smartest little kid we can. Maybe he/she will want to be a flutist, or a drummer, or both! But more importantly, healthy, and sweet.

Love you,
Irene

P.S. Patrick put his foot down. The kid, if it's a boy, will not be named Stewart. However, I think "Armstrong Palma" has a certain ring to it, don't you? I might be able to slip it past him. I'll keep you posted.

Happy birthday, Stewart!

2010-07-16T09:23:00.001-07:00

I actually have something very important to say to you, but I'm going to save it for later in the day. I hope you'll check back and read later (as if you have nothing better to do than READ MY BLOG on your birthday)!

I hope you have an awesome birthday, my (imaginary) friend!

Love you,
Irene

Dear NY Times,

2010-07-13T10:10:00.000-07:00

Please stop referring to Sting as a renaissance man.

He has accomplished the same amount of things as lots of musicians and ranks no higher on anybody's list of musical geniuses than Phil Collins. No offense to Phil intended.

Also, I thought a real renaissance man was someone who was accomplished in more than one field. Sting has mastered the arts, but what has he done in the fields of medicine, or math, or animal husbandry? I'm not impressed.

Also, please stop describing his luxurious real estate in your stories about him. Sting does not equal his surroundings. His surroundings do not equal him. He can afford it, and that's all it says about him. It doesn't make him more interesting.

And God I hate it when he says things like this (in reference to being criticized for wanting to explore music other than "rock and roll"):

“It was frowned upon,” he said, “and that’s the whole ridiculous premise of rock ’n’ roll becoming this Taliban-esque, closed thing. ‘You can’t do that, you can’t do that.’ What’s the spirit of rock ’n’ roll except freedom — freedom to do whatever you want?”

You get criticized for being a wanker, not for being "creative."

He does the same thing he's complaining about to the classical musicians he's hired by assuming his music is something new and scary to them. All the classical musicians I know have more interesting musical sensibilities. They can handle you, buddy.

Grrr!

Every time Sting does something new, you guys write the same fawning article about how sexy and smart and good-looking he is. How he doesn't care when people call him pretentious. Can't you come up with something interesting to say about him? Doesn't your lack of interesting things to say mean that this article could've been half as long?

Irene Palma

P.S. My readers who are interested can find the NY Times story about Sting here. Enjoy.

P.P.S. I swear I'm done talking about Sting now.

Dear Stewart,

2010-06-21T17:05:00.000-07:00

Hello, old friend, how are you?

I'm finding it pretty ironic that ever since I wrote this and accused Sting of not having a creative thought in his head anymore, I haven't had much to say, either. And I never ever wrote anything as good as "Roxanne" or "Bring on the Night" (or, to be fair, as heinous as "Englishman in New York"). Is "irony" the word I'm searching for here? No, seriously, is it?

See, I can't even do that anymore, whatever it was.

Anyway, I do, actually, have something big time cool to tell you, but I'm holding off. I'm holding off! Why the wait, you ask? (Well, I don't know, maybe you didn't/wouldn't ask such a question; you seem less like a question ask-er and more like a "I'm walking away until you make sense, woman" kind of guy.) Well, because that's just the way it's gotta be.

Maybe because yesterday I spilled the beans to someone else who is your exact age (4 days older, actually) and their response was less than favorable. I'm a little gun-shy, now, see?

Anyway, hold tight, okay? In the meantime, I plan on coming back at you soon with something both irreverent and worshipful, a combination at which I tend to excel.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Sting,

2010-06-15T10:19:00.000-07:00

I read this article in the LA Times about your "Symphonicity" tour.

The writer of that article tried to trick us into believing you are "likable" by starting off describing your luxurious surroundings (because what makes a guy more likable than a ridiculously expensive apartment overlooking Central Park?), and then by straight up telling us that you're likable. He couldn't hide that every word he recorded that you spoke drips with ego. Ego is a lot of things; likable isn't one of them. He couldn't hide that you admit that you don't have any more creative ideas. I think he was trying to write a flattering portrait of you, but as I have always suspected, pomposity covers you like a shiny new layer of muscle, and while that sounds appealing, it really isn't.

Listen, dude, there's no rule that rock and roll needs to be in 4/4 time or only employ 4 chords. Jesus (and no, I'm not referring to you as the man some people consider to be our lord and savior; I'm just expressing frustration at your dimwitted-ness), have you ever heard of Rush? Radiohead? The Mars Volta? XTC? Black Sabbath? The Melvins? The Beatles? (I hate to lead with Rush, because their songwriting is just as silly as yours, but an excellent example of complicated music that has endured 30 years of criticism, and maybe by accident, is kinda FUN to listen to. Fun! Think about it!) You've successfully prevented yourself from ever writing a good pop song again by instead being satisfied with coining a clever phrase: "tyranny in a backbeat." All other rock/pop musicians who are creative, who give a shit about music (which you refer to as an "asset;" I guess that makes you a terrific businessman, right?) and make new something as old and tired as rock and roll: they should all spit on you. In 5/4 time, maybe. Just hum Dave Brubeck's "Take 5" and you'll be right on the beat.

Look, I'm just a slightly hack-y flutist who likes Sousa and Gaubert and Mozart and Thom Yorke and Led Zeppelin and Stewart Copeland, and my grasp of rhythm has always been a little shaky until fairly recently, but I'll tell you what, Sting, you're just wrong.

The funny thing is, after reading about it, I actually would like to hear some of the new arrangements: the descriptions sound interesting (do you have an understudy? Perhaps Elvis Costello?), and it sure sounds like you've once again hired yourself the best musicians, arrangers, and conductors money can buy. Good for you. The original versions of "Every Breath You Take" and "Message in a Bottle" sure were profitable, weren't they! And are Andy and Stewart's contributions forgotten by you? Were they just two random, lucky blonds cashing your checks? Stewart, putting the emphasis on beat three... don't tell me that was your idea? And the octobans too?

Ah, but telling a classically trained trumpet player to hold a note a little longer does not make you a musical genius.

Suck it,
Irene

P.S. This all started in response to my friend Paul who posted a link to your story on my wall on Facebook. I blasted off a slightly shorter response there (in bed, using my iPhone, if these details matter to you), and then a little while later I got up and got on the real computer, with the dual monitors and stereo speakers. I found this NPR story from 2008 that I am now slightly obsessed with, even though one of the examples involves Nick Drake, and everyone knows public radio listeners love Nick Drake (not necessarily bad, just so obvious). Sometimes the NPR writers oversimplify things or make questionable statements in definitive tones, but this is good stuff to start with, for those interested in interesting time signatures.

P.P.S. I listened to Radiohead's "15 Step" while writing this letter. Here they are performing it live.

Dear Stewart,

2010-06-09T17:30:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how long ago CNN posted this, but I found your answer to their question, "What's the best advice you ever got?"

Your first bit was about counting your money, and as I have very little money to count, I'm pretty sure that one was intended for other people.

However, the second bit of advice that you quoted (as coming from your dad, who sounds like an awesome guy) was "Yes I can."

I love this advice, because I'm not exactly an "I can do it" type of gal all the time... but I'm trying. Especially right now. More on this soon.

Also, I love the accompanying photo of you. You look so relaxed.

Love you,
Irene

Stewart, I'm sure you won't mind if I take a moment to use this space to address his mighty Sting-ness this morning, right?

2010-06-03T08:04:00.000-07:00

Dear Sting,

I read online (here) that you're going on the road with an orchestra and performing "your" hits. I read that you're calling this little outing "Symphonicity." Judging from what I saw the two times I saw the Police a couple of years ago and from listening to all of your solo work, I'm sure that what you and your arrangers do to songs like "Shadows In the Rain" and "Walking In Your Footsteps" won't suck at all.

I don't think you've ever been afraid to be boring, and that's not a compliment.

You may not know this, or those around you are afraid to tell you the truth; I, my friend, am not afraid of you: "Symphonicity" is the fucking stupidest name I've ever heard.

Sincerely,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-05-16T11:07:00.000-07:00

Patrick's American Classic Metal sticks are so fat it looks like Vic Firth has started making flutes.

Silly photo to follow. I gotta take a shower first.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart and Dufmanno,

2010-05-11T14:13:00.000-07:00

I've gotta be honest - the other day (okay, okay: yesterday... wow, this truthfulness stuff is hard) a reader (one of my favorite readers; Dufmanno, you know I mean you, right?) commented on my "live blogging" episodes from the weekend (one was reproduced here for your entertainment but both of them - yes, I said "both of them" - are over on the other blog, which you are in no way obligated to read also. I live to entertain you, Stewart, let's just get that out of the way right now) and questioned her own ability to do that.

"That" being "live blogging;" I understand that interrupting every third word with a parenthetical statement makes understanding me slightly complicated. Hey! I'm an Aquarius! Understanding me should be complicated! Anyway, I don't believe in that astrology stuff. Dufmanno, you said that you didn't think you could "live blog" due to an inabilty to stay on topic. Well... I think that's what you said; it must be, because the semi-intelligible torrent of words below were written on the assumption that that was you meant.

Stay on topic?! What a concept! As if that matters, my friend Dufmanno! All my posts are, essentially, live blogging events. Not all of them are gems, sure, and hey, occasionally I do go back and tweak or edit, but this shit is posted mostly the way it flowed out of my fingers (like the bright red blood that bubbled out this morning when the nurse from the Red Cross pricked my left middle finger to check my iron level [it was fine, and I proceeded to give blood like the little soldier I am. Hey, if I have to eat my snack in the "canteen," I'm allowed to call myself a "soldier"]. Later, I was talking to my co-worker Alex about it, and I mentioned that the nurse commented on my "healthy red blood," which she clamed she could tell just by looking at it. I wondered how she could do that, and he laughed and said, "Was she licking her lips at the time," which was totally inappropriate and hysterically funny. That kid makes me laugh). Stay on topic! What do you think this is, Luke's run on the Death Star from "Star Wars"? No! This stream of silliness is better (way better) the less structured and unmanicured it is! I feel strongly about that. So strongly that I subscribe to the "less structured and unmanicured" school of thought for other things, too. My hair? Less structured. My grooming? Less manicured (alright, I love pedicures. Shut up). Works for me! If I try too hard to look right or write right, I spoil it every time and spend the whole night adjusting my blouse.

So? What's the topic here? I think we're all in agreement that the topic, not matter what other words are coming out of my mouth/keyboard, is my undying devotion to YOU, Mr. Copeland. All the rest of it is just filler. Hopefully amusing filler (or even slightly amusing filler), sure, but filler.

Love you both (no, really. I do),
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-05-10T15:05:00.000-07:00

From the "things I learned this weekend" file:

I can be an immature little pest. I'm working on it, though. I mean, I'm almost 40 years old. I should be able to figure this out on my own.

This is not related to you or my "work" here!

When are you coming to the theatre? We'd love to see you. On Saturday, May 8th I did some lame "live blogging" for my other blog, where I tend to avoid talking about you too much. That blog is dedicated (mostly) to reality; I try to keep the fantasy over here. Separate. Segregated. Clearly I was thinking about you. Were you thinking about me?

Love you,
Irene

Saturday, May 8, 2010
Live Blogging, sort of

The following (or previous, depending on how you like your time line) posts were written between the hours of 7:00 p.m. and 10 p.m., during the few moments of "down time" I have during the show "The Marriage of Figaro" at City Garage Theatre in Santa Monica.

Lest you think I don't take my tech duties seriously, well, you can just dispense with that kind of thinking, because I take those duties very, very seriously.

Anyway, I suppose that by combining my fantasies about Stewart Copeland with the theater stuff means that these posts would've made more sense if I'd posted them over here, but that kind of thing would've take a bit more planning than I was capable of.

I had fun tonight, it was a great show, I had three friends in the audience, and yes, I was all alone in the booth. I swear.

at 11:59 PM

Did I mention that THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO at City Garage Theatre is an LA Times Critic's Choice? Perhaps your mom would like to see a show tomorrow? Sundays are "pay-what-you-can." Box office opens at 4:30. Who knows? It might be me selling you your ticket!

at 9:55 PM

I unfortunately had to spend the first ~~ten~~ five minutes of the second set of 20 minutes in the restroom. Stewart, I swear, come to the theatre and I promise to charm you silently while you enjoy the show. Wait, is that really what I meant to say--

at 9:48 PM

I love the part where Dr Bartholo calls the word "and" a "copulative conjunction." I suspect he does too.

at 9:39 PM
I just made $2 in tips selling refreshments during intermission. Note to self: next time I work the bar during intermission, wear a lower cut shirt. Or bring Stewart Copeland.

at 9:35 PM
We're in the midst of the first 20 minute stretch of the show where I get to just watch. It's conceivable that were he here, Stewart and I would be engaging in a nice quiet game of "Go Fish," or perhaps a little iPhone pass-and-play Scrabble...

at 8:57 PM
That line about being "too busy" for Stewart Copeland was just bluster. The LA Times "Critic's Choice" THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO starts in 30 minutes. Tickets are still available.

at 7:34 PM
I'm box office AND booth personnel tonight! What's that? You'd like a soda? Certainly!

Stewart Copeland better not come to City Garage tonight, as I will be much too busy to make what could only be called idiotic conversation (my side, naturally) with him.

On the other hand, there are at least two separate sections of show where I have a good 20 minutes of "free time"... the view of the stage from the booth isn't that great but I guarantee I could keep him, well, let's just say "entertained."

Dear Stewart,

2010-05-03T09:11:00.000-07:00

(I was going to write about this yesterday when it happened, but then I got all sidetracked by the whole mistaken identity topic that I forgot about it. In re-reading what I just wrote, maybe that was a good idea. Oh, well.)

Yesterday during my shower, "King of Pain" came on the radio.

It's an okay song, nothing wrong with it; I'm not much qualified to write a music review beyond that. But I was standing there in the shower, trying to figure out those wacky lyrics, and I started thinking about it a little harder than I ever have before (that sounds questionable even to me, and I was there). I read somewhere (and this is spurious information, probably false) that Sting was writing about reincarnation and karma; when I was 11 and heard this song for the first time, probably in Laura Love's parents' car, all I remember being struck by was the line "there's a skeleton choking on a crust of bread" and being confused. Did the bread choke the skeleton and that's how that guy died? If the guy's already a skeleton, wouldn't the bread be gone now? Now that I'm older and understand the concepts of reincarnation and karma a little bit, I can maybe see a connection, but I'm not willing to dissect the song more than that. It's a good song, a classic, but not one of my favorites. I wondered, standing there in the shower, if you got bored playing it. The drum part is pretty minimal. And you only got one song on the album, which is criminal.

("Miss Gradenko" is one of the best songs you ever wrote, though. "O My God" is terrifc, too, but the rest of the album, I'd be happy to not hear for another 10 years or so.)

Anyway, if you wiped away everything but Outlandos, Zenyatta, and half of Regatta de Blanc (I'll let you choose which half... the second half, if you're having a hard time choosing; giving up "Message in a Bottle" for "No Time This Time" was a hard decision but once made, I'll stand by it) on my iPod, I'd be satisfied for quite a while. Of course eventually I would start to miss my Radiohead and Divinyls and Corrosion of Conformity and Fela Kuti and Kings of Leon and fIREHOSE and Talking Heads and...

Love you,
Irene

P.S. Hey, you know what's crazy? I wish I could tell you something that's in my heart (not about you, silly) but not on this blog. Yeah, I know right here is when you start getting weirded out. Please don't get weirded out. I'll figure it out on my own I guess. All this "Dear Stewart" business to the contrary, I really do get how this works.

P.P.S. Also, the preceding postscript is bullshit, because on occasion when I do have opportunties to tell people "what's in my heart" I tend to freeze, get mad, and/or cry, and you know what? I'm almost 40 years old, I should be able to handle that better. Why would I suddenly bare my soul to you any better than with people I actually know and who care about me in a demonstrable way? Yeah. I'm confused today.

Dear Stewart,

2010-05-02T12:09:00.000-07:00

It's sometimes bothered me just a little bit that on occasion, new people brought into the theatre to fill out the parts of shows that company members don't take tend to not know my name. I'm not proud of this. I mostly laugh it off and say it doesn't matter, because really, it doesn't.

It's stupid and maybe a little narcissistic of me because these people work with the company very hard for months and then I show up for the last week or so of rehearsals, and they're introduced to me once or twice or three or four times, and they have lots of stuff on their minds and parts to learn and new blocking to memorize, and seriously, I'm just the chick in the booth hitting "play" and "go."

One woman called me "Eileen" and "Pauline" repeatedly in front of the director of the company, who corrected her. I did not.

That person is now gone (and usually the other new people don't stick around very long either; knowing or not knowing my name is never the reason they leave), but for other reasons (I never told anyone, but on the night they took cast photos, I was asked to join them on stage for the last photo, along with the assistant director. The director teasingly instructed me to "take off all my clothes!" I knew what she had said, and why she said it, and I was giggling and blushing and acting like a five year old, and a little bit considering going for it. The woman who didn't know my name or why the director would say such a thing to me, or who the hell I was or why I was on stage with them all, made a disparaging comment about that direction. Her lack of understanding of why such a thing might be said or how it could not be considered offensive was part of her whole problem); it's not my business to know or share those reasons with you, even if I did know them. I do know that this scenario with the "take off your clothes!" bit will take place again, and I don't mind. I love that part. Maybe one day I'll do it. I mean, what the hell, right?

I've been a little vague on whether or not it really bothers me that these people don't know me. I'm saying it doesn't but clearly it does, but I wish that it didn't. Maybe that's what I'm saying. I sign up to do this job and I enjoy it, and I get plenty of thanks and all the diet Cokes I can drink. I have fun, and I'm lucky that the people who I care about in the theatre care about me, and the ones who don't, don't. That's fine. I tried to make a funny story out of it, and I guess I failed, and that's okay too.

Ever since my 38th birthday in February, I've been having thoughts about my inability to do certain things, and I've been prefacing those thoughts with, "I'm almost 40 years old, I should be able to..."

I'm almost 40 years old. I should be able to correct people when they get my name wrong.

Love you,
Irene

Julie, Julia, Irene and Stewart

2010-04-20T08:20:00.000-07:00

Dear Stewart,

Last night I finally watched the Meryl Streep/Amy Adams movie "Julie & Julia." It was kind of crazy, because I read the book and hated it. OK, I hated 50% of it (can you guess which half?). I was really hoping that Julie Powell would be an inspiring person, but no.

The food was interesting, the Julia Childs parts were interesting, but Julie P.'s life and her friends and her writing never really won me over. Even her husband wasn't that appealing.

They seemed to have made some effort to make her likeable in the movie by casting nice Amy Adams, and they seemed to try to differentiate her from her spoiled friends (make the friends more vile and Julie seems less vile but still annoying). The bits about her at work were not as offensive as they were in the book, but her attitude toward her job and the work she was doing was still pretty awful. People who work in cubicles are not all losers. Not all jobs like that are "dead-end." She seemed to think that she was destined for greatness and wasting her time "at work."

One thing that I was surprised to actually like was when (someone) referred to Julia Childs as her "imaginary friend." That felt familiar and uncomfortable.

(Hi, Stewart!)

Of course the actual cooking (not the tantrum throwing or food dropping incidents, which made me wonder how often Julie mopped her kitchen floor) and the Julia Childs parts were awesome. Jane Lynch as Julia's sister was also a welcome surprise, and France and French ladies and French food have never seemed so fun and attractive. I liked all those parts, just as I did in the book.

I know a lot has been made about how Julia found Julie to be "not that serious," and that Julie uses this (to her advantage) to spout off with yet one more stupid cliché about life and loving yourself and not caring about what others think of you (even if the "other" is her own idol), but the thing is, I think Julia was just commenting on her lack of cooking skills and her sloppy execution and Julie used it, like she used everything else, to get more attention.

Whatever.

That's not what this is.

I'll never have a book deal or a movie, and that's just fine with me.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-04-13T14:07:00.000-07:00

So, ever since I started telling you my boring-ass dreams, my sleep has been all messed up.

I'm no fool.

Maybe there's no connection, but on the (very) off chance there is, for the future, unless my dream contains something incredibly awesome and mind-blowing, I'm going to keep it to myself.

Beyond what I'm about to say right now, I won't be discussing my sleep problems, either, unless what I have to say is particularly funny. Yeah, I make the rules around here, and I make 'em to suit myself.

My mom and sister have insomnia, and now it appears that I do, too. Maybe it's something that will just up and go away by itself. For now, it's been my friend for about two weeks. What this means: I lie in bed listening to Patrick snore, with a sweet fat black and white cat named Franny holding down one of my arms (she seems to think that without her diligence, my arms would float up to the ceiling all by themselves), and I think to myself, "If I fall asleep right now I'll get six hours of sleep... if I fall asleep right now I'll get 4 hours of sleep... if I fall asleep right now I'll get 3 hours of sleep..." and then it's 4:30 and my alarm is set to go off at 5:15 so that I can get to work by 7 a.m.... and driving on the freeway on 45 minutes of sleep seems like a really bad idea.

I'm not sure what's causing this. Age? Genetics? (Is insomnia genetic?) My mother is doing okay, still undergoing chemotherapy, still hanging in. Nothing has changed in her condition. She has good days and bad days but I think they're mostly good. Work is the same as always. Patrick and I are mostly good; the parts that aren't all good are still pretty damn OK. One bad thing happened last week that I might try to hide here at the tail end of this paragraph... on Thursday of last week, our wonderful boy cat Puma died. We'd been worried about him but thought that by having massive dental work we'd solved whatever problems he was having with eating, but it turns out that no, our boy had lung cancer. I've had cats die before. It's never ever easy, but this one was in particular really hard. He was a special kitty, and we miss him so much. The sleep problems started before this, so I'm just telling you because, well, I miss him. As silly as it might sound to people, this has turned out to to be a big deal in our lives. I'm so glad we have Franny and Dora still, but wow, that black cat named Puma with a stubby tail left a big hole in our hearts.

The sleep thing has been going on, about every other day, for a couple of weeks. Maybe three. Friends have suggested that I take something in the evening before I go to sleep, and I've tried that a few times, usually feeling a little guilty about it. I have a little something that's prescribed for me (no biggie; it's very mild) or I take a Benadryl, which knocks me out quickly and easily. Not taking anything means that I'm assuming that past issues with falling asleep were flukes and tonight, well, tonight I will be a champion sleeper just like I've always been.

But then I lie there and lie there, and I think about getting up and doing something quiet but constructive (dishes, laundry, dusting) or doing something loud and disruptive (shredding old bank and personal items, cleaning the closet), and instead I do nothing. Sometimes I get out my iPhone and I read and re-read the New York Times. Sometimes I post stupid status updates (3 a.m. status updates from me, stone cold sober and awake when I don't want to be, are no fun at all) on Facebook, or if my friend in Minnesota or my other friend in Pennsylvania have played moves in our never-ending Scrabble games, I might play a bit of Scrabble. One of them has anxiety issues so my deal is minor in comparison. The other one has a young daughter, but he might just be a night owl. Last night I realized that the stupid iPhone in bed was a bad idea, so I left it in the kitchen. After discussing the day's events with Patrick, I turned out the light, waited for the cat to come claim an arm and I actually fell asleep. In spite of my success at falling asleep and staying asleep, I still only ended up with 4.5 hours of sleep, and it's not enough.

I'm sleepy today, and it's going to be a long night (tech rehearsals at City Garage for the next show started last night; read all about the next show at http://www.citygarage.org/), but maybe if I'm smart about it, I can not let this be an ongoing problem. Maybe if I finally clean the bathtub (disruptive and loud at 3 a.m., but a little planning ahead would serve me well), I could take a hot tub bath like my mom is always recommending. That's supposed to help. Maybe not drinking any Diet Cokes after 3 or eating food atfter 7 will help. Maybe keeping a sleep diary will help. I don't know. I'm going to try doing it. I'm also going to try slipping my dreams about you into my barely waking hours and see if that makes falling asleep later any easier.

You never know what's gonna work until you try something, do you.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart, (Now with picture)

2010-04-03T12:45:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night, and you were in it!

If I've talked about other dreams I've had with you in them, I have to make a confession: I probably lied. Oh, maybe ("maybe"!) you've made little cameos in my head at bed-time (more on this, never) but I'm pretty sure that if I said I had a dream in which you appeared, really "you" were somebody else but making it "you" was more interesting.

Does that make sense?

Outing myself as a liar just makes selling the story I'm about to tell all that much more difficult, but see, I'm not gonna tell you everything, so that in itself should be a sign of my truthfulness, no? I mean, if I tell everything all the time, where's the mystery?

So here goes, yeah!

Last night's dream:

I'm at my parents' house in Culver City, in the bathroom, actually, looking in the mirror in the vanity. Their vanity has three sections, two of which open up so that you (well, should you ever come to my parents' house, you can do whatever you want in the bathroom) can see the sides and back of your hair. Actually, I think it opens up so that you can access the contents of the vanity; it's a very common style of vanity. Being mirrored just means that you can check yourself out, too. The vanity at my house is the same (only mine is white and theirs is wood-colored), so if you want to try it here, just give me some advanced notice so I can clean. Or hire someone to clean. Patrick hates it when, after I've finished looking at my hair (or my ears, you get a great view of your ears in these mirrors too), I forget to close the vanity doors. I don't know why that bothers him so much, but it does. It bothers him more than his leaving his dirty shirt on the floor bothers me, and I think that's weird, because normally he's the even-tempered one. Anyway. I was checking out my hair (which has been recently cut. I have a "lob" now, or, a "long bob." It's okay. I'm not feeling very vain about my hair anymore, anyway), or possibly my ears, when my mother called me from the living room.

"Irene!"

I went out to the living room, where she was watching TV. She was sitting on the couch, which she never does anymore because of her new knee (now she sits in a special recliner that helps her to get up and down), and the TV was on the other wall, but other than these two minor discrepancies, the living room in my parents' house was exactly as it is right now (well, I'm not over there right now, but it was exactly as it was the last time I was over there, which was fairly recently).

A new show was coming on. The theme music was familiar. It was familiar because it was you. I have to figure out exactly which song it was, but I think it was "Coco" from the Rhythmatist. My mom and I are watching your show (and no offense, but my mom probably has no idea who you are, other than that dude who's on my iPhone), and it's just like any other talk show: there's a stage, a studio audience, a live band (but what a band), a couple of chairs... and you!

It's your first show, so you do some explanation of who you are and what this is ("Hi, I'm Stewart Copeland, and this is my show!"), and then you introduce your first guest, and your first guest is... me.

Now, I'm not crazy. No, really: I'm not. I'm certainly not crazy enough to think that I could possibly be interesting enough to be on anybody's talk show. And to sit there in front of a million people and talk to you? Come on. I'd be giggling and laughing and sighing and probably trying to touch you in inappropriate ways and I'd be making a fool out of myself in no time flat. But, hey, in my dream, there I am, talking to you about something (no idea what), and it looked good, and I looked good, and you, of course, looked good, and my mom was proud of me.

Ah, see, and here's the part I'm gonna leave out:

And then [something happened], and I woke up.

See you!

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-03-23T17:23:00.000-07:00

I've been having an interesting week of dreams. Does that ever happen to you? I'm kind of on drugs - my allergies have been sucky, so I've been hitting the Benadryl a bit lately. I only take it at night, and only once in a while (a Benadryl addiction would be so embarrasing) because it makes me crazy sleepy (somewhere I read that Benadryl is given to psychotic children, for what purpose, I'm not sure, but I bet it has something to do with calming them down and making them, pardon the pun, "crazy sleepy"), but I suspect that this is the cause.

(Isn't it a little lame that I think you're going to be interested in my not-very recreational use of Benadryl? Or my fucking dreams?)

The other night I dreamt that I was part of a training program where the exercise was in walking on water. Yep, just like Jesus! Or fashion models, I forget which (it's not worth going into the personality/physical traits I lack to fill either job description)! There have been other truly psychedelic and fascinating dreams during the aforementioned time period, but I'm only going to bore you with talking about the one I had last night, and only just a little, because I know hearing people discuss their dreams is tiresome.

Last night's adventure had me and Patrick embarking on a trip to the moon! We were traveling on what looked like a regular old airplane, but wearing coveralls like the astronauts (or Sting) used to wear (I think NASA astronauts now just wear a t-shirt and what look like sweatpants. They look like they're just going to run to the store). There was a bunch of scientific stuff we had to do, and we did it, no biggie.

Later I seem to remember that we were also in some sort of intergalactic store room, where all the parts and tools involved in the time machine were kept, but I don't know, even I'm bored with the retelling of this dream.

Tonight I'd like to just sleep, and then, when it's time - and no sooner - wake up. Unless I dream about winning the lottery or meeting you (again), I'm not all that interested anymore.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-03-15T14:49:00.000-07:00

So I heard you're going to be performing at the New Roads School benefit this Saturday in Culver City, and at first I was all excited about buying a ticket and going. New Roads sounds like an awesome school, and I wish it had been around when I was a kid. Or if it was, I wish I had been cool enough to know about it.

Unfortuantely I won't be there.

I don't even know if tickets are still available (according to the website, "online tickets are sold out"). The thing is, I have stuff to do that day that was planned way ahead of time. In the evening, Patrick and I are going to Cal State Long Beach to hear Robert Langevin (principal flutist for the NY Philharmonic Orchestra), and in the morning, I'm getting my hair done. You may ask, WHAT? Can't the hair appointment be rescheduled? Well, yeah, it could be rescheduled, but the thing is, this is already the 3rd rescheduled appointment. My stylist is pregnant: she can't wait around. And dude: my hair is fucked up.

(You won't care about this, so don't read this paragraph if you aren't deadly interested in my hair:

I recently made the decision to stop dying it for awhile, and to let the gray poke on through. I'm pretty young, I guess, and immature enough that maybe people will believe that it's "premature gray." My hair has gotten to be kind of dry and damaged and I suspect that the every six-eight week dye job schedule has everything to do with that. Also, my stylist, as much as I love her - I really do love her - chooses a shade of dark brown that is still slightly lighter than my real dark brown color, and it drives me insane to see what looks like black roots on top of my dark brown hair [peppered with silver strands]. Maybe eventually I'll get lowlights or highlights or something but for now, I don't mind the gray. Seriously. I don't. And, while I really don't want to look or feel "old," I also don't want this hair anymore. Short of shaving my head, I think taking a break is the best way to handle it. So it's kind of important that at least the cut be presentable, and I think you would agree with that. My pregnant stylist isn't going to like it, but hey: it's my head. Oh, and I was poking around on the New Roads website, and there's a picture of the Santa Monica Middle School School Director, Chris Elder. That chick is hot, and her hair is way more gray than mine. I think it'll be okay.)

Anyway, so I thought for a long time about whether or not I should go. I even asked a few of my FB friends for advice. Most of them, surpisingly, suggested that I "go for it!" One smartypants person reminded me not to get arrested. And sure, I could be back in time from your daytime concert to meet up with Patrick and head to the Langevin concert, which is very close to home. But Patrick's tied up all day, and trying to find a friend who would understand my need to See You turned out to be too daunting (I'd have to explain, and for those who don't read this blog, that's just too embarassing).

And, you know, what would I wear, what would I do about my stupid hair, what if your people denied me entry, what if other attendees were all, "Does your child go to school here?" and I'd be all, "No, I'm just a lame fan of Stewart Copeland's," what if people recognized me from this blog, what if I was a big old giant goofball? I have little faith in my ability to act normal.

So. While I suspect this is a once in a lifetime opportunity (then again, I thought that when we saw you at Guitar Center in Hollywood, in San Diego for SummerFest, at Amoeba for the booksigning...), I've decided not to go. I know you'll be great, and I hope the school raises a ton of money. I wish you and your temporary bandmates all the best. I might even make a donation just for the hell of it.

See you in Dallas in 2011!

Love you,
Irene

P.S. If you're not Stewart Copeland and you're interested in more information about the New Roads School 15th Anniversary Kalaidescope Music Festival & Expo, or to donate, please click here.

P.P.S. If you are Stewart Copeland, and you want to get in touch with me personally to tell me how fabulous I am and how you can't wait to see what Nina does with my hair, email me.

P.P.P.S. The following message is just for Dufmanno, my most loyal reader and favorite commentor:
WE ARE HEXEN!

Reintroducing Fela Kuti - latimes.com

2010-03-09T09:07:00.001-08:00

Dear Stewart,

I think my next kitty will be named "Fela"! My boss's secretary is out this morning (and so I need to be more alert to my boss's needs than usual) otherwise I'd have me some headphones on and some Fela on the iPod. Do you like Fela Kuti? I bet you do.

Love you,
Irene

Reintroducing Fela Kuti - latimes.com

Posted using ShareThis

Dear Stewart,

2010-03-08T10:01:00.000-08:00

Hey, man! What's up? How are you?

It's been two weeks since my show closed, and there are good things and bad things about that. For one thing, my weekends are free. A good thing, right? Sure, as it means I get to spend more time with Patrick and more time at home and I can do other things and I don't have to drive 64 miles (round trip) alone (my friend is still being a dick, and I don't see this changing anytime soon. I am still assuming I didn't do anything, but who knows?) and yes: those are mostly good things. But I miss it.

As I've said before, my job over there is pretty easy. It involves no creativity or judgment on my part. I watch and listen and I do what I was told, when I was told, how I was told. In the moments of free time that I get, I daydream and doodle. I blow my nose, if nose-blowing is required. If members not performing that night haven't stepped up, I do box office (secret: I love doing box office, but I bitch about it because I'm already there doing a job). I drink a couple Diet Cokes. Then when it's all over, I shut everything down, close up the booth, wave goodbye to people who are talking to other people in the lobby, and I go home. It doesn't sound all that glamorous or particularly fun, does it? And sometimes it's not - sometimes I'm in a bad mood. Sometimes I'm in a sad mood. Being there doesn't necessarily alleviate any of that. But I miss it.

In five weeks or so I start going for technical rehearsals and cue-to-cue and I get to see what's up next and what it's going to look and sound like, and I'm getting very excited about that! During that time, there are other things going on: Patrick's band is playing on Wednesday; I have a flute choir concert to play in; I'm going to see Robert Langevin at CSULB, my parents will have their wedding anniversary; my friend is running in the LA Marathon... but still. I'm starting to get excited about what's next.

Maybe you are too? What's up next for you?

Love you,
Irene

I can't say exactly where I was when

2010-03-01T14:40:00.000-08:00

this happened without checking my calendar, but I am pretty sure that I was someplace important. Someplace I needed to be, that I couldn't have gotten out of.

I'm a dork for not knowing about it before it actually occurred. Oh, well.

Dear Stewart, (Updated; Spelling Errors Corrected)

2010-02-22T14:36:00.000-08:00

Well, so you missed it.

My show closed last night, and it was an amazing closing night. We sold out! While that's a pretty awesome thing (we even turned away 15-20 people), and I'm definitely not complaining... it would've been nice if some of those people had not chosen to wait until the last night of the play to show up. Still: a full house is an great thing, and it was a fun night (a friend of mine ~~rather sarcastically~~ whimsically suggested that all those people were there to see if you were gonna show up, to which I replied, "Dude, if 45 people are reading my little Stewart Copeland blog, I will pee my pants").

So during the first half of the show I was thinking about all the things you were missing out on. Here are are few of them. Regarding "The Trojan Women" by Charles Duncombe as presented by City Garage theatre, you will never see, hear or know:

The way Crystal Sershen says the word "Janjaweed" or the context in which she uses it or how she is placed during this moment.
My impeccable timing in light cue 18, during which June Carryl made a microscopic change in position while saying the words "That cunning bitch [LIGHT CUE!] Menelaus's shame." For some reason I got a huge kick out of that cue.
What celebrity means to Helen of Troy (basically? that celebrities are built up by us, the untalented, and then ripped down by us because we're jealous of their fabulosity).
Michael Galvin sing a beautiful and disturbing song in Irish. I say "disturbing" but I don't really know what he was saying - all I can say is he delivered and sold it and it was lovely and rousing all at the same time.
David E. Frank as a deranged CNN-type commentator (or, "explicator"). He had about two pages worth of crazy dialogue, which he delivered while wearing a sleeveless black tube dress and a red bolero jacket. Now that you would've enjoyed seeing.
The eyes of all the ladies in headscarves. Those actresses on stage? Piercing. Strong. Scary. Beautiful.

Anyway, after awhile I realized that pretty much all the moments in this show were interesting, gorgeous, heartbreaking, sometimes funny, and true. You missed out on a wonderful evening. I would've even bought you a drink.

Oh, well. Maybe I'll see you at "The Marriage of Figaro." I'll let you know as soon as we get some dates.

Love you,
Irene

P.S. I checked my visitor stats, and this stupid little Stewart Copeland blog has had significantly more than 45 readers. Hey, man! Pants = peed! Thanks everybody!

Dear Stewart,

2010-02-21T11:56:00.000-08:00

Tonight's closing night! Will you be there? Honestly, I doubt it. Oh, well. I invited you, that was the important part! I mean, that took guts, right? To walk up to you at that table at Amoeba and embarrass myself? Sure. Guts were involved.

Anyway, the next show we're doing is "The Marriage of Figaro," by Beaumarchais, and it will open in the spring. Spring is a much better season to see a show at City Garage, as our space is freezing cold in the winter and blazing hot in the summer. I'm sure you knew that, which is why you've been a no-show. Right? Yep.

See you. Or not. Whatever.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-02-20T13:13:00.000-08:00

Oh, man.

I've been thinking about a lot of things this week! and coming to terms with a longtime fear, and why I fear this particular thing (only hint I'm gonna give you: the word starts with M), and what I'm going to do about it.

I hate thinking. Isn't it obvious?

In other news,

THE TROJAN WOMEN closes tomorrow. Hope to see you there, but if no, well, hey, it's been fun.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-02-16T08:10:00.000-08:00

"Is not submission the very definition of bliss?"

These words are among my favorites spoken by Talthybius, to Queen Hecuba in the play "The Trojan Women" (adaptation by Charles Duncombe; closes this Sunday, February 21st), and to be fair, the thing to which he wants her to submit is her own enslavement, an idea which, I guess it goes without saying, I can't get behind.

I think too that in this context, "submission" is also referring, maybe (hey, all my data and research pretty much comes solely from Wikipedia; I'm no scholar and never said I was), to the will of God, and, in Talthybius' world-view, the will of God is probably something like, "Hey, Hecuba: a life of pain and suffering is what you deserve. Be glad I didn't kill you as I killed your husband and ALL YOUR SONS." God also seems intent on torturing women: we get the sharp end of the stick from God in this story, and of course there's a lesson to be learned in there, somewhere (Daughters of Phyrgia! For you, life sucks!), but that's not my point.

So anyway, what is my point?

The point is is that Hecuba, as portrayed by June Carryl, doesn't mess around. Hecuba may be defeated but she's not out just yet, and she, and the rest of this production is strong and pointy, and beautiful, and sometimes mean, and sometimes insane (there's another awesome line about time, history, and insanity that I'm just going to leave for you to discover on your own), and definitely worth checking out. What are you waiting for? Submit, and maybe you'll find some bliss yourself.

By missing it, you're missing out on something pretty cool, Mr. Copeland. Stewart! I said I was going to stop bugging you about this but who am I to keep promises?

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-02-07T22:12:00.000-08:00

Hey, hi, how are you?

So. This is a week full of events. What events, I hear you asking? Well. Tomorrow my mom gets a CT scan, which hopefully will show that the last four months of chemotherapy have done their job and that she can stop going to the doctor and start getting better and strong. I have appointments with the allergist and the dermatologist for issues related to... allergies and dermatology, after which I will hopefully feel better. Patrick's going to do the doctor, because he's got the flu.

Wednesday if Patrick's feeling better, we might go to San Diego. Thursday is flute choir. Saturday is the LA Food Truck Festival, and then the fourth-to-last performance of "The Trojan Women." Sunday is Valentine's Day.

Oh, but there is one more event which I haven't mentioned, and that is? My fucking birthday.

I don't really want a birthday this year, but since the only alternative appears to be death, I guess I'll go ahead and have one. Hey! Happy early birthday to me! COME TO MY SHOW PLEASE!

Love you,
Irene

I think I might like to go to Dallas...

2010-02-02T10:42:00.000-08:00

I just got word from the Dallas Observer that Stewart will be debuting a new piece next February (yep. Next year. Those classical people don't mess around). I've never been to Dallas. I wonder what it's like? It might be a nice birthday trip for me and Patrick. Then again, reviewing the weather for Dallas for this year, it sounds rainy and cold (by LA standards). Then again, this is a chance to see my man again! With sticks in his hands, presumably!

In a program led by Music Director Jaap van Zweden in February of 2011, Copeland's percussion concerto, titled Gamelan D'Drum, will receive its world premiere. Created in close collaboration with the Dallas Symphony and world music percussion group D'Drum, Copeland's work is promised to include influences from the traditional cultures of Bali, Africa, Persia and other locales, blended with the influences of Western classical and jazz forms.

Dear Stewart,

2010-02-01T12:04:00.000-08:00

Thanks for the great idea! Last night while running the booth for "The Trojan Women" and watching the show (which I actually do, but through that scratched up dirty sheet of Plexiglas the thing just doesn't look the same as it does from the house), and ruminating on the fact that you, yet again, were not there, I got an idea for a short story.

Since my creativity lacks, um, creativity, and my stories are always either based on reality or a not-so-dim reflection of reality, this one involves a middle-aged heroine who volunteers in a theater, working the lights and sound, who writes a blog about a famous musician (I'll probably make something up. I think he will be the blond, handsome lead singer of a band - a trio - whose fame peaked 20 or 30 years ago. What do you think?) who one night during the show, between light and sound cues, up and disappears.

I think it will be fun to write about the presumed chaos that will ensue. Total disaster is always fun to consider. I have wondered how many cues it would take before someone noticed that I was gone (or dead), and of course it would depend upon the actual point during the show that I choose to take my leave. Not that I would ever do this in real life (though I suppose if I were to die I wouldn't have much choice about it, would I): but it's kind of a lot of fun to think about. I've also thought about what would happen if there were a power outage, or an earthquake during the show, and I know that this type of thinking - disaster thinking! - is probably unhealthy, but it keeps me from getting bored, some nights. And then I have to decide where I, I mean she goes and how she gets there and what it all means, and that too will be fun to think about.

Anyway, last night I started writing it a little and though this story will probably never see the light of day or be read by anyone other than myself, it felt good to have a little project to work on. So thanks, dude. You have inspired me yet again.

See you soon, maybe, or maybe not: it's kind of all the same to me.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart (or "I am Not Marcia Brady"),

2010-01-28T10:05:00.000-08:00

Hey, man, not sure if you'll get the Brady Bunch reference above, as you lead a cool, exciting, and purposeful life, and probably weren't sitting around watching crappy sitcom television shows in the 70s and 80s, so I'll give you a quick rundown on what I'm talking about here:

The Brady Bunch was a TV show about a man and a woman, both with three kids (three girls for the lady, three boys for the man) who married (after their previous spouses expired, I guess). Combined, they became a family of 8 (six kids plus two parents; wow, I am good at math), a huge (for the time) number of people to be living in one house (well, there were 9, if you count the housekeeper, as I suspect you are supposed to). Anyway, basically these were some amazingly square people who got into typical 70s TV show scrapes while wearing horrific 70s TV show costumes (lots of brown bell bottoms) and they called themselves a "Bunch." Hence the name of the show. The eldest daughter, Marcia, played by Maureen McCormick, had a crush on Desi Arnaz, Jr. (side note: I was going to avoid consulting Wikipedia for this, but boy am I glad I did. Apparently Desi turned down some crazy movie roles - he could've been Travis Bickle in "Taxi Driver," and he could've been "Clark Kent/Superman"! What a dummy! And, the "Clark Kent" reference is pretty cool, too!), and went through some complex machinations in order to convince him to come to her school or some other ridiculous business. I don't really remember. Or care.

Anyway, she thinks Desi's not going to come, right? And then (and then!), for some reason, after various hilarious mishaps and whatever, the guy shows up at her house (I think she might've been the president of his fan club) and plants a big goofy kiss on her big goofy cheek. (So Desi gave up "Taxi Driver" and "Superman" to kiss Maureen McCormick. That's kind of awesome, if you're Maureen McCormick.)

Dude. I am not 15 years old. A kiss from you would be (wait. What am I saying here?) - let's start over, shall we?

I am not fantasizing about our life together (well, alright, fine, maybe I am having some fantasies about you, but they're totally harmless, I swear. And I am aware of the difference between reality and fantasy. I am). I'm not insane or dangerous or stalking you. I don't know where you live. I'm not ever going to get angry or confrontational or scary. I might blush if we ever see each other again. Chances are I would smile more than someone with the level of not-quite-white teeth that I possess should smile. I might play with my hair and duck my head and say "wow." I might ask somebody to take a photo of me with you in a socially awkward way.

I would love to see you at the theater, but I'm not gonna keep bugging you about it. This blog has turned into something different than I originally planned, and that's okay. I like it. Do you?

Love you,
Irene

P.S. "The Trojan Women" closes Sunday, February 21, 2010.

Dear Stewart,

2010-01-26T16:35:00.000-08:00

So, a couple days have passed, and my friend has finally talked to me. It was a normal conversation. I maintained normalcy, which, for me, is a pretty big step. I think I may have been overreacting before (it happens, believe it or not). I guess the thing I don't like is not knowing how someone is feeling towards me.

I also guess I don't always have a right to know that.

What a lesson to have learned. Now. Will I remember this next time? Who knows?

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-01-24T21:29:00.000-08:00

The other day I was talking, in vague terms, with a friend about another friend who has stopped returning my calls. Something's obviously going on with this other friend and me, but I didn't want to burden my friend with whom I was talking with all the gory stupid details. She was great, though, even with minimal material to work with, and she reminded me that sometimes the way people act has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with them.

This is not the first time I have heard this.

It sounds logical, doesn't it? I mean, accepting this particular little truth lets you stop worrying that you've done something heinous. It gives you permission to stop worrying about that person being mad at you or whatever, and to move on. That sounds good, doesn't it? It sounds great to me, but unfortunately I have never, ever been able to do it.

It would take a great deal more personal confidence than I will ever have to be able to say, "So-and-so is going through something right now, and though in my opinion their behavior toward me screams 'asshole,' I will not take it personally." The situation this time is rife with past misundrstandings and unmet expectations (mine). I'm pretty confused. And, I'm sorry to say, I'm starting to get pissed off.

It's a nice idea, that I might be able to turn away and go off to do and think about something else, and I'm full of admiration for people who possess the self-respect and maturity to that, but right now I'm just not feeling capable of that kind of high-mindedness.

Once I've reached this point of not understanding what's going on, I start to get mad. Even though I know this is the moment where delicacy is required - this is usually when I stomp all over the idea of being patient. This is when the words "fuck it" are in my mind, and this is when I panic, and when I ruin everything, because even though "fuck it" sounds brave and ready to not care anymore, the thing is, "fuck it" cares, and cares a lot. "Fuck it" is afraid that you no longer care and "fuck it" needs to be the first one to walk away. "Fuck it" is the "look at me" version of going off to do and think about something else. It's the worst possible thing I could do, and as of the time this letter to you is posted, it's already been done, and now? Now I don't know if (a) my childish act of rebellion has even been noticed, and (b) if I'm willing to back "fuck it" up with the necessary act of going away and doing and thinking about something else, which, if I'd just done in the first place, quietly, this whole thing would've probably blown over.

How do you handle things like this? By now I suspect you've seen and done everything. I bet your feelings aren't easily hurt. I bet your friends are open and honest with you, and that you're open and honest with them. That none of your friends would treat you this way? The thing is, I feel a bit bad now, like I've let this friend down by not being better at taking their shit, which I think is pretty ironic, as I have never previously said "no" to this person throughout our entire relationship.

One day, Stewart, maybe you and I will sit down and talk. And that day you will learn the secret behind this little blog of mine, which might already be clear, or starting to be clear. Until then, thanks for listening.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart, (Edited)

2010-01-19T08:31:00.000-08:00

Hey, there, Stewart,

So this weekend was a nice long one (I had Friday and Monday off), though I didn't really do anything. I was at the theater Saturday and Sunday, which you would know if you've been reading these letters. Or had gone there yourself? Actually, seeing you this weekend would've been extra-awesome: I was in a bit of a bad mood for some reason (not really just "some" reason, but I'll stay silent on that. For now), and your blond head would've been just the thing to cheer me up.

Yesterday I got together with my friend Patty and one of her former flute students, a guy about my age who I've known since we were both in high school. We didn't go to the same high school: he went to a fancy magnate school with a terrific music program, and I went to the local high school with a lame music program. It all evens out, though, as we're both pretty good flutists. We also got together with another friend, Judy, and sight-read some quartets, including a couple movements of the "Holberg Suite," by Grieg, which I've never played before and rather liked. It was a very nice afternoon spent in Patty's warm living room. Getting there was another story, however.

Monday morning it started raining like crazy over here. I'm not sure if you're in town or still live here or what (and why should I be sure, or even unsure? Your whereabouts are really none of my business), but I am sure you remember what driving in LA in the rain is like. When I left home (a tad late, I guess I should add), it wasn't too bad - gray, and windy. Patrick predicted that it was going to get uglier outside, and he wasn't kidding. About halfway to Culver City, or at about the city of Carson, the rain started coming down in buckets.

Luckily, I was prepared (and, I was fortunate enough to have a sweet little red Mini in front of me almost all the way to Culver City. Without that red car to follow, the reasonable but not too slow pace they set, I would've been literally swamped. There were portions of the freeway that I didn't even recognize in all that rain, and I drive that exact route probably 15-20 times a month), and I had something to think about and to listen to.

In December, the flute choir played our annual holiday concert for the residents of Lamp Community, in downtown LA (this is the facility made famous by Steve Lopez and his stories in the Los Angeles Times about street musician Nathaniel Anthony Ayers). We've been playing there for at least 10 holiday seasons. They seem to enjoy it. We always end each concert with a holiday sing-a-long section, and Patty, our leader, takes requests, which is kind of funny, because many times the songs they request, while holiday songs, are unfortunately not in our repertoire (we need, for example, a flute choir arrangement that can also be sung, of "Up On the Housetop," or also, maybe, "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"). They're always satisfied, however, with whatever we can perform for them, and a lot of the audience will actually sing along, which is fun for everyone. "Silent Night" is gorgeous, and hopeful. We've also sometimes had people willing to take a solo, and man, if that doesn't touch you, you need a new heart.

This year we got a more unusual request than "The 12 Days of Christmas," and I've been thinking about it ever since. One guy, who had been engaging with Patty throughout the whole sing-a-long portion of the concert, stood up and asked if we knew any music by... the band Metallica.

I know Metallica has done a lot of work with orchestras, but as far as I know, nobody has arranged anything by them for flute choir. This request got me to thinking.

I'm not a huge Metallica fan. I like some metal (Corrosion of Conformity, the Melvins), but Metallica, in general, has never really interested me. I think they're kind of whiny and full of themselves (we saw that movie they made where they're all in therapy, and it's pretty boring and yet strangely, funny); Lars Ulrich is not my type of drummer at all, and sometimes, when I've seen live videos of them, I wonder if that guy can even keep a steady beat. But, he's in Metallica, and I'm not, so whatever. (Interesting side note: Robert Trujillo went to my high school! It was before my time, and I have no idea if he was a product of the lame music program I referenced earlier. Oh, it wasn't that it was all that lame, exactly, we had a ton of great musicians, but the opportunites for a little kid flutist like me were few. I needed more outside involvement than I got. Maybe I was lame. And now I am whiny and full of myself, so I'll shut up now.) But ever since the guy made that request, I've been listening to them. I downloaded a couple of their albums ("And Justice For All," and the black album), and some of it is totally listenable and fun (and some of it has the worst lyrics known to man). And now I'm wondering which song we should have arranged for flute choir, and what that would involve, exactly, and if I possess the skill and patience to do it myself (the answer to this question is "no").

All the way to Culver City yesterday, I listened to "Nothing Else Matters." Sure, it's one of their most popular songs, and kind of a cliche by now, but I like it because it has a pretty melody, minimal drums, and a killer (if surprisingly short) guitar solo. Also, it's sooo dramatic.

Then, because I guess listening to Metallica brings out the megalomaniac in me, I started thinking how amazingly theatrical a solo it could be. It couldn't be a true solo, because then it would be boring, but maybe done in a music minus one way, and filmed, like those old Paul McCartney videos, where the flutist (let's face it: me) is shown recording all the accompanying parts, and plays the interesting parts live, including the bass drum line! Well. Sure it was raining cats and dogs, but my little brain was on a stage somewhere, playing "Nothing Else Matters" with just the right combination of humor, irony, and technical skill that people everywhere would be brought to their motherfucking feet by the brilliance of the performance.

Really, I'm lucky traffic was so light yesterday, because without that little red Mini, I don't know that I noticed anything else at all going on around me on the freeway.

(I've mentioned this before, but I think a Stewart Copeland penned flute choir piece would be awesome.

And I know just the flute choir to perform it.)

Love you,
Irene

P.S. I realize that permission from Metallica would probably be necessary for this project, and I started off badly by impugning Lars Ulrich's ability to keep a beat. Hmmm. I may have made a serious tactical error, here, which is why we need some Stewart Copeland original stuff. And hey, a steady beat is overrated. Right, Stewart?

P.P.S. Apparently there is a flute choir out there performing Metallica songs already (I can't access You Tube right now but there's a video of six flutes doing a song by them called "Mama Said." Hmmm. See what I mean? I need you, Stewart. Help keep my idea original. And if you do this work with another flute choir or flutist, while I may not be the best or the most qualified...

(Not a threat, I swear. I would just be very, very, very disappointed.)

Dear Stewart,

2010-01-16T23:41:00.001-08:00

(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.

But.

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

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-01-10T08:35:00.001-08:00

Good morning!

Well, it's the second day in a row where I was awake before 7 a.m. (it's the weekend: I get up at 5 a.m. Monday through Thursdays). Yesterday I was up so early I had to turn a light on in the living room when I came out here to mess around with my computer.

I'm not very happy about this. Sleeping in is a treat.

I'm making my mom an iPod for her birthday, which is in two weeks. I've been uploading all kinds of music I think she'll like (gospel, some country, a tone of Frank Sinatra and Perry Como, etc.) and taking steps to ensure that her music is not mixed in with my music. My boss helped me a lot in this process - she loaned me all her Il Divo CDs, among other selections. The caretaking goes both ways: I would hate for my mom to be scanning the music in her iPod and come across, I don't know, Slayer. I'm pretty sure my mom wouldn't like Patti Smith, either. She has at her house a special collection of "praise and worship" CDs that I need to upload (I found some similar music at the library). I was going to try to do that while I was at her house - but she got suspicious about what I was doing. She really likes her Jimmy Swaggart.

Right now I'm just sitting here, listening to music while watching Beatles videos (sound down) on VH1 Classic. There's a glare on my face from the sun rising over the garage, and it's colder right now at 8:53 a.m. than it was last night coming home from Santa Monica at 10:00 p.m. That little bit of info is fascinating to me this morning but I understand if you're not as interested as I am.

Well, I just wanted to say hello. I hope you're doing well. I watched a video yesterday about Sudan365, and I loved seeing you at about the 2:30 mark. I've been reading about that and what it's all about; so far it seems like a great cause, so thanks for bringing it to my attention.

If today's letter seems boring... I apologize. I think I'm sleepy, and still a little confused about something that happened last night.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-01-09T06:58:00.000-08:00

Well, it looks my plan for a letter a day is already a failure! I was kind of busy yesterday, but I suppose that's no excuse.

Friday is my day off, and in the past, would've been a great day for a lunch date (with you, of course), but lately, I've been all booked up, which is mostly nice... I do love having that day to myself. However, yesterday I took my mother to her chemotherapy appointment, and though I hesistate to call it "nice," it kind of was.

Mom was in a good mood, and looked pretty good. When I got to her house, my dad was gone already. He'd left early to drive up the coast a ways to visit his brother, who has been ill. They're not twins (his brother is younger; kind of the not-quite-as-wonderful version of my dad), but for years I always thought it was funny just how alike they look, though my uncle is beach-city hip, and my dad, well, he isn't. Anyway, the house smelled like bacon (my brother had made breakfast), and my mom was in the living room, getting ready to take a shower.

After we visited for awhile, my mom took the fastest shower I've ever seen (less than 10 minutes; maybe 7 minutes altogether! I guess having lost her hair means there's a lot less stuff to do in there), and was soon ready to go.

When my mom had to go through chemotherapy before, I think it was in 2007, the facility and her doctor were nowhere near as nice or as professional as where she goes now. I suppose that experience prepared us for what we're going through now, but I am so glad my parents chose to change insurance (at my suggestion) and actually like the way things turned out. I have confidence that these people know what they're doing. It's not exactly someplace you would want to go, but having to be there isn't as bad as it could be. My sister went with my mom last month and I've gone just one other time. I recognized some of the ladies getting treatment , and the nurses, who are, with one exception, sweet and kind and caring and competent: the four words you want associated with your mother's chemotherapy nurses (the one exception wasn't there).

Mom settled in easily and I sat next to her and tried to read People magazine, which, let's face it, is total crap. Kate Gosselin was on the cover in all her hair extension glory, and there is no person I care about less. I should have taken my lap top or a book, but I did have my iPhone, so I read the New York Times and listened to Pandora radio and NPR and texted with my sister, my husband, and my friend Andrea, and watched all the goings on with the other patients (discreetly, of course).

Anyway, so after that we had a very late lunch with my dad (he got home just about the same time we did), I ran an errand to the crazy-busy Culver City Post Office, and then it was time for me to be in Santa Monica for a rehearsal of The Trojan Women.

We took about a month off for the holidays, but start again tonight (Saturdays and Sundays only). The cast had a few rehearsals earlier this week without me so Friday was my first time in the booth. It was wonderful to see my friends and to run the familiar but slightly different show again. I was not as tight with my cues as I should be but I know now that the only person who notices that stuff is me (Charles wasn't there). Tonight I will be perfect (there are few things about which I am so confident). There were new words that stuck out in the performances, but my favorite line is spoken by Hecuba, and it doesn't really mean anything out of context. It's a fragment, really: she's talking about one of her daughters, and her desire to see her again, which is of course denied. She says "This little this," and because of my ignorance of the original play I don't know if that's an original line from Euripides (I doubt it) or what. I love that line - it's useful for those occasions when you want what you're never going to get and what you want seems so simple for somebody to give to you that you don't know why they're witholding it (not necessarily talking about my situation with you here, but then again...).

This little this.

I noticed that you have not called yet to make your reservations to see the show (unless you're being tricky and they're under another name). I guess as a famous person there's probably a protocol for doing something like that (I [unfortunately] saw "Notting Hill") or maybe you think I would blab about it here before the fact and you'd be swarmed with people. If that's the deal, I would like to say that I promise: I swear I will not do that. Instead I would glow on the inside and be incredibly excited and flushed and nervous and it would give me the opportunity to make sure my hair is nice that day.

So. (310) 319-9939. Make a reservation, and speak with a sexy Frenchwoman. You won't regret it.

The Trojan Women is now playing at City Garage Theater in Santa Monica
January 9 - February 21 (Saturday and Sunday only)

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-01-07T08:44:00.001-08:00

Feelings are dangerous.

Perhaps sometimes it's best not to have any.

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-01-06T17:26:00.000-08:00

A couple of days have gone by since my last super-sized missive, and having had a few days to think about what I previously wrote (and yeah, there were a few things that I have to cringe at), I have come to this conclusion:

I need to be writing to you way more often.

So! Let the fun begin. Maybe I'll start doing a letter a day. Would you like that?

Love you,
Irene

Dear Stewart,

2010-01-02T11:35:00.000-08:00

After being off for awhile, we're getting ready to start the second life of "The Trojan Women" over at City Garage. Next Saturday will be the first show of the year, and we're running through February. You can, as always, get all the details at www.citygarage.org.

(Or you could contact me directly. I would happily provide you with the details, if I were capable of speaking in intelligent sentences to you. Hmmm. Perhaps it's better if you just call the theater: 310-319-9939.)

I've been thinking about it, and while my job in the booth is definitely necessary for the show (the stage would be dark without me!), I think it's a little weird that I've invited you to come to something in which I play the least important part. I'm the observer, a react-or: the one-man orchestra with 15 conductors. I listen, I press "go" and "play" (and pause, too) when cued by the actors or otherwise indicated in my script. Ultimately these are directions given to me by the director and the designer of the show, people I absolutely respect and love working for, but in the moment, I'm backup to a bunch of people (who, don't get me wrong, I also respect!) who get to show their faces and hearts and I'm, you know, in the booth. Which is dark, and cold, and a solo operation. I have to learn how to express how I feel about this. Maybe there's a little jealousy involved. I know how much they appreciate me, so it's not that. On the one hand, you know: I love it. I love being there. On the other hand... well. This is what I'm struggling with right now.

(And, historically, no one has ever done this job at this theater as long as I have or for as many shows as I have. The people in the past who did my job were actors who wanted to be on stage more than I ever will.)

(And, I feel that being in the booth is my job. My job. I don't want to give it up: right or wrong, I feel territorial about it. So, I am not complaining or stating any kind of discontent with it. I will be there as long as they will have me. I'm just trying to figure other things out and this was a good starting point.)

Really, what I'm struggling with is the concept that all my life I thought I had something to say, something to offer the world, some skill or hidden talent that will be the tool I can use to flesh out my - my - my what? See, I'm starting to realize that maybe I'm not all that special or talented in any particular way after all (OK, I do love my flute playing, but I totally take it for granted, and I also don't really get all that creative with it, either). I always thought that if I took a class or wrote something or told someone how I feel that ooh, magic will be made - but the thing is, it never works. Either I lose interest or I get scared off by the amount of work involved, or I'm just lazy or I can't think of the words to tell the person or I change my mind (I'm always changing my mind!), or I let the accomplishments of other people scare me off, and fuck it, I'll never be like other people, or even like I thought I would be (Shit. Am I unique, or not? Now I'm even more confused), and at 37 this seems like a bad time to be coming to this realization.

And so what do I need you for?

I've mentioned it before, but there's a whole thing in the show that Charles put in about fame, and celebrities, and their role in our boring lives. It's beautifully written and fun to watch. He's so smart. I think you would like it.

So many times in so many situations I've had expectations of what could happen to me, and so many times, the reality hasn't been what I thought I wanted. Maybe emotionally I felt differently about things than I imagined or people just don't operate in the ways you think they should or I let fear keep me from saying something, or I don't even know what I want to say, or I do say something and it's completely the wrong thing or totally stupid - I want to be different, now. I want to be able to allow myself to feel silly and stupid and there. You bring out something in me: I need you so that I can direct that life-long feeling of wanting something I can't have toward something safe, and you, with your own life and your own family: you can't hurt me.

(If I'm wrong about this - but I don't think I'm wrong about this. I think you're too smart and too cocky and too distant, even though I would love to change that part, to hurt me.)

Well! Totally crazy thoughts here, and there are probably sentences I should add in between the ones I did include that could make this make sense, but no. That's all for now.

Please come to the theater. Or maybe don't come: maybe if you don't I'll just keep wanting you, and if you did, I would have to find something new to want and the new thing might be something even crazier still. I don't know. But wouldn't you love to find out?

(Ignore what I just said about not coming. Come! Please. I invited you because I think you will enjoy the show, and because it's a wonderful production. I would want you to see it even if I had nothing to do with it whatsoever. There. Sanity reigns at last.)

Love you,
Irene

Santa Monica

2009-12-30T16:16:00.001-08:00

This blog had one reader from the City of Santa Monica on Thursday, December 10.

Stewart, was it you?

Hello?

2009-12-13T22:05:00.000-08:00

I've never been very good at this kind of thing, and I had this thought earlier today and it would be nice if it were true:

"Your indifference sets me free."

Just a reminder to those of you joining us lately - none of this is real, aside from my obsession.

From the Playboy interview with Stewart Copeland

2009-12-10T22:01:00.000-08:00

PLAYBOY: There are quite a few people who consider their personal lives and their professional lives to be one in the same in terms of how they present themselves.
COPELAND: They’re absolutely not the same. The figure in the public eye is an avatar, a figment of imagination, and not in the imagination of the creator, but in the imagination of the consumer. They impose their own fantasies upon that personage, particularly with music because there is that same strange shamanistic quality in musicians. People attach significance to the deeds of the artist but really they have no meaning. The artist is just a guy who gets up in the morning and puts his trousers on one leg at a time. But the image thing...what people see out there is in their own minds. On very slim evidence.

Stewart, you really, really, really should come see "The Trojan Women." This bit right here means that you will totally get it. Charles Duncombe wrote it for you, almost.

This Friday and Saturday at 8 p.m., Sunday at 5:30, then we close until January. Please come.

Open invitation still... open

2009-12-08T21:19:00.000-08:00

Dear Stewart,

I just wanted to let you know that "The Trojan Women" will be closing this weekend but we open again after the holidays on January 9, 2010. That said, it would be so exciting if you could come this weekend. It's going to be a crazy weekend for me personally - busy day on Saturday (an old friend of ours is getting married!), and then I have a little recital on Sunday before the show at City Garage - I'm even more fun when I'm all tired and overstimulated! Imagine the look on my face from the booth if you were to be milling about the lobby! Seriously, dude. I would probably look all calm but inside I'd be a big throbbing vein of "wow."

That said, I have some other business to bring to you today:

I'm sure you know (if your minions have done their research) that I'm an amateur flutist. I play with the Culver City Flute Choir. We just had our holiday concert, and as usual, one of our big pet peeves is the lack of good holiday music for flute choir (I'm sure you're familiar with a flute choir? We sound like this [that's me on the solo line!], usually more in tune), in particular, Hanukkah music.

I think you should write something Hanukkah-related (or whatever you like, really) for us. You know, in all your spare time.

Think about it. You'd be a fucking hero. Flutists everywhere would worship you. And what's not to like about that?

Love you,
Irene

Red phone to Stewart / I think I'm being blocked

2009-12-02T12:49:00.000-08:00

I get an email from Google every day: anytime Stewart's name is in the news or somebody blogs about him. It's like my own personal red phone, only it's email, and it's not red, and the messages don't come from Stewart himself (because that would be weird). Mostly the stories are stupid: some guy re-discovers "Synchronicity" and starts listening to all the Police albums and writes a blog post about how great they were as songwriters, blah blah blah. Sometimes it's just a comparison someone made between another drummer and Stewart, or a listing of all the movie soundtracks he's written. Sometimes all it is is a link to my own silly blog.

But sometimes, Google finds me something incredible, and today, my friends, is one of those times.

There's a guy somewhere in the UK and he has one of the best blogs I've ever read. It's called Private Secret Diary, and it's a lot of fun. The post I particularly enjoyed was a (fake?) interview with Stewart.

...

The other thing I wanted to mention was, I've been trying to register at stewartcopeland.net for about 3 months now. On September 28, I've received a confirmation that I registered, but was told that they needed to "activate my account." This email was signed by "The Management," which sounds ominous. This still has not happened. I've emailed a guy over there named Eugenio twice, with no reply. Should I be worried? Is there any content here that really freaked those people out? Did they perhaps overhear the snarky (jealous) comments Patrick and I made about them at the Summerfest concert in La Jolla? I don't know. I only know that I am waiting for a response. Eugenio? I am perfectly harmless. Please activate my account. I would really, really appreciate it. Thank you!

Come and see a show, man!

2009-11-24T15:17:00.000-08:00

This weekend marks the fourth weekend of performances at City Garage of "The Trojan Women" by Charles Duncombe, and still: no Stewart Copeland. I know, because I've been to every performance, as well as helped out at the box office a couple of times. And I've peeked at the reservations for future performances, too.

(For those of you who need to be updated: about a month and a half ago, I presented Stewart Copeland with a touchingly homemade-looking postcard and passport to the theater, which would allow him four admissions to any show [note: the postcard was homemade because there were no official ones available yet at the time of his booksigning in Hollywood, so I had to make do with the laser printer and paper cutter at work. He recieved an actual passport, which was lovely and professionally printed, and allows the bearer to save 25% off the price of admission. If you're interested in getting one, send me an email or visit http://www.citygarage.org/], and, I hoped, my sincerity might've convinced him [or his lovely assistant] to call the theater and make a reservation. Hey: everybody has a dream, and this is mine.)

Anyway, so I was operating on the assumption that Stewart lives in Santa Monica (I got this in my head from somewhere and now I don't recall where I read it, exactly) and that our little theater, located in the heart of Santa Monica (with conveniently located parking) might interest him, that he would be curious to see a show that's an LA Times "Critic's Choice," and takes place right in his own backyard.

But nope: no phone call, no walk-in, no nothing.

Okay, so maybe I haven't given the guy (or his assistant) enough time. Maybe he's traveling, working, performing somewhere. Maybe he lives in Italy or Santa Barbara or someplace more exotic than North of Wilshire. Maybe he's just busy, or maybe he's afaid.

There is no reason to be afraid, Stewart. I have demonstrated my ability to be politely and goofily awed by your presence in a quiet way. I will be working if you come to the show, and therefore in my own head a little more than I was those other three times we "met." I will not embarrass you, myself, or the theater. Just come on down, won't you? I think you'd really, really enjoy the show. And what do you have to lose? The tickets were free, and you can use the passport in a multitude of ways: come yourself, four times; bring a friend, twice; or bring three friends, once. Really, with such flexibility, what's not to love about this deal? I might even buy you an ice cold Coke or 7-Up.

So call the theater at (310) 319-9939, and make your reservations. Just not for this weekend (November 28 and 29; no show Thanksgiving weekend on Friday), okay? I'm going to Vegas.

"Percussion Moves to Center Stage"

2009-11-18T08:16:00.000-08:00

I just read an article in (of all places) the Wall Street Journal (the title of my post is the same as that of the article, and the corniness of that title struck me as more appropriate to a People magazine article, but whatever) about drummers/percussionists (the gist: there are now lots more opportunities for highly trained percussionists to perform pieces specifically written for their instrument(s) than ever before, and they are now actually considered musicians. As recently as 30 years ago this was not the case) which mentioned the fact that a concerto by Mr. Stewart Copeland ("the former drummer of The Police") will be premiered in Dallas next year.

The website for the Dallas Symphony Orchestra doesn't list it's schedule beyond January 2010, but as soon as I find out what/when/where, it looks like we're going to Dallas. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not, really. I've always wanted to go to Dallas. I have.

(It also looks like this is old news. I'm slow.)

Sting(k)

2009-11-13T08:51:00.000-08:00

I just read an article about Sting that was published on October 19 over at the Globe and Mail (whatever that is). It was an interview and sort of review of his new album (which you can bet I won't be buying but I might listen to it on iTunes or Amazon). You can read the article here. After I finished reading it, I realized I'd never said much about Stewart's book, "Strange Things Happen." The article reminded me because it quoted some of the things Stewart says about Sting (for one, he called him a "fucking toad").

I've never been a fan of Sting, who, in spite of his amazing looks and body, has always managed to turn me off. I like his voice, I like the songs he wrote for the Police, but he doesn't interest me that much. He's just not my guy. Who is my guy? Well. I think perhaps the answer to that question goes without saying, no?

Anyway, I was thinking about the things Stewart says about Sting in his book, and most of them are highly complimentary, but of course what gets quoted in interviews and articles are the comments that are less than sweet. I don't have the book handy right now so I won't be quoting anything but I do recall that he wrote something about Sting's musical "genius." He was talking about how incredibly annoying it was when Sting would tell him, in exact words, how he should be playing the drums. I just wrote something the other day on my other blog about how I feel when somebody tells me how to drive. I do not drive nearly as well as Stewart plays the drums. I can imagine the massive irritation that would cause, especially for someone as talented and in possession of as healthy an ego as Stewart is (or, I don't know, maybe the ego is supposed to protect you from moments like this?). But then he went on to say that musically, Sting probably does have the goods to tell him what to do and that's where I got pissed off. I like it better when Stewart isn't being all generous and shit.

(Not that it really matters what I think, though.)

Also in the article about Sting, the author says Sting believes that while most bands are democracies, his opinion is that bands require a driver, and he is that driver. I've never been in a band (darnit) but I can only imagine that if I were talented and creative enough to have been accepted into one, that once installed as a member, to then have it be required that I should just shut up and do what I'm told... I think that would rankle. Unless that was my choice, to sit back and play what's put in front of me (hi, Stewart! Write me something!), if I were Stewart Copeland and Andy Summers, I'd have a problem with that. To all those people who like to tell me, as if I really care, that "Stewart Copeland is the one who broke up the Police," I say, well, I don't think so. I think Sting's massive need for domination broke up the Police.

Anyway, I have stuff to do today, believe it or not, and daydreaming about Stewart Copeland is best accomplished elsewhere.

Note: I've been listening to snippets of Sting's new album all morning. Right now playing is a 30 second clip of "Lo How a Rose E'er Blooming." Patty and I have played a million versions of this at various Christmas and flutes events: it's her favorite carol, but it had to grow on me. The clip stops right when Sting apparently begins to speak. I don't know, it seems very well done, and he seems to be using a much, much lower vocal register than usual, which is actually quite nice... I suspect we'll be hearing this at the neighborhood Christmas party at the neighbor's house this year. Right after all the Celine Dione albums.

Misidentified

2009-11-07T09:29:00.000-08:00

Last night was the super-exciting opening of "The Trojan Women" at City Garage Theatre in Santa Monica. Sold out, as usual; it's so much fun to have a full lobby and audience, with people spilling out into the alley.

Patrick came with me, and when I walked over to the theatre at about 10 minutes to 7, he went to get a cup of coffee instead of waiting around in the lobby. When I was walking down the alleyway, I saw the following tableau:

Under one of the few lights in the alley, a tall, distinguished but youthful man on a black bike wearing a suit jacket and dark pants was speaking with two bike cops. You know what "tall, distinguished but youthful" means, don't you? It means, that I, horribly nearsighted and bleary-eyed, for one second, thought it was Stewart Copeland. I gasped, laughed at myself, kept walking, and went into the theatre, where a few of my friends were excitedly discussing... football. I went into the booth and put my purse down, and when I came back out, the man on the bike was standing in the doorway of the theatre. I knew it wasn't Stewart Copeland, but I guess I wished it was so much that again I gasped a little. He left, and I started cracking up.

My friend Paul questioned why I would think he would be riding around Santa Monica on a bike, and of course Paul, the voice of reason, was right, but it would've been fun had it been him, wouldn't it! Technically the passport I gave him can't be used for opening night, and we were sold out, so the only available seat would have been the extra stool in the booth, which isn't exactly the best seat in the house for watching the show (I can't see the whole left [stage right] side of the stage unless I stand up and lean on the wall of the booth)... but that could've been okay, I think.

Hey, Stewart, don't forget you have that passport, okay? It's good for 4 admissions for any Friday or Saturday shows. Sundays are "pay-what-you-can." You can use it once for four people, or four times for you, or twice for you and a guest...

My morning commute

2009-11-03T07:26:00.000-08:00

It was foggy this morning, I got very little sleep (about 4.5 hours), I'm pretty tired, and I would've loved to have slept a few more hours. The drive to work, however, was kind of perfect, because the sun is out! I love when daylight saving time ends. It means a commute home in the dark but there's something about getting up with the sun that makes the whole process of going to work much easier.

I was in my typical fantasy mode while driving on the 710 (remarkably, traffic was flowing this morning), listening to my iPod, when "Indiscipline" by King Crimson came on.

I love this song! I really like Adrian Belew's voice, though he doesn't really sing this one. It's one of those songs I can listen to a hundred times in a row. I think I did, all the way from before Imperial Highway (about where the fog lifted) to the parking lot at work. I got a little bit of a kick out of imagining performing it with Melic Sub Rosa, the band my husband has been playing drums with. Those guys could kill this song, though I'm not sure how successful a vocalist I would be (at least I didn't imagine myself performing something beautiful like "Matte Kudasai")! I love how noisy the song is, how crashy and ringy the drums are with the cymbals everywhere and the way it all builds up. If I really did ever perform this song, I'd probably have to be very careful not to get distracted by the instrumentalists.

I like all kinds of music and many different styles, but I think my heart belongs to this kind of metered, beautiful noise.

This post has nothing to do with Stewart Copeland (though, he played with Andy Summers, and Andy played with Robert Fripp, who was in King Crimson), which you may either find odd, or... refreshing.

"Trojan Women" opens next Friday!

2009-10-29T13:10:00.000-07:00

Besides the cue to cue on Saturday (where, as I've said before, if I haven't read the play or talked to the actors beforehand, I learn nothing about what the show is actually about, because the moments of actual "show" that I see are fleeting, and, I usually have my hands full of lightboard and sound cues), I've seen the new show at City Garage exactly... once. There's been one tech rehearsal so far (Tuesday), and I managed to cough my way through it. As usual there's that one spot that - right now - feels impossible (for me) but I'm confident that Charles will work it out to be doable and that I will eventually understand what I need to do.

I don't want to talk too much about the shows anymore on my blogs... now that I know more than a couple people (I think I've moved on to at least "a few") read this, and some of them are associated with City Garage, or some of them might be inclined to go to a show, I don't want to accidentally say anything that would spoil anybody's experience. I think mostly what I've written in the past is about my own lack of confidence or shall we say fear about being there, but I think by now it would be better for everyone if you'd just assume that I am confident, capable, and professional when I work up there in the booth. And: I usually am. Surprising, that.

The one thing I would like to say now: I invited Stewart Copeland to come to this show, on a whim, totally not expecting him to come, but wanting to do something for him; but now that I've seen and heard the words of "The Trojan Women" as written by Charles Duncombe and realized by Frederique Michel, it hit me on Tuesday that I could not have chosen a better show to invite a famous person. Seriously. Mr. Copeland has been commenting on fame and fans and these topics, surprisingly, are dealt with in the show in a way in which I think he can relate.

We'll see.

Stewart, just a reminder: I'm there every night except Thanksgiving weekend, so whenever you wish to come, please be sure to wave at me in the booth, and yes, I am available for drinks after the show.

Knowing that this was pretty silly, even for me, I supressed it when it actually happened.

2009-10-20T21:36:00.000-07:00

The dream

Over the weekend (I think it was Saturday night) I had a dream that I was sleeping and that the phone rang and woke me up.

When I answered the phone, it was Stewart on the other end (well. He does have my number). He apologized to me and explained... that he couldn't make it to see "Where the Wild Things Are" with me because he forgot he had to work.

I made a sarcastic comment, then got sweet about it (good ol' passive-aggressive me), hung up the phone, and woke up.

Another letter

2009-10-14T12:04:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Copeland,

Hi. How are you? I'm here again. I realized that what I have done best (if by "best" you mean, "compulsively") in my successful relationships is communicate (ha ha, I hear Patrick saying). In other words: I like to write to the people I love (and sometimes, leave annoying/obtuse/mysterious voicemail messages). So we're going to keep this letter business up for a while, if it's okay with you.

I like to communicate, but I'm not always that good at it. Sometimes I work my way around what I'm trying to say without actually stating (or, in other words, knowing) what it is I'm trying to say, and that, no doubt, is confusing. It's also probably why I can't write poetry (and my inability to write poetry [or refusal to try] is probably a good thing). Sometimes I just have to say something, even if that something is confused, confusing, half-chewed and pointless.

This habit of writing to the objects of my affection started in middle school (so: you're not the first!), when a young boy (a year older than me) caught my eye in his parachute pants and Van Halen t-shirts (hey, it was the 80s). I didn't know this boy. I sat in front of him in band (he played the sax, I was down in the flute section), but I'd never seen him before the 7th grade. He was a total mystery to me. I didn't know his friends, I didn't talk to him in class or at lunch or on the telephone, but somehow I got it in my head to write to him.

So I wrote a couple of notes, like young girls do, I guess. I don't have any of these letters or samples or the ability to fathom what it is I had to say to this kid, and I only got one response from him, which was something to the effect of, "You sure write weird notes!"

Hey, is it to be expected that a kid in a Van Halen t-shirt would understand my 7th grade angst?

A couple of years later, I revised and/or perfected my plan for writing to a boy (another band kid, but this time he was from the much more exciting drum section. Sax players are fine, but drummers are, in my experience anyway, much better looking), and subsequently bombarded him with anonymous love letters. This is a tale I've told before, so I'll give you the short version: I wrote him unsigned notes in which I allowed myself to say all the complimentary and worshipful things I felt about him and cute guys in general (which therefore applied to him. Oh! He was definitely a cute guy, and not in a general sense). This went on for an unspecified time (unspecified because I don't remember), during which I also shot him lots of complimentary/worshipful looks from underneath my hair during band, football games, rehearsals in the parking lot, on the bus, in the hall - you get the picture. One day I revealed my identity and instead of laughing or, I don't know, striking out, he seemed okay with it and we went out once or twice. Nothing happened, to my chagrin (fucking chagrin!), but it was kind of successful, if by "success" you mean, "nothing happened." Hey, it could've been much, much worse, right?

Many years later I found out that he still had (has?) those stupid notes, but since he stopped talking to me (rather abruptly!) several years ago, I have no idea if they still exist. I'm going to guess no.

My twelfth grade boyfriend won me over with his writing (and one hell of a mix tape), so I haven't always been the only letter-writer. It's nice to get them, too.

In my early 20s, my next boyfriend found the first (unsent, as you shall see why) letter I ever wrote to you. Boy, was that a disaster. I've been a fan of the Police since I was about 9 or 10 years old. I had all your cassettes (cassettes!). In the 9th grade I wrote a paper using "Omegaman" as inspiration (I don't remember if it was a good paper). My friend Rachel, who has known me since I was 9 or 10, asks what Police album I'm listening to whenever she calls me, and there's always an answer, even now ("Regatta de Blanc"). I was a Police fan, but not a Sting fan, and I think that confuses people, because isn't Sting the "beautiful one"? How should I know? You were always the one for me. So, I wrote this crazy letter (in pen, using one of the spiral notebooks I was never without during those days) while Drew and I were supposedly doing our college homework in my bedroom, and at some point I left the room momentarily. When I came back, he was all over me, and not in a good way: he'd read the letter.

It was never going to be sent (where to? Where'd you live in 1991, and how would I have found that out?). It was a total fantasy letter. I must've thought, "write whatever you want, say whatever you want," because man, that is totally what I did. Drew was a great boyfriend but not a very literary one; our relationship was smooth, and fun, with lots of kissing and talking (and drinking!) but very little writing. I needed to write to somebody: you, the author of my favorite Police song ("Darkness") were it. It was a typical fan letter ("I think you're wonderful") but at some point - and I remember this vividly - I wrote, "I wish I could meet you. I bet you're a great kisser." As a great kisser himself, Drew took offense at this. Wild, overblown, operatic offense.

At first I thought he was crazy, or pulling my leg. Surely he understood what this letter was? An exercise in lust, maybe, but nothing real was going to come from it. I walked him through it patiently at first:

This letter will never be sent
If it were sent, it will probably never make it to its destination (because I didn't have a specific destination in mind other than "in Stewart Copeland's hot little hands")
If it does make it to its destination, it will probably never be read
It is is read, it will probably never be read by Stewart Copeland
If Stewart Copeland reads it, I'm sure he gets letters like this all the time, and is by now immune to their charms
Letters like this are probably either passed around to his staff and laughed at or filed in the "nutjob" drawer
This letter will never be sent

I didn't understand at first that what upset him wasn't that I knew I had no chance with you, that I knew what I was doing was futile. What upset him was that I could feel that way for another man, even if the other man, some kind of otherworldly rock god, would've probably never noticed me in a million years (crazy hair, glasses: I had a relatively hot body in the 90s, which I can say now because it seems to be history, but it was hidden beneath horrible clothes and no self-confidence. Drew was a very kind young man). He didn't care if most of it was kind of in jest: an experiment! A writing assignment! It didn't matter to him what you did with the information. It took me a long, long time to figure that out: I am not always a smart girl. This argument with him was when I realized that laughing at Drew when he was angry (which was rare) was a Very Bad Idea. Whatever self-righteousness I had about writing whatever the hell I wanted to whomever the hell I wanted - it wasn't fiction to him if I signed my real name, which I had done - was misplaced. I had my work cut out for me with this one, and it took a very long time to calm him down. Destroying that letter and a few tears were required, but, in the end, worth it. Well, until I broke his heart a couple years later, but that's a story for another time.

So, okay, I've been writing to you for years (perhaps it feels as if years have passed since you started reading this letter?). Now I'm finally "sending" them. It's a pointless operation, but satisfying, somehow.

What I really wanted to tell you was, my mom has been sick. Cancer. I've been dealing with it like children deal with the illnesses of their parents, I guess. There's nothing extraordinary in what I've been doing (my sister, on the other hand, has really been amazing). I've been dealing with it mostly okay. It's kind of a roller coaster; I'll spare you the details. I'm sure you have had this kind of scary thing in your own life. I kind of talked myself into thinking that everything is going to be okay, but: you know? I think I'm avoiding thinking about reality. I'm trying to be positive but when is "positive" just code for "unrealistic"? What do I believe? Yeah. It's that kind of thing. So yesterday I got it in my head - I had this urge - to do something. To run away. To fuck something up. To fuck something up, big time. To make a big giant mess and suffer the consequences. To not be passive about stuff anymore. To confess everything to a handsome stranger! I'm sick of sitting around. But what? And when? Is this normal? Why would I ask you?

I don't know. But I am.

Love you (no more strike out! I mean it!),
Irene

A letter

2009-10-12T19:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Copeland,

In the last three days, two of my closest friends, in a display of concern for me that I found quite touching, have used the word "stalker" in a questioning manner toward me and this blog.

This might be because on Thursday night, after going to the book signing at Amoeba Hollywood, I emailed a few people and asked who might be up for a road trip to San Francisco early Saturday morning to hit the Amoeba San Francisco book signing that you were doing up there.

I have to admit that I was still quite high from my encounter with you. It was pretty exciting to see you again, and I wrote about it that night while still glowing from a five minute visit that has probably already been forgotten by you. And, I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to find anybody willing to leave LA at 4 a.m., even if I offered to drive and buy lunch. Patrick was definitely not interested. So while for a split second I envisioned pulling up alongside your vehicle on the 5 north, I was pretty sure it wasn't going to happen. And all that driving in one day didn't seem like a good idea, either (though, if Rachel had been able to go with me, I we could've gotten a hotel room. The other people I invited were male, and married, and I think this would've been an issue). It wasn't a great idea, or, maybe it was a great idea destined to never happen.

And so, I didn't go. Instead, I satisfied myself with writing about you, to you, and hey, you know what? For you. I can't believe I was silly enough to slip you my business card. I can't believe I was silly enough to invite you to City Garage. I have no idea if you live in LA or on the west side or if you're interested in theater or if the fact that I'm not onstage but merely the light/sound operator is just too lame - but whatever. I am a firm believer in letting things out. And so? I let it out. It felt good. But I'm not stalking you. I swear. I just want to remind everybody that if it appears that I am delusional or crazy, that it's an act. Obviously either I'm doing a great job at writing this stuff because everybody thinks I'm delusional or crazy or I need to take it even further so that there will be no question that I know exactly what I'm doing, because nobody could be that insane.

I'm working on it. I'll get better.

In the meantime, "The Trojan Women" opens November 6. I'm scheduled to be in the booth for every performance except those taking place on Thanksgiving weekend, so if you come, please be sure to say hi.

~~Love you~~ Sincerely,
Irene

Stewart Copeland wrote on my hand, now with pictures

2009-10-10T10:57:00.000-07:00

My favorite reader, Foobella, informed me that the Exposay.com website has photos up from the book signing on Thursday, and included in the gallery are two of me and Stewart! You can see them here.

Please ignore my belly (I hope he did, too). I'm working on it, I'm working on it.

STEWART COPELAND WROTE ON MY HAND.

2009-10-08T20:19:00.000-07:00

Tonight was the Stewart Copeland book signing at Amoeba in Hollywood. I had to do some work stuff in the morning and then took the afternoon off (good ol' "P" time). I was there for a Wellness meeting, which I organized. It went well (lame pun, um, intended), and after that I drove up the street to pick up Patrick, and changed out of my work clothes. We had lunch at El Taco (I highly recommend El Taco!): I had the best chile relleno burrito you're likely to find in Downey.

After that we cruised up to Hollywood. We got there around 3, about 3 hours too early for the book signing, so we poked around and bought some CDs. Patrick got some Derek Bailey, I got some 80s stuff (Siouxsie & the Banshees, Divinyls). We ran into an old friend of Patrick's, and the two of them caught up on stuff. We still had some time to kill (they were going to start letting people line up at 5) so we went for a walk down Sunset. We saw the "Psychiatry: An Industry of Death Museum" (which is a crazy name), and I was going to link to it but it's an offshoot of Scientology so if you're really interested, go ahead and Google it yourself. Then we went to Groundwork for coffee, and to people-watch. I love Hollywood hipster-types. The coolest person we saw was this African-American guy walking down the street: he had on a black short sleeve collared shirt, a skinny black leather tie, a black belt, dark blue jeans, black shoes, and the raddest Afro I've seen all year. We were somewhat confused by all the young dudes dressed as old men: what that look is meant to convey other than... Old Man is beyond me. There were a lot of skinny young white kids in fedoras and plaid pants. It's not a good look. Patrick and I felt very plain and inconscpicuous, and that works for me.

Finally we headed back and got in line at Amoeba. It was about 4:45, and there were maybe six people in line ahead of us. Patrick was a little bored, so I let him play with my phone, and I started reading Stewart's book.

By 6 the line was longer, and they let us in the store. The line snaked around a ways but since we were close to the front - it was exciting. They weren't allowing photos with him, but we were able to take pictures from the line, which I did.

OK, so I had been thinking all day about how I was going to give him the envelope with the City Garage passport, but as we stood there, I started getting cold feet. Then I was looking at the photos on my phone, and I finally got what seemed like a good idea.

When it was finally our turn in line (and by "finally" I mean, about 6:15... we weren't waiting very long), Patrick went first with a copy of the book I'd picked up for a friend, and then it was my turn. My nerves make me stupid, and so I went up to him, and I put my book down, and then I showed him the photo of us taken in San Diego. I said, "I wanted to thank you for this," and he said something like, "Hey, that's pretty cool!" And then he pretended to sign my iPhone, which I subtly moved out of his reach. Then I said, "So I brought you these tickets to the theater I work in," and placed the envelope on the table.

At this point, it got a little funny - he said something like, "I will sign anything in this area!" and indicated about a 2 foot area on the table in front of him. And I said, "Oh, no, don't do that!" And he grabbed my right hand, and pretended to sign that. And I said, "Hey, you can sign that if you want!" And he did. My recollection of the actual words we said is fuzzy, if you're thinking this sounds like the silliest conversation, ever. I mean, it was silly, but it was also very, very exciting (well. for me). While all this was going on, there were about three photographers behind me, taking a lot of pictures. He signed my book (just his name: I was too delirious to request a personal message), and I think I said thank you and walked away. Patrick was standing a few feet away with his buddy, and I walked up to them and said the words you're all already thinking:

"I am such a dork."

I turned around and looked back, and of course he'd moved on to the next person (a young lady of about 15, there with her dad), and one of his assistants picked up the envelope with the tickets on it (and my business card, with my personal info on it, including the URL of this blog) and was, I hope, keeping it safe.

We stood there for awhile, with me shaking a little, and laughing at myself with Patrick and his friend, and then we left. It was very exciting, did I mention that?

And now, if he shows up to a show, well. No doubt I will be very surprised. But happy.

Oh, so dude, if you're reading this (or your assistant? your assistant's assistant?), first of all, let me just say, hi. And, I love you.

Come to the theater! And wave at me in the booth! No, better: come talk to me in the booth!

(This picture is at an awkward angle because he signed my hand facing him, obviously, and to take the photo, I had to hold my phone upside down... Those are my feet in the flip flops, and Patrick's in the Vans. My pocket is all bulbuous because I had some lip gloss in there. Jesus Christ. I am still totally psyched.)

Making plans for Stewart

2009-10-07T11:59:00.000-07:00

Okay, so tomorrow, when I see Stewart again at the Amoeba booksigning? Rather than relying on my ability to come up with something cute and brilliant (on the contrary: cute and brilliant are not mutually exclusive) at the spur of the moment (on the spur of the moment?), I have devised a plan. This is my plan. It's a stupid plan, and possibly a waste of money, and I'll probably chicken out, but I had to come up with something more clever than "Wow" and drooling all over myself in front of him.

I bought a "passport" (good for four admissions to any show at City Garage Theatre) and attached it to a postcard advertising the next show.
I'm going to give it to him, and say the following (or something resembling the following, or barring my ability to do that, at least something intelligible that is related to the following... or barring my ability to do even that, at least something intelligible and/or recognizable as the English language):

"I don't know how you feel about accepting gifts from strangers [fans?], but I wanted to invite you to theater where I work. I really think you'd enjoy it. Our next show opens Friday, November 6..."

I don't know why I feel the need to say the first bit about accepting gifts - either he does or he doesn't, it has nothing to do with me. Probably what will happen is, he'll say "thanks," sign my book, and send me on my merry way. But of course I've envisioned all sorts of fantasy follow-up sentences which will never see the light of day, I'm sure: "No, I'm not an actor, I'm a flutist, actually. I've been in two shows at City Garage but lately I've been the sound/lighting operator..." "Oh? You're working on a piece for flute and percussion? I would love to take a look at it..." "Well, I'll be working so I can't sit with you in the audience... what? You'd like to watch the show from the booth with me...?" "Dinner? Why no, I, I mean, we, don't have dinner plans, do we, Patrick? Patrick? Oh, where has he gone..." "I play in a flute choir. Oh, you've never heard a flute choir? Please, we'd love to have you at our little concert..."

I also included a business card with my cellphone number, email addresses, and blog URLs. Hey, what the hell, right? I mean, he may take one look at me and go, "Ah ha! We meet again! I've been reading your blog, and I love it!" Or? Security will usher me out a side door into the alley where they will rough me up and leave me crouched in a ball, sobbing into my copy of "Strange Things Happen."

God. I am so lame.

And for those of you paying attention, yes, I have realized that my obsession with Stewart Copeland and this meeting in particular is probably a metaphor for my views on relationships and is probably exhibiting my ability to act like a 15 year old well into my 30s in a not-very flattering way. Or maybe it's flattering, but not a good display of maturity. Do we really have to discuss it? Anyway, so be it. Maturity is overrated.

Hey! If for some reason Stewart refuses my awesome gift ("The Trojan Women" opens November 6, 2009, and from everything I've been hearing, looks to be another great show), I will award it to the first person to leave a comment to this post!

Facebook status:

2009-10-02T22:21:00.000-07:00

"I just offered Stewart Copeland $200 to hang out with me. What's wrong with lowballing him? Sometimes dickering is fun (I'm not even sure if that's a euphemism). Or, to look at it a different way, he should be paying ME."

...

I think what I'm going to do is invite him to opening night of The Trojan Women at City Garage. That's a horrible night because there are usually a thousand (slight exaggeration, as the theater seats less than 50) people there, I'll be nervous and especially so because it's opening night, but still, I think it's a good plan.

OK, it's a plan, though, not necessarily a great one.

A letter

2009-10-01T18:30:00.000-07:00

A letter from Irene C (the "fake" Irene, herein to be referred to as IC), to Irene P (IP, or me, the real Irene, the mistress of this blog).

Dear IP,

Stop trying to make me into a whore. Based on some old-fashioned views you've suddenly acquired of karma and morality, you've chosen to take the story of your fantasy alter-ego who lives in a place where dreams, oddly enough, really do come true, and turned it into some sort of moralistic bedtime story for Republicans.

The truth is, even though I'm not "real," by creating me and by writing my story (which, up to now, has been exciting, interesting, and full of love and happiness) you've started something magical, which you're now trying to corrupt by making me into some sort of low-down dirty skank.

Quit it.

You are more than welcome to try to make Stewart Copeland love you in your "reality." You've had two opportunities in the real world where you met Mr. Copeland, and you may have squandered them like so many magic beans - but that has nothing to do with me. Stop wasting your time on what you consider to be my "crimes" or by coming up with punishment for us, and concentrate on your own situation. Those were golden opportunities, chances for you to make your fantasies come true (or at least give him your phone number or email address). Your inability to fashion a relationship of any kind with this man who you so admire - a relationship, a friendship, maybe he might have recognized you the second time you met if you'd been more interesting during that first fateful encounter - is your own failure, and you tried to combat this failure by creating me, the "you" you're too afraid to be.

Stop your whining about not knowing what to write next. It doesn't matter what you "write" next. Once started, fantasies take on lives of their own. You, a lifelong reader of science fiction and Tom Robbins (Jasper Fforde too), should know that by now. We're happy: we don't need you to show us the right way. We don't need you to put your bourgeois stink on us.

Look, IC, I've heard you sing and play the flute and even, though not lately, attempt to play the drums. Your imagination, and as recently as ten years ago, possibly your chest, is probably your best asset. The time has come to write something truly interesting, something magical and beyond your powers to believe could really happen to someone like you. The limits that you set for yourself are the only ones that stop you from accomplishing your dreams.

In seven days, the real Stewart Copeland will be signing his book at Amoeba in Hollywood. Figure out how to make an impression on him. Say what's in your heart. It's time to be fearless. It may not be the love affair you imagined for me, but any connection is better than none. Stop worrying about if he thinks his fans are crazy, if he has no real reason to care about you; stop this pseudo-psycho fan stalker thing you've started (we all know you're not as crazy as you pretend to be), and find something real to say to him other than "Wow."

You can do it.

Sincerely,
IC

Note to self: throwing a tantrum to get noticed only works in like the 2nd grade

2009-10-01T17:21:00.000-07:00

Hmm. So I guess I was sort of hoping that my freakout yesterday about not having anything sexy to write about anymore might've gotten me, oh, I don't know, a personal email or phone call from Mr. Copeland himself (and not, say, from his lawyer), but it's been less than 24 hours and nooope, there have been no phone calls or emails beyond the usual crap (and by "crap," I am of course not including the lovely conversations I've had with you, Todd, or you, Paul, or you, Missy, or you Angie).

I've convinced myself that if he really wanted to find me, it wouldn't be hard for him to find me. In cyberspace, I mean, don't go thinking my actual location is knowable in that easy of a fashion. Also, I sometimes wonder if somebody I know knows him or knows someone who knows him... and is keeping this information from me for some silly, jealous reason. I even got a little flustered once when answering the "How Am I Driving" line at work today (oh! If I could write about the conversations I have with those people, my other blog would be way more interesting), thinking maybe he was reaching out to me... by complaining about one of our drivers? I don't know, it's been a long, confusing day. Is it Wednesday, or Thursday?

See, though, the downside to the "if he wanted me, he could find me" statement is that, if he doesn't want me, I'll never be looked for.

And that's just too depressing to think about much longer.

I go now, to Culver City, flute choir, and a long drive of fantastical ramblings.

I KEEP TRYING TO WRITE SOMETHING

2009-09-30T20:51:00.000-07:00

BUT I GET STUCK ON THE MORAL OF THE STORY WHEREIN MY FAKE CHARACTER THAT'S REALLY ME (but isn't) HAS TO DEAL WITH THE REALITY OF A SITUATION THAT ISN'T REAL.

Why Am I Torturing What Started Out as a fun story about a fantastical relationship with a famous person and taking all the fun out of it??

Look, if you're wondering what happens next in the saga of Stewart Copeland and "Irene Casarez," SO AM I. So far all I've come up with involves me (her?) alone and lonely in Santa Monica, singing karaoke ("So Lonely," "Can't Stand Losing You," "Hole In My Life," "Darkness,") and becoming a cleaning lady in a hotel after both dream men, Stewart and Patrick leave me to reap the consequences of my sins. Why is that all I can come up with?

Fuck! That's no fucking fun!

Why can't I make them, I don't know, rich and happy and sexy? Why can't I let my alter ego be happy, in a different way than I am happy, sure, but happy? We could both be happy, who does it hurt? Could it be because I recently read somewhere (and I have no idea when the event I'm about to tell you about happened) that my dream man is a GRANDPA? and that the things that make him happiest in life are his SEVEN children? And that he used to have an "open" marriage but that he realizes now what a schmuck he was? and that he doesn't believe in fan love anymore?

Argh! I just want to fantasize about traveling around the world with him and playing music I'm unqualified to play (and yes, this time that is a euphemism) with him and instead I have to go get all moral about it? It's a fantasy! It's a fantasy! It's a fantasy! It was fun for all of us, until something changed.

What changed?!

Stay tuned. Maybe I'll bust through this one. Maybe not. It could be the thing that makes me feel like a total failure... or the thing that makes me feel like a real writer.

(Ha! AS IF!)

Stewart, if you're reading this (if you're reading this is what makes me totally delusional, but in a totally sane way), has the saga of me and you (ME and YOU have a SAGA! Like John and Yoko!) offended you in any way? Am I crazy? Are there photos of me in the possession of your bodyguards? Does idly wondering if I'm important enough to have been noticed by you a sign of something bad? I just wanted to tell a story, man. I'm totally normal, I'm not a stalker, I'm not crazy, I was just having some fun, I swear.

(Calming down now. Stepping away from the computer. Please don't be afraid.)

See you in 8 days at Amoeba!

This is not a book review

2009-09-27T22:15:00.001-07:00

I finished reading Andy's book today. Patrick got up early and went to the swap meet, and though I did continue to sleep for about a half hour after he left, I woke up eventually and hit the book, which I started reading around 9:30 last night.

At 2:30 p.m., taking a few Scrabble and bathroom breaks, I finished it.

Andy is a very intelligent man, much more accomplished on the guitar than I ever gave him credit for, well-read, interesting - he seems like a lovely guy. And wow, his dedication to the guitar is fascinating. He didn't have much to say about Stewart in the book, but I thought that his comments about Sting were measured and fair.

I mean, I'm not a huge Sting fan anyway, and Andy's comments didn't make me like him or dislike him any more than I already do, so I guess while I come out of the experience of reading the book with slightly more information, I'm more or less where I always was in regards to Sting. I've heard both Stewart and now Andy talk about Sting's excellent song-writing ability, and this may be true, but his solo stuff, in a word, sucks, so maybe the magic of the two of them is required to make me enjoy Sting's music.

I love his voice, though, when he's singing Police songs, and I love him as part of a that particular trio, and I guess that's saying something nice about him (and he was, and is, a very attractive man).

Anyway, the book was enjoyable to read. Andy's been everywhere and done everything, and those kinds of people are almost always interesting. He also has a great sense of humor. I think I'm going to go dig up our copy of his album "I Advance Masked" and give it another listen.

Because when Stewart asks you if you've done something,

2009-09-26T22:13:00.001-07:00

even if he did the asking in a dream*, you damn well better do it.

So far it's a great book. Andy is charming, intelligent, interesting. I'm enjoying it so much, I almost feel like I'm cheating on somebody.

*Don't worry, next time he dream-asks me to do something, I'm pretty sure it won't be related to reading stuff. Not if I can help it, anyway.

A dream!

2009-09-26T10:06:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a dream that I was at the Amoeba book signing, and Stewart asked me if I'd read Andy Summers' book "One Train Later." Instead of answering him, I quoted the Old Man from the show we just closed at City Garage, "The Chairs" and said, "Time has left it's wheel marks on our skin."

I have no idea if that's an exact quote. I think it's how Bo Roberts spoke it on stage, though (I probably shouldn't say this, but Bo usually got the sense of what he was supposed to say, if not exactly word for word as written in the script, every single time! This was from my favorite part in the show, when he addressed the invisible Belle: the love of his life from so long ago). It was one of those moments when I didn't have to do anything for a few minutes and so I could watch the stage from the booth more closely than usual. He may have said it slightly different with every performance; I stopped paying attention to the exact words on the page pretty early on in the run of the show. I'm going to miss not going to the theater tonight, the first Saturday since the show closed. Is that weird?

Patrick and I saw "The Time Traveler's Wife" last night, and I was a little disappointed in it. I'm trying to figure out if this has anything to do with the dream (or "The Chairs"), but I'm not thinking about it too much, either. Then again, I love the idea of time travel...

I haven't read Andy's book, though, and it surprises me. I have it on hold at the Borders on Bellflower. I might go pick it up today.

A letter to Stewart:

2009-09-25T10:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Stewart Copeland,

I just paid iTunes 99 cents to make "Too Kool to Kalypso" a ringtone (what part of that not-quite-one-dollar fee goes to you, I wonder), and I just realized that now I finally have something in mind ahead of time to talk to you about when we meet (again) in just under two weeks, but which I'll write here rather than keep secret, because let's face it, you're not reading this shit anyway:

When is the rest of the Klark Kent stuff going to be available to download (legally)? and, Is that really you playing the kazoo on that song or did you hire professional kazoo players? and, If you hired professional kazoo players, where did you find them, and how much did you pay them?

(See, I find whenever I try to play the kazoo, it sounds like a hot mess. As a flutist, some people find it strange that I can't whistle, either. It's okay, though, because I have great embouchure. You, however, have managed to make magic. I guess that's why you're internationally famous and this blog has had just 219 visits since it's official debut in June, and I haven't had a gig in two years [not that I mind all that much].)

Actually, I don't really care about the kazoo players. I just want some Klark Kent on my iPod. So. Let's make that happen, okay, man? It won't be hard for you (or one of your minions) to find me to make the drop.

Now all I have to do is get someone to call me while I'm talking to you at Amoeba.

~~Love you~~ Sincerely,
Irene

Thursday, October 8

2009-09-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

So I guess it's clear to all of you (ha! "all of you") that I'm going to meet Stewart Copeland on Thursday, October 8th when he does a book signing that night at Amoeba Hollywood. I'll be using P time at work to leave after a lunch and learn event on relieving stress that I organized so I can be there on time (Stewart may both increase and decrease my stress levels... that is, if he knows what he's doing). Patrick has already agreed to accompany me as my chaperon.

The problem is, I'm supposed to be in flute choir that night.

What if I can convince him to leave Hollywood and come back with me to Culver City? I bet he's never seen/heard a flute choir before? Wouldn't that be fun?

Dude, I will drive you anywhere you want to go after that, I promise. My Honda is your Honda.

Hello, gorgeous

2009-09-15T21:40:00.000-07:00

Making my husband attend two Stewart Copeland events within the span of three months may be the straw that breaks that camel's back...

Thanks to my 1 follower, Foobella, for the 411 about the book signing at Amoeba Hollywood on October 8. It's good to have something to look forward to, isn't it.

At about 11:00 he talks about the conflict with Sting, and how they are each others' "bitterest pill to swallow."

Boy have I got something to say about that comment... but I will keep it to myself.

It's just too dirty.
(At about 15:20 he also comments on the well-hung tools of professionals. Come on, man. You're making this too easy.)

Tonight I'm going to dream about his hair, and my hands in it. (Wait, did I really just type that?)

Good lord, at about 25:00 he discusses the joys of polo, in which he says you gotta have strong legs. Yep. That's something to think about, too.

Maybe I'll also go to the signing in San Francisco on October 12th. Hmmm.

Why Stewart Copeland should invite me to London

2009-09-03T11:29:00.000-07:00

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.

Our day in La Jolla

2009-08-22T10:05:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Patrick and I drove down to San Diego for SummerFest. We both had some things to do in the morning - I got my hair done, and he had to work for a couple of hours, but when he got home, we ate a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (do you think you'll require this level of detail as I continue with the story?), and then got on the road at about 1:00.

The concert wasn't until 7:30, but there was to be a pre-concert lecture with two of the other composers who were debuting music, and we wanted to hear them. Also we wanted to get something to eat.

At around 2 p.m., though, Patrick suddenly found himself getting very, very sleepy. He pulled over at a vista point and we napped for an hour. I know this sounds weird but whatever: I guess we were tired.

Back on the road by 2:30, picked up some coffee and then headed straight for the Sherwood Auditorium. We got there around 3:45. There were a lot of cars on the tiny streets of La Jolla, and because of the traffic, we scrapped our plans to hit a Mexican restaurant that turned out to be 11 miles away. Instead, we drove around aimlessly, admiring the view and the scenery (it really is pretty), and found a Plan B Mexican restaurant: Verdes El Ranchero. The food was delicious and we got plenty filled up.

At 6:30 we went to the pre-concert talk with Paul Schoenfield and George Tsontakis, the other two composers. It reminded me of the flute convention, hearing people talk about music, and I thought both gentleman were very interesting. I was very curious about Mr. Tsontakis' compositions because his personality seemed so energetic.

After that was over, we went back into the lobby and I bought a t-shirt. Then it was time to find our seats, which turned out to be the best seats possible. We were on the right side of the auditorium, directly in front of Stewart Copeland's drum kit, in the 5th row back, on the end. Really great seats for $40 each. I'm glad I didn't buy the more expensive tickets. There was a ton of other percussion instruments all over the stage, marimbas and who knows what all else, as well as a grand piano.

First up was George Tsontakis' "Stimulus Package," which was his commissioned piece for this concert. It was performed by a group called "Real Quiet," a trio. There was a percussionist, a cellist, and a pianist. Their performance was amazing, and I was really impressed. I loved in particular the way they blended the sounds of their instruments. The percussionist, David Cossin, was particularly impressive. I know I'm a sucker for percussionists/drummers, but I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was wonderful.

Here's a link to a video of them performing in 2008. Different piece than we heard but I think I might be a fan, now.

After that, we heard Paul Schoenfield's piece, "Sonata for Violin and Piano," also commissioned for this concert. It was performed by Cho-Liang Lin on violin, and Jon Kimura Parker on piano. Totally different style. We really enjoyed the second and third movements - Intermezzo and Romanza. Beautiful.

After that, there was an intermission. We realized during the intermission that the crowd of people in front of us was mostly people from a Stewart Copeland fan club, and that felt weird. Yes, the only reason I originally wanted to go to SummerFest was because of Stewart Copeland, but after hearing the other composers talk, and hearing their music, I realized that live music, expertly performed, is a treat. I was having a great time without him, even.

This is not to say that I wasn't still excited about seeing him perform, because I was. I don't know what I'm trying to say.

Anyway, after a fairly long intermission, finally he came out. He had four things on the program, and performed them in this order:

"Celeste," for violin, piano and drums
"Retail Therapy" (new piece) for violin, piano, percussion, bass, bass clarinet and trumpet
"Kaya," for violin, bass, bass clarinet, trumpet, piano, and percussion
"Gene Pool," for percussion

"Celeste" was fun. The performers (Kyoko Takezawa on violin and Joyce Yang on piano) were really, really good. I enjoyed their playing very much. Stewart played drums with them, and it was exciting to hear (and see) him interacting with classical musicians. I heard an interview with him from the day before where he said that at one point (I don't think it was in this piece, though) that he had encouraged the pianist to improvise and he said that she got a very "panicked look on her face." I'm not sure if he was characterizing her right - she looked quite capable. I think maybe he brought some rock and roll musician biases with him?

"Retail Therapy" was interesting, too. I liked hearing the bass clarinet and horns, and we got to see David Cossin play again. For this one, Stewart played octobons, a variety of percussion, and a big bass drum. Patrick suspects it was a gong bass, but we're not sure. He moved to the other side of the stage for this one, and our vision was obstructed a little.

"Gene Pool" was my favorite. There were, I think, 3 marimbas on stage, and again, David Cossin was in the thick of things. Stewart played his kit and directed things, but the other percussionists, David Cossin and the guys from red fish blue fish were awesome. It was fun to watch and to listen to.

Afterwards, we milled about in the lobby with the other Stewart Copeland fans. It had been announced that the composers would come out after the performance to meet the fans. I didn't buy anything other than a t-shirt (they were selling "Everyone Stares" and some CD's), so I decided to have him sign my program. David Cossin came out into the lobby, and I told him how much I enjoyed his playing. He was nice and smiled and thanked us.

I was the 4th or 5th person in line (which was a lucky turn of events and only happened because no one really knew where to line up). Patrick was ready with the camera, I had the page in my program marked by my ticket, I had a fresh coat of lip gloss on... and then it was my turn.

I said more than "wow" to him this time, but nothing much of importance. I thanked him for his performance and told him, I think, that I enjoyed it. I asked him to sign my program, and then I asked if my husband could take a photo of us. He said yes, so I put my stuff on the table and he stood up and instantly put his arm around me. No "may I put my arm around you" - he knew what to do. I should've fixed my hair and sweater but then Patrick was taking the picture, and I gathered up my stuff so we could go.

We walked by the three guys from "Real Quiet," and Patrick complimented them, too, and then we got in the car and drove home.

Nice day, that.

These photos are real.

2009-08-22T09:45:00.001-07:00

My hair is messed up, my bra strap is showing, but this was just awesome.

Holy crap he's touching me!

Thanks, Stewart!

One word:

2009-08-21T22:25:00.000-07:00

Wow.

In the lobby.

2009-08-21T22:02:00.000-07:00

All these people are waiting for Stewart Copeland.

His traps.

2009-08-21T19:30:00.000-07:00

I'm a sucker for merch.

2009-08-21T19:28:00.000-07:00

I wonder if Stewart Copeland likes...

2009-08-21T18:17:00.000-07:00

chicks with scars?

I wonder if Stewart Copeland likes...

2009-08-21T18:09:00.000-07:00

floppy-haired running blond kids?

I wonder if Stewart Copeland likes...

2009-08-21T18:05:00.000-07:00

"Halfway to Cleveland"?

I wonder if Stewart Copeland likes...

2009-08-21T17:46:00.000-07:00

extremely baggy pants?

I wonder if Stewart Copeland likes...

2009-08-21T17:43:00.000-07:00

Bare Minerals?

I wonder if Stewart Copeland likes...

2009-08-21T17:42:00.000-07:00

sunflowers?

At Verdes Mexican Restaurant,

2009-08-21T16:58:00.000-07:00

chosen at random. "I wonder if Stewart Copeland likes Mexican food?"

On our way to La Jolla

2009-08-21T13:22:00.000-07:00

We're coming, Stewart!