Dear Adam Powers:
I was thinking the other day about the night we met, almost a year ago now. I don’t think you’re aware of the full story. I’m glad we still talk, even though my brush with fame didn’t pan out.
I remember it was just after band practice and my Wombatalie and I decided to get trashed at OCSC to drum up some interest in our upcoming gig. We played a little game where Wombatalie picked complete strangers for me to recruit to the show. Within ten minutes I had convinced about eleven people we were awesome, and that’s when Wombatalie pointed out a small group of people near the bar, a group which I had been specifically avoiding. YOUR group. You were an intimidating group, really, porcelain-faced hipster boys and a pretty girl with sock-hop fringe bangs holding a stout little French Bulldog in her lap.
But this was a game, and I was determined to win first prize, which was apparently a blue ribbon in exponential humiliation. I stumbled over to your group with my hands out and my fingers splayed in foolish inquiry. “Hey. Whatchall doin tomorrow night?” I looked right at you, Adam, because you were the least threatening.
You just sort of squinted at me and I knew immediately that you were thinking twice about telling me. With unbearable reluctance, you mumbled, “Were going to Charlotte.”
“Oh no,” I said, “You’re coming to a rock show! My band’s playing tomorrow and ya’ll should check us out. We haven’t played many shows but we have a good time together and it’s all in fun I mean we’re not really doing it for the money, right? Who does it for the money? I mean who does that?” I went on for three very long minutes about how signed bands quickly lose sight of what brought them there in the first place, their fans, their passion. In the middle of my drunken babble I realized you guys were actually listening to me, so I shut up.
I remember you were holding a fancy camera and kept snapping pictures of the girl with the dog. You turned to me and said, “Well, give us your name and number and myspace page and email and we’ll be in touch if you want. Sorry we can’t make it, but we really have to go to Charlotte. We’re on a little tour and that’s our next gig.”
Oh, neato, I thought to myself. They’re in a band too!
Your request for extensive contact info seemed a little strange, but I figured it was just some sort of networking tool. But there was something about the way you said, “We’ll be in touch” that struck a strange, businessy chord. Plus, if you wanted to stalk me, I was somehow okay with that.
I turned to the bartender to ask for a pen. There was a tight little group of Carrboro boys watching me, their eyes narrow slits. They noticed I was comfortable talking to the Charlotte-bound crew. One of them stage whispered to me, “You’re friends with those guys?” and I was like, “Yeah, why?” I was lying, but who cared? I didn’t know anybody in either group, so what did I have to lose? “Really?” the boys said to me. “That’s awesome, shit.” Weird.
The girl with the dog looked vaguely familiar, so I decided to bother her a little bit. Maybe I had seen her on one of my Harris Teeter Midnight Corn Dog runs, an errand I feel the need to capitalize. So I did the socially logical thing by forcing her to look at fourteen cell phone pictures of my dog. I told the girl about how my dog gets her lips stuck in her teeth when she’s mad or excited.
I was making all kinds of dog faces at her dog. It was sort of ridiculous. The group’s interest in me was clearly waning, and only Mona, the English Bulldog, seemed to be paying me any attention.
So I felt like it was time to move on. I had informed you guys of my show, provided you with every possible way to “keep in touch,” shared my dog pictures and performed “Boston Snorts” for y’all (the noise my dog makes when she eats flying bugs directly from the air). There was nothing left to say, really. I was getting progressively drunker the longer I stood there, and the room was starting to spin. Your phone rang, and as I was saying goodbye, I heard little soundbytes from your side of the conversation. . . “Power. . .packed. . .just finished. . .bar. . .” and right then, Mona’s mom stuck her hand out and said, “Well it was awesome to meet you, my name’s Chan Marshall. What was yours?”
And it all clicked in my tiny, meager brain. I knew why she looked so familiar. I mean, I read Rolling Stone for god’s sakes.
“Um.” I stammered a little, then a lot, “Man-M-Mandey?” I said my name like it was a question.
See, it’s hard to properly remember your name when you realize you have just unknowingly invited fucking CAT POWER to your band’s little gig.
Yeah, I so did.
So now Cat Power thinks I’m some stupid crazed fan who’s all like, “Chan, Chan! Come to my show! Listen to my demo! I wanna toooouuuur with yoooooouuu pleeez!!!” when in all actuality I had no idea who you guys were when I walked up.
I said bye, quickly, and stumbled back to Wombatalie and said, “IjustinvitedCatPowertoourshowtomorrowwehavetogonowdonotdelay.”
We ran outside and Wombatalie was laughing at me and we were freaking out and I got in my Baby Battered Honda and turned the keys, quick, and Wombat jumped on top of my car hood and hung her face down in front of the windshield and said, “GO WOMBAT GO” and right when I was about to take off pealing out of the parking lot with her on my roof, you materialized from nowhere and started snapping pictures with your fancy camera. And there was Chan, watching us and giggling and cheering us on as we performed parking lot stunts.
And I swear I’m gonna sue if we don’t end up on Cat Power’s tour blog with an appropriate caption such as, “Retards Go For Spin After Crazed Attempt At Starfucking!” Or maybe just, “Retards!”
So that’s my story. Of course, y’all didn’t come to the show. You were touring. And maybe one day we’ll hang out again, but probably we’ll just keep emailing till we forget about each other. Cat Power’s keeping in touch, so you never know.