So, there I was, checking my email every five minutes. Doink. That's the sound my email program makes when I check it and there's nothing new. Doink. I sent that embarrassing piece of writing out into cyberspace, to a guy I'd spent one night with and since then thousands and thousands and thousands of nights have passed. Doink. Why did I write that email? Doink. I must be crazy. Doink. Doink. Doink. I wish we both had AOL so I could get it back. Doink. Doink. Doink. I sent the email on August 14th, 2005 at 12:31 AM and it's now August 15th, 2005 at 12:31 AM. That's 24 hours. Stupid girl. Doink. Doink. Doink. August 16th, 2005 at 12:31 AM. That's 48 hours. I'm beyond embarrassed. Doink. Doink. Doink. The worst thing about email is that's it's instantaneous. Doink. Doink. Doink.
August 16th, 2005. 10:53 AM. Pingpingpingping!! Oh my God. It's an email from Chris Parker. I can't open it. No way. I already know what it says. I'm psychic that way. Really. It's say, "Thanks for writing. I met 800 girls on the road. Well, actually 1000 but only 800 made it up to the room - you should take pride in the fact that you made the cut. I'm sure you don't expect me to remember every one of you. If you send me your address I'd be happy to send you an autographed picture." I should just delete the damn thing.
Okay, I didn't delete it. I opened it. He left my embarrassing ramblings on the top so I had to scroll and scroll and scroll until I got to:
"Hi Deborah, Wow! How nice to hear from you. You sound great and productive and as always, very creative. Every time I've been to Vancouver since then, I always think of you fondly, and our long night together.
I must look for the books, Starart and Everybody I shot..-glad I'm not in that one!!"
Somebody, pick me up off the floor. There was more, but that was the best part. He remembered me! Uh oh, what if he was just saying that?
So, we emailed back and forth a few times over the next three months. All very casual. Then on December 5th I got this:
"I am coming to the NAMM show January 20, 21, 22. That's Anaheim though. I'll be with the Yamaha artists doing Groove Night."
So what do I do? I send this:
Anaheim is not far at all. Any chance you could get me in
to see you play and/or make time for a dinner?
Best, D "
Yes, I invited myself. At least I didn't write back the same day he sent it. I waited 4 days. But, again, I put myself way out on a limb. He didn't invite me. I did. And then I waited again. Doink. Doink. Doink. I waited until January 5th, 2006 for his response:
"It would be great to see you out there. I'll email you my hotel/itinerary as soon as I get it. And I'm sure I could have a guest-I only play one song but it's a cool event if you like drummers(?)"
Do I like drummers? Duh.
I wrote back:
"Sounds great. How fun and strange it will be to see you after all these years. Let me know what's best for you. My cell number is 818-xxx-xxxx in case you need it."
Fun and strange? That was mild compared to what I was really thinking. I should have gone for something closer to 'Freaky and petrifying.'
On January 19th he sent me his itinery. This included an invite for dinner on Friday night and a ticket and backstage pass for the show on Saturday night. Wow, a BACKSTAGE PASS. I remember those. I freaked and became instantly petrified. DO I REALLY WANT TO DO THIS?
The last time I saw Chris Parker, I looked like this:Somebody get me a plastic surgeon and a gym membership. Quick!