Reading that interview reminded me of the time I met him. I was blogging on myspace back then, so I went back and found that post. Here it is. It is awfully, awfully silly.
The New Most Beautiful Woman In London
She was at the party I went to yesterday for the close of THE WILD DUCK. It’s ironic, because THE WILD DUCK hasn’t actually closed yet. They do closing night parties on Thursday, then they close on Saturday. Anyway…one of the actresses in the show played a fourteen year old girl–and very well, by the way. Then she shows up at the party looking very hot and very of age. And then her friend shows up…and wow. Just wow. Even the ladies from the theater who were showing me around were commenting on her. Nothing loosens up your relationship with new folks like hearing them say “the gay part of me can’t stop looking at her.”
THE WILD DUCK itself was a strong production of a good but sort of weird Ibsen play–it’s sort of anti-idealism and truthfulness–it’s actually much more in favor of “truthiness”–and now I’ll never use that word again.
Oh, and I met Tom Stoppard.
So I go to the bar/cafe where I’m supposed to meet him. And I sit down and wait–I’m like fifteen minutes early, and he’s expecting to be about five minutes late. So a guy walks in, and I say to myself, “hey, I have no idea what this guy looks like.” So I think it might be him. But I try to draw attention to the fact that I’m looking for him, but he sorta looks past me, and I assume it’s not him. But of course, I sit there for ten minutes taking notes in my notebook about how I have no clue how to find out.
So then another guy shows up, and I think “hey, THAT might be him.” So now I’m all confused, and I’m not going up to talk to either of them, beacuse I don’t want to go to the wrong guy and have the right guy hear me and know that I don’t know who he is.
So then the first guy checks his watch and leaves–and I’m instantly convinced it’s him. But I just keep sitting there. So then the first guy comes back, and I’m like IT’S CLEARLY him, and then he goes to the other guy–the guy I thought was him–and asks if he’s me, and that guy says no, and I say ah yes, and I go make the introduction.
That’s not really a good story.
So we talked about whatever. Good guy. Good conversation. He told me he thought the equivalent of the Puerto Rican/US relationship in London was not India or Bangladeshi, like I assumed, but Jamaican. And then, without reading the play or knowing anything about it, he said “and the real connection is that Jamaican music has influenced London culture”–which, of course, makes it the perfect parallel for my purposes.
And then we went for a walk in Sloane Square, which is across the street from the Royal Court, and he tells me they want to build a tunnel from the Royal Court to Sloane Square under the street, but they haven’t finished it–and then we find the tunnel. So me and Tom Stoppard try to go into this tunnel, but the doors are locked and we have to come back up to the surface and run across the street instead.
That’s not really a good story either, but it’s got some silly images at least, I hope.