An Open Letter to Jerry Harrison of the Talking Heads

One in a series of short interactions with celebrities, all of which end poorly

Dear Mr. Harrison:

Supposedly, we don’t know each other, so I won’t bother with the wind-up, and just get right to it: I appreciate and respect your preference for anonymity. Let me explain.

There is an Indian restaurant quite near my apartment in San Francisco’s Alamo Square/Lower Haight district. They serve an excellent and reasonably priced buffet lunch. I have visited this restaurant twice within the past two months. On both occasions, you and members of your virtual music company garageband.com were also dining at this same restaurant. Essentially, I’d like to say thanks. You could have walked up and bugged me. And you didn’t.

I know it’s easy to do -- I’ve done it myself. You walk into a restaurant or a bar, you recognize someone, and the first instinct is to walk up and start chatting away, or offering up worshipful compliments. And you showed admirable restraint. You sat there with your associates, chewing a tandoori chicken leg, in your untucked T-shirt and black jeans…as if I wasn’t even there. When in fact I was just three tables away, in untucked T-shirt and blue jeans, eating a piece of chicken from the very same steam table. It was beautiful and simple. Two carnivores at peace. A man from Harvard, a man from Montana. In a word, respect.

During this most recent silence between us, many thoughts raced through my mind. I’ll admit that briefly I considered walking over and saying something like, “Tandoori’s good, isn’t it?” or perhaps quickly singing, “Chick-en Ma-sa-la…Qu'est-ce que c'est.” Who knows, perhaps you harbored similar thoughts of walking up to me and asking, “Anything good in the paper today?” But the point of it is, we didn’t. We simply sat and ate. 

In fact, if you had approached me and made a joke about the books or articles I’d written, I’d probably punch you straight in the eye. You’d be surprised—who wouldn’t?—and then you’d pick yourself up from the floor, shake it off, and sock me in the gut, making me sink to my knees in pain. We’d scuffle for a bit, knocking over chairs and tables. You’d get me in a headlock, and I’d bite your arm and you’d scream and release me. And then since you’re smaller, I’d pick you up, spin you over my head, and heave you right into the steam cart, sending sheets of scalding hot vindaloo and rogan josh all over the rest of the customers. The kitchen crew would attempt to restrain us both, but it would be very difficult, with all the slipping and sliding. Eventually, we would both be thrown out the doors onto the sidewalk. We’d stand up, look at each other, all splattered with blood and curry, and then you’d flip me the finger, and I’d grab your throat and bend you backwards over a fire hydrant and it would start all over again.

It’s obvious that we both desire privacy. So allow me to propose this. We make a pact, right here and now. Any time we see each other in public, whether in a restaurant or walking down the street, we do exactly what we’ve been doing all along. We ignore each other. You be cool, and I’ll be cool. Deal? Deal.

Best,

Jack Boulware

September 8, 2001