This might seem to be a diary entry about meeting Brian Eno
But it's really about growing up in Orange Park, Florida in 1985. Backstage on the night of David Byrne’s first London show, everyone was being shuffled by a friendly-yet-menacing security guard towards a magic-markered sign at the end of the hallway. "Artist's Bar," it said. I was walking in between my boyfriend and Steve, who had just written a movie about the American South. Some old bald guy in a silky shirt was just in front of us. The bald guy and boyfriend were talking; I was chatting with Steve. I got a Stella out of the tub on the plywood bar and walked to the big table they'd snagged in the corner. As I sat down boyfriend yelled "Robin! This is Brian!" "What's your name again?" I leaned over, shaking the bald man’s hand. "Brian!" he yelled over the noise. "Nice to meet you!" I cried. Boyfriend stood up and started to walk away, stopping to catch my arm up and tug me out of my seat towards ...
