It's our first date. I'm sitting at a wobbly table across from Rob at the little Mexican restaurant in Hollywood that isn't there anymore and trying to impress him with my encyclopedic music knowledge that is not so encyclopedic. I mean, I know stuff, but I learned most of it from Pop Up Video. Rob is the one who knows all the good bands, the ones I haven't heard about yet because they are only playing on the hipster radio waves that the cool kids hear in their brains. It's 2007, so I'm probably spewing some nonsense about the Cold War Kids (for whom I make no apologies since they are completely incredible) when I hear those oh so familiar bars: Love...I get so lost...sometimes.... Those strains that bring to mind John Cusack and boomboxes for any red-blooded American born between 1970 and 1985.
I don't want to say anything. For all I know, Rob thinks Peter Gabriel is "pedestrian" or some other music critic-y word for "no good." But he must know. He must be reading my mind because he looks in my eyes and says, "I love this song."
One year later, I'm getting my wedding dress fitted at David's Bridal. We're six weeks out from the wedding and my perfect vintage wedding dress doesn't fit because somehow my waist is larger than that of Audrey Hepburn's anorexic cousin. So I'm making do at the chain in Burbank. The eternally patient in-house alterations lady is doing a bang-up job Frankenstein-ing my cheap, mass-produced gown, and I am not superstitious. Rob is back here with me, letting me know that he's totally going to be OK if I bring the hemline up to just under my knees. In Your Eyes starts playing on the adult contemporary satellite station, and we lock eyes in the mirror and smile like a couple of doofy dorkusses.
Two Fridays ago, Rob told me he accidentally won tickets to Peter Gabriel from KCRW. But there were three strikes against us: it was Tuesday, so I was working; my mom was coming into town and we only had two tickets; it was in Santa Barbara. We steeled ourselves for the very real possibility that we might just miss this show. But the stars aligned. Mom was down for it and Craigslist had an extra ticket. Maria was willing to cover me, so I left work early. We made it, and we heard Peter Gabriel sing In Your Eyes for reals. And it wasn't just him we heard. It was me, and Rob, and every other person in that ampitheatre, singing at the top of our John Hughes-loving lungs. And it was magical. Especially when John Cusack came out on the stage and the mega-drunk fella behind us screamed "Eff yeah! Say Anything! Effing John Cusack!!" Classy crowd.
On the way out, I texted my dad to let him know that we saw his childhood best friend, Cameron Crowe, on the stage that night. My dad shot back, "Did you meet him? Did you tell him who you were?"