WANKER

Not too long ago, I was asked to conduct a question and answer session with guitarist Andy Summers at the L.A. Times Festival of Books at UCLA. Summers was flogging his memoir and I figured it would be a fun way to pass an hour (I wasn't paid, but I did receive a Festival of Books coffee mug, which, of course, you can't put a price on).

I dilligently plowed through the book (whose name I will not promote for reasons that will be explained in a bit) so I could be prepared for an audience that was sure to contain more than a handful of Police aficionados. But when I get there, Summers couldn't have been more unpleasant. I asked questions that required a "deep cut" sort of answer, to provide a little more depth than the standard "this is the guitar player for the Police" sort of thing. Maybe I misjudged. Maybe the audience just wanted to hear the hits.

Certainly, Summers played it that way. He was a consummate shill for his then-upcoming money-grabbing Police reunion shows, and he reacted to my questions with incredulous disdain. He basically used me as a verbal punching back to keep the shine upon him. His answers were always, "let me read from the book."

Basically, it turned into one of the longest 60-minute periods of my life. It's not fun being humiliated by a person with an ego the size of the UCLA campus. When it was over, there was not thanks. no nothing. Only "that went well, don't you think?" Well, fuck you too. It's my own fault. I volunteered for the humiliation.

It's weird because I've interviewed scores of folks far more famous and talented than Summers, and, for the most part, the subjects have been universally gracious. But with this guy, there was no connection. I was nothing more than an instrument to sell more books, to put more cash in his tiny little hands.

I don't know what I expected (respect? tix to see the Police?). But I got little, other than the taste of shit I was forced to eat on that stage.