Twice now, people have imagined I have some kind of pull with U2. Somehow they’ve decided—and remember, this is their wishful thinking we’re talking about, not mine—that when it comes to U2, I Can Make Things Happen. My people contact their people, that whole story.

It’s all because of a Web site I’ve spent the last six years writing for: atu2.com, known as @U2. It’s the second site listed when you Google “U2,” after the band’s own. (Not too long ago, it was the first listed.) It’s fan-run, all-volunteer, but I’ll just toot our own horn here and say it’s a work of art. If you look up “labor of love” in one of the better dictionaries, you’ll see a picture of our home page. We write stories about U2. We archive articles from other media, including everything from what reaches print today back to “Dublin Boys Top of Pops!” from 1978. We have a lyrics page, a “Guide to U2’s Dublin,” a guide for collectors, a forum, a blog, podcasts…but we’re not affiliated with the band. We’re not in the pay of the band. We’re in the same position all fans are: We pay them.

We’ve explained this many times, but still there have been misunderstandings over the years. One happened fairly early on, back when the @U2 staff had their email addresses listed on the site (before spam and viruses made doing something like that less attractive). The following is an e-mail I received back then. I haven’t quoted it exactly—I didn’t save the original—but this was the sense and the tone:

“Dear To Whom It May Concern:

“I am very successful businessman who lives on very small Mediterranean island. I have great desire to see esteemed rock and roll group the U-2 play on my small Mediterranean island. I do well to refer to it as ‘my’ island, as my many business interests make easy for me to use such a term something like accurately, understand my meaning. It would be great honor and privilege to have esteemed rock and roll group the U-2 play on my small island; please you furnish me with telephone number for the U-2 that I may make this request personally. Have I mentioned that I am very successful businessman?”

That I did not furnish this very successful businessman with a friend’s phone number to set in motion the prank call to end all prank calls is one of my life’s deepest regrets. But when I tell this story, my friends tend to seize on his idea of a single phone number shared by all four members of U2, as though the VSB thinks they share a pad, Monkees-style, and lounge around in it waiting for the Red Phone to ring with news of a potential gig.

The other misunderstanding came around the release of the last album. Another staff member with @U2 is an event planner. She suggested we stage pre-release parties across the country—one in Seattle, one in Boston, one in St. Louis. (How were these cities chosen? Because they had @U2 staff living in them.) Even though I’d never planned a party before, I said “Sure!” when asked to host a St. Louis party, figuring, hey, I could learn as I went along. What’s the worst that could happen?

I could make people think U2 would be coming in person. Playing Schlafly Tap Room. For a ten dollar admission fee.

Here’s how: I booked a room at Schlafly Bottleworks for the party. Since proceeds from the event would support the African Well Fund, a charitable enterprise, I contacted Channel 2 to see about getting some publicity. They were kind enough to run a short promo on their morning news show—mentioning the date, venue, and price over footage from a U2 concert. Anyone half-listening and half-watching might have retained only “U2,” “Schlafly,” “Sunday,” and “ten dollars.” Sure enough, I got a call from one of the fellas working at the Tap Room wanting to know why his phone had been ringing off the hook.

“Oops,” I told him, just to be helpful. “Heh heh,” I added.

So let me just state this for the record: I can’t get U2 to come play your small Mediterranean island. I can’t even get U2 to come play my hometown. I’ve written about them an awful lot; that’s really the extent of my relationship to the band. Honest.

Now you’ll have to excuse me—the Red Phone is ringing.