At first it all seemed to be going smoothly. Then a long strange sequence of intertwined events played out and made the day really difficult to wrap my mind around. At some point early in the morning yesterday, I finally finished Stewart Copeland’s book and found myself really regretting missing the life altering 2007/2008 Police reunion tour. Plainly put, I missed the boat to see my all time favorite band because of scheduling conflicts (if I remember correctly I was riding assorted wild but mild attractions at Disneyworld). I am having a violent but delayed reaction to my stupidity and lack of forward thinking. Ahhh, but I digress. The book was entertaining, engaging and eye opening. He was funny, fair and garnered my sympathy for having had to endure Sting’s withering criticism at every turn. At first glance it seems like both musicians come down with a scorching case of douchebagitis every time they have to interact with each other where music is the focus. On a personal level they remind me of my youngest two boys wrestling each other for dominance on the basement floor, neither willing to say uncle for fear of having it lorded over them during the next Frasier vs. Ali bout. Nothing worse than your sibling having extra smack to work with. As I reached the last chapters though, I had the genuine urge to poke Sting with a sharp object to deflate that monstrous head of his. Since when did this pontificating blow hard call ALL the shots? Clearly, the Police reunion happened only because the sweet prince waved his scepter and claimed it was “the right time”. If ever afforded the chance I will not hesitate to bludgeon him with a lute. (Yes Sting, your lute album was not lost on me). Since there is not another chance in hell that my favorite band will get together and tour again, I will continue to use various means of self-flagellation as an proper tool to punish myself for missing it, but somewhere in the back of my mind I blame Sumner for making the threesome’s magic impossible to sustain (or perhaps endure) for any length of time. Andy and Stewart , you guys rock. No problems with you.
So back to the story. After my internal Sting bashing tirade it was time to pick my daughter up from her best friends house. I pulled up and ran into her father who was packing the back of the truck with his cameras and equipment. Offhandedly I inquired about where he was off to. ” To New York to interview Trudie Styler and Sting” he replied. Well, what a coincidence. ITN camera men seemingly get a lot of this kind of stuff. Off to film Bono’s wedding. Just back from the G8 summit. On to Iraq to live in a tent for four weeks. I guess they have to go where the story is. I regale him with my newly minted opinion of the Chosen One and ask for a detailed update upon his return. “Give Sting my regards” I joke. No longer stewing in my righteous anger, I collected my daughter and drove home.
The world shifted on its axis as I was brewing up several half-assed kiddie meals when I turned to find my daughter covered in blood, holding a carving knife and an odd looking squash. How are these things related, I asked myself? Only later would I find out that she had stolen this newly grown squash from the backyard garden of our neighbor. Technically (and according to squatters rights) this part of the plant had hopped over our fence to flourish in our endless daytime sunshine. It seemed perfectly natural that someone would then mistake this vegetable for a pumpkin, pick it, quietly attempt to carve a scary Halloween face in it with a razor-sharp knife and then cut a fierce gash in their left pointer finger. Nine stitches, two Novocaine shots and endless tears later we have a repaired daughter on our hands. Thankfully the damage wasn’t as bad as we initially thought and she had a rocking war wound to show off at school.
I’m still a little bitter about that stupid squash beckoning from the backyard for little hands to come and pick it off the vine and find some cutlery to massacre it (or themselves) with. My anger with Sting however, is still burning bright even at this late hour. Get off that yoga mat and get down to the business at hand!