My biggest challenge as a life long Police fan is not succumbing to a bitter case of the “what might have been’s”
Eventually a car pulls up and out spills a new project by one of the fearsome threesome and I’m satiated for a few months joyous at having basked in the glory for a few fleeting moments.
Then come the dry spells where you are out wandering in the wasteland waiting for some nugget of information to drop in your lap to tide you over.
Sting isn’t any help because as I’ve said before his bowel movements get international coverage and a worldwide media alert goes out to inform us when he’s looking cross, having a bad day or mauling Police classics while on one of his five thousand world tours a year.
But still, an evening in his company at someplace called the “Jiffy Lube Center” (I’m not kidding, that’s the name) is starting to sound pretty fucking good therefore confirming my suspicion that I’m having mild withdrawal symptoms.
Yesterday I started slipping into my “I need a Police fix” mindset and thought I could offset the nagging urge with a quick listen to Zenyatta followed by a smattering of Outlandos.
No such luck.
Maybe I’m spoiled but with everything related to my three friends, I revert back to my inner teenage fangirl skipping around backstage and then erupting in a fire-ball of rage when the band walks off without so much as a backward glance and boards the bus.
My girlfriend put it so eloquently when she used this analogy.
If you’re going to come around here swinging your fifteen inch dick in circles for a half hour and then take it away without demonstating it’s full potential or showing it to your new friends it’s not fair. It leaves us all standing here wondering why we didn’t get a longer turn or more rides! It’s not right.
In case you forgot halfway through, that’s her vulgar profanity laden take on being a Police fan.
My take is a little more PG but equally disturbing and widely dismissed by everyone I know who’s put it behind them and gone on with their lives.
It starts with a story about how being a fan of the threesome is like being that group of idiots standing out in the middle of the desert with your cup full of sand waiting for them never to return. Tea in the Sahara baby!
Yeah, I went there, so what?
Hey, maybe she and I have gone a bit over the edge but maybe YOU never had elaborate plans to live in a specially crafted gingerbread house with the blond holy trinity (yes that was the sound of my old mother superior hitting the floor dead).
I even had a special chair carved for Andy so his feet touched the floor when we ate our meals together. This just seemed like a crime to me. Somewhere out in the world Andy Summers was sitting on furniture that was the wrong size and his little legs were just swinging in the air while all my work went to waste.
Lately though? Where are theses fuckers?
Yes we ALL know where freaking Sting is.
But these other two who operate undercover and still make compelling music, movies and photos? Throw a girl a bone and come out from under the blanket okay?
I know the meager output is probably due to excessively satisfying personal and professional lives but whatever.
I’ve got Sting saturation and not enough Copeland/Summers to make it through the next year.