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On Sunday morning, I did something I have wanted to do since 1983.
I bought tickets to see The Police.
Not just Sting, whom I've seen perform live several times in different venues but always with lamentation for the absence of his two bandmates, each of whom is as uniquely talented a musician as the frontman who went on to sell millions of records on his own.
The three of them together? Magic. I remember being 7 or 8 years old and hearing my father sing along to "Roxanne" on the car radio; my mother loved the song, as well, and I suppose that's what introduced me to the trio that would become my favorite group. I remember giggling at the absurdity of "De Do Do Do De Da Da Da" (absolutely hilarious to a 9-year-old, I must say).
In 1983, I entered junior high school and developed a mad crush on Jamey, the class cutie, with whom I had one major thing in common: we both loved The Police. Jamey and I would pass notes to each other in class, replete with Police lyrics that we each tried to explicate from the complex, raw corners of our prepubescent minds. Jamey once wrote me a Valentine's Day poem culled entirely from various Police lyrics. I'd proudly post it here, were it still in my possession.
I used to practice tracing the digital Japanese lettering from the Ghost in the Machine album onto the crumpled brown covers of my textbooks. As a harried 7th grader, my daily ritual upon returning home from school was to play the Synchronicity album in its entirety on my cherished white plastic Grundig phonograph (with detachable speakers, very high-tech for 1983). Jamey in mind, I always began my DJ shift with "Every Breath You Take."
I quickly wore down the stylus with my relentless rotation of Police albums, breaking only occasionally to give some play to poor, neglected Duran Duran. When I was given my first CD player, as a high-school graduation present, one of the first discs I bought was Synchronicity (along with Dream of the Blue Turtles, Sting's first--and still greatest--solo album). To this day, the only CD boxed set in my possession is the Police retrospective issued in the early '90s.
In the late '80s, I briefly dated (or what passed for "dating" when you're 17) a guy whom I considered breaking up with after he found me engrossed in a VHS tape of Bring on the Night and admitted he was not familiar with the group it centered around. I was never sure what he thought about the other two Police tapes I frequently watched, but he wasn't around long enough to find out.
There are countless groups and artists whose music has been pivotal at various moments in my life, but none as deeply or enduringly as The Police. I am tremendously excited for the concert, my long-awaited chance to deeply inhale that rare amalgamation of musical talents that so electrifies music lovers like myself.
And I imagine that Jamey, wherever he is, has tickets in hand as well.
Phoebe and Melody, gazing eastward, sending their best wishes to Marney and George (R.I.P., furry friend).
I need to write. It can manifest itself as a physical need, much like that not necessarily for sustenance but for affection or laughter or education. It tugs at me when I'm engrossed in a book or newspaper. It taunts me when I'm engaged in something frivolous, like mindless channel-surfing or window-shopping. It nudges me like a hungry puppy, ever so gently, but with an underlying urgency. It asks, "Why do you let so many thoughts go unrecorded, unshared? Bitch, why aren't you writing in that little notepad you have in your possession specifically for the purpose of recording those fleeting thoughts that could transform themselves into a flood of written majesty?"
At times I feel burdened by the need to unburden myself through writing--for me, it's no different than a full trash can desperately needing emptying or a suitcase full of dirty clothes that need unpacking after a long journey. Sometimes I'm just full. Full to the brim. Full of shit, maybe, but full of thoughts nonetheless. And, more often than suits me, I don't empty them onto the page (or screen) before they get jumbled in with the new thoughts that join them every minute of every day. My thoughts are a giant plate of scrambled eggs in my mind, increasing in size at an alarming rate because they are not being consumed and therefore removed from the plate fast enough. They can only sit and grow cold, the steam of brilliance pouring out of them and leaving them tasteless and, eventually, moldy.
There is no plate big enough to hold them all, so many are doomed to spill over onto the tabletops of my mind, onto the floor, into doggie bags, where they are put aside so that I may consume them hungrily later.
But, really, when is later?
Dammit, it would have been awesome to witness the largest ship ever to sail into San Francisco Bay make its way through yesterday. I did, however, have a hearty laugh reading SFist's summary of the event: "We like big boats and we cannot lie."
Photos courtesy of the San Francisco Chronicle