All Right, I’ll Admit It
In this sense, I’m still a 10-year-old at heart: I love The Police. I’m in the middle of a long, grueling house renovation, and I’ve been listening a lot to Outlandos D’Amour, Zenyatta Mondata and the rest. It seems to be the ideal music for swinging around a crowbar. I’m not sure why.
My wife love’s this stuff even more. She even likes Sting’s largely intolerable solo output. Lately, she’s been trying to convince me of the inevitability of buying tickets for their newly announced tour. I’m resisting. Annoying, over-priced nostalgia trips in giant echo-chamber auditoriums are not my idea of a good time. Still, a tiny fraction of my troubled soul (what a pretentiously Sting-y word—“soul”) is a bit curious. This article makes me feel a little less guilty about this. Eventually, it seems, I will succumb.