Where is Thy Sting?

Somebody call the Police.

I'm not talking about Sgt. Friday or Dick Tracy.

I’m talking about the band whose front man, Sting, featured quite prominently in a nightmare I had last week.

And let’s be clear: when I say “nightmare,” I don’t mean some bargain basement boogeyman chase scenario. No, this was yet another of one of my fire-breathing psych assaults that was so horrible that it ought to be a crime.

It’s a rare breed of nocturnal submission that, upon awakening, had me frantically thanking God that it wasn’t real.

Now I saw the Police at Madison Square Garden sometime back in the Eighties when the Go-Go’s were the opening act.

And you can ask me how old I am, but my lips are sealed.

It just seems that Sting’s music has popped up during some difficult times in my life and made things just a little bit better.

“Every Breath You Take” was a hit while I was struggling to find some direction and I remember hearing it come on the radio one night and feeling that everything was going to be okay.

During another more recent rough patch I got a great deal of comfort from listening to 44/876, the album Sting did with Shaggy.

And now, thanks to my overactive subconscious, I had a chance to speak with the guy—so to speak.

So, I’m at this fantasy affair and I proceed to ask him some monstrously idiotic question along the lines of “did you get paid $2,000 for your last concert?”

Two grand for Sting to sing? Seriously? Wedding bands get paid more than that, for God’s sake.

Sting seemed stung by my query. He rolled his eyes and gave me a look that said, “don’t stand so close to me,” while all the other reporters in the room groaned and guffawed.

But wait, it gets worse.

Rival news organizations actually did stories about my inane inquiry, covering my flaming faux pas like it was the Hindenburg disaster—which it kind of was, at least on a professional level.

God forbid these sorry sons-of-bitches do their jobs and write something about Sting, who was the reason for the damn press conference to begin with.

Words are Hard to Find

When I got back to my office, my co-workers—my freaking colleagues—put out the red light for me and hung up a poster memorializing my moronic mistake.

I was the king of pain.

The nightmare finally ended, but it had a ferocious afterburn, where I lay in bed for several minutes—or so it seemed—whimpering about my career.

Finally, I realized that I was only dreaming, and that sense of relief made me feel like I was walking on the moon.

I’m usually good at figuring out the motives behind my madness, but this time I was stumped.

I hadn’t been listening to Sting’s music lately, I hadn’t read any stories about him recently, or watched any interviews.

I’ve been thinking haphazardly about going to see Sting in Las Vegas in June, but naturally I haven’t done a thing about scoring a ticket or making reservations.

I thought maybe it was my subconscious mind sending me a message in a bottle to get off my ass, and make a decision, damn it. But that didn’t feel right.

I went over to my sister’s house for dinner Friday and told her about my dream. She quickly withdrew some logic from the banks of chaos in my mind.

The dream was about self-sabotage, she said, something that has plagued me for most of my life.

Here I was working at a really cool job, covering the entertainment industry; I was given an opportunity to interview my idol, and what did I do with it?

I dropped kicked it in a sewer, that’s what I did.

The nightmare was terrifying, of course, but I also take it as a warning, a canary in the coal mine of my mind—if you don’t mind.

Watch out for the self-sabotage.

My sister was absolutely brilliant in her interpretation, like Joseph giving Pharoah the 411 on his dreams. Except that I have no immediate plans of becoming the ruler of Egypt.

I still haven’t decided about seeing Sting in Vegas.

I know the interview fiasco wasn’t real, but I have this nagging fear that he’ll see recognize me as the dream-schmuck who harassed him about his paycheck and jump off the stage to strangle me.

It could be the last breath I take.