Policed At The Police

This is T. reporting in from P.'s house in South Boston, where I'm spending the night because my 4:00 USAir flight was canceled, purportedly due to thunderstorms in the area. Horseshit if you ask me. My plane to Boston on Friday night was delayed too, ostensibly because of the weather. When I called Sister J. in Massachusetts, it wasn't even sprinkling. No worries though. After my scarring C.A.C.A. experience, I'm in Zen mode when it comes to flying now. Nonplussed, I spent the two-hour delay Friday night downing Stellas at the airport bar with some friendly company. And to avoid further b.s. problems tomorrow morning, I'm taking the Acela -- yes, the fucking train, I've had it with planes for awhile -- back to NYC bright and early. Since all I have to wear is campy t-shirts and a pair of jeans, looks like I'll be paying J. Crew or BR a visit on my way in to the office.

Now for the highlights of last night's Police concert at Fenway Park, which was one of the best concerts I've ever been to. Several things made this special. First, the fact that the concert was at Fenway made it an amazing experience for me. I'd never been on the field at Fenway before. It was surreal to be standing on the field, with all its history, good and bad. Looking towards home plate, I could see the entire park from the players' perspective. I walked within a few yards of the base of the foul pole where Fisk hit his home run in the '75 Series. I stood in left field, where Teddy Ballgame, Yaz, and Jim Rice once roamed, and where Yaz looked up to see Bucky Fucking Dent's corked bat homerun fly over the Monster in '78. And last but not least, I sat in left centerfield, where Freddy Lynn, my favorite ballplayer growing up, made circus catches during his heyday in the '70s. For me, being on the Fenway field was like a Catholic's first trip inside Vatican City.

The above aside, I have to tell you that Fenway Park is a great place to see a concert on a sultry summer night. It rained like a tropical monsoon all day yesterday, but around 6:30 p.m. the skies cleared, promising no further trouble. When the sun set, a copper-colored full moon appeared in the northern horizon and hung there the entire night, just above the skyboxes. The combination of the moon, open air, humidity, and copious amounts of Bud Light lent the evening a mystical feel.

Delayed gratification also made the concert unique. The crowd, not surprisingly, was comprised mostly of grayheads, baldies, mulleted suburbanites, middle-aged white guys in khakis, and (ahem) thirtysomethings like me, who got into The Police in high school or college, and who have been waiting 23 years for a reunion. There were a lot of eyeglasses and earplugs in the audience, let's put it that way. All of us have waited a long time to hear The Police play live. When you wait this long for something and it finally happens, the euphoric buzz is a whipcrack to the medulla oblongata.

Here's a link to a couple of pictures of Sister J. and I early in the evening, during happy times, before less joyous events intervened. You'll have to scroll down to DSC_0016 and DSC_0017 to see us. I made sure to include our friend the plastic beer cup in the picture, since he and his cousins played such a prominent role in our evening. Indeed, I think it's safe to say that our night would not have been the same without them.

The band "Fiction Plane" opened at 7:30 and gave a boring but not terrible performance. FP is headed by Sting's son, Joe Sumner, who looks just like Sting but with longer, stringier hair. You just know that Sting made it a condition to a reunion tour that his son's crappy band open their shows. Mercifully, they were off the stage within a half hour. While I'm on the subject, why would the son of Sting choose to go into rock n' roll as a career? Why subject yourself to a lifelong inferiority complex? But since he made the choice, why doesn't he just call himself "Son of Sting," or S.O.S.? It might help. Sister J. and I used the time to down our fourth and fifth beers, which she paid for, since I got the tickets. Fair deal, don't you think?

You know how you go to some concerts and the headlining act makes you wait until you're collecting a Social Security check before they come on? Until everyone's chanting the band's name, gettin' all frenzied up? That shit drives me crazy. Well, The Police didn't do that. They actually came out kinda quick, a bit too early in my opinion. I don't want things to take forever, but I do like a little foreplay. Last night, there was no buildup, no real anticipation at all. I guess they figured they made us wait long enough after 23 years, so why put it off any longer? They took the stage around 8:00, opening with Message in a Bottle.

Here's the complete setlist:

Message in a Bottle
Synchronicity II
Walking On The Moon
Voices Inside My Head
When The World Is Running Down
Don't Stand So Close To Me
Driven To Tears
Truth Hits Everybody
Bed's Too Big Without You
Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic
Wrapped Around Your Finger
De Do Do Do De Da Da Da
Invisible Sun
Walking In Your Footsteps
Can't Stand Losing You
Roxanne
King Of Pain
So Lonely
Every Breath You Take
Next To You

Without overstating it, the Police were amazing. I swear I would tell you if they sucked. But they didn't suck; quite the opposite. They looked great, and they sounded great. These guys are pushing 60 and they sounded like they did 20 years ago. Sting in particular looks half his age. He was so captivating onstage that I think I've got a little mancrush going. The guy's a stud. An arrogant, egotistical stud, but a stud nonetheless. He's in yogariffic shape, has my receding hairline and makes it look acceptable, and his voice is 1000 times better than that of his much younger son. I'll have what he's having. And for a change, he actually looked like he was enjoying himself onstage. In fact, he seemed a little disappointed that the crowd wasn't more rowdy. He tried to get everyone going a few times, and it didn't work. Hey, what do you expect from middle-aged fans? From Boston? No worries though, there's always New York. I think it'll be more rocking in an inside venue like MSG.

Okay, so I was with Sister J. last night, and as you might expect, things didn't go entirely as planned. First, on one of my trips to the bathroom during the intermission between the two bands, she played a little joke on me. When I returned from the bathroom, Sister J. wasn't in her seat. All of a sudden, this older woman in a too-tight leopard dress that hit mid-thigh sat down next to me. She looked about 44, was deep dark tanned all over and had ginormous fake tits. She asked if I was T. and when I said yes, she introduced herself. I said hello and we flirted for a little while before she went back to her seat. I actually think she was more into my sister than me, to be honest. Sister J. thought the episode was hilarious but became annoyed when she found out I'd offered Leopard Lady the beer I'd bought for her. Hey, you gotta use what you've got available, am I right? The stupid Spiderman t-shirt I was wearing wasn't going to cut it.

Fast-forward an hour. Around 9 pm, The Police were playing When The World Is Running Down, their fifth song, when Sister J. leaves to go to the bathroom and to get us two more beers. By the time they finish playing Truth Hits Everybody I'm wondering where the hell she's gotten off to and just how long the line for the women's bathroom could possibly be. At that point, my J-dar elevates from a peaceful blue to a mildly disconcerted yellow. Then, while I'm doing the white man's overbite to Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic, a security dude wearing a canary yellow polo and a headset comes down our row and asks me if I'm "[My real name]." Uh, yeah. "Your sister's been ejected from the concert," he says. "I'm not going to go into details. She'll meet you at the Cask N' Flagon after it's over." Before I had a chance to fully digest this surprising news and force the fucker to tell me exactly what the hell had happened, he took off.

Well, needless to say, I was concerned. The fact that she was going to meet me at a local bar after the show meant that she hadn't been arrested, which, under the circumstances, was a best case scenario. But I was upset, obviously, and couldn't fathom what could possibly have happened on a trip to the bathroom that resulted in her getting thrown out. I texted her cell, then remembered that she hadn't brought it with her. Then I texted Brother-in-Law, whom Sister J. had apparently called, after borrowing someone's cell phone. I didn't learn anything new from him. Or maybe he did tell me what happened. I can't remember now. Anyway, here are the reconstructed details of what happened, as subsequently conveyed to me by Sister J.:

(Cue in flashback sequence and wavy screen)

Sister J. went to the bathroom and purchased the two beers as planned. She just got a new job and is quite the business networker, so she was chatting up a woman she'd met in line while still holding the aforementioned two beers, when a stupid moron (a guy) elbowed her very hard from behind, causing her to dump half a beer on the ground. Words were exchanged, and when the rude prick didn't apologize, she threw the rest of the beer -- more than she thought she still had in the cup, she later confided -- into the guy's surprised face, completely drenching him. Before the situation could escalate, out came the security rodeo clowns, led by a female brick shithouse who was over six feet tall. (Sound familiar?) She and a couple of Boston cops escorted an immediately remorseful and very upset Sister J. out of Fenway Park. No, her apology was not accepted. Neither was her good faith offer to buy the soggy jerk a beer, which was probably the last thing he wanted at that point, given that he was soaking in half a cup of Bud Light.

Now before you get all self-righteous about this, Sister J. sincerely regrets what happened and is quite embarrassed about what she did. And to be fair, she'd had quite a few beers by this time and was not totally herself. I don't think this would have happened under more sober circumstances. So don't pile on.

Let me also say from personal experience that it's not that hard to have a confrontation in the City of Boston over the stupidest shit. I've written about this before. For some reason, and I'm from New England so I feel totally fine saying this, Boston bars are full of ignorant, rude assholes, men and women, who have no manners, who don't move out of anyone's way, and who are totally unfamiliar with the words "excuse me" or the polite mentality associated therewith. This type of shit doesn't happen in New York. It just doesn't. Maybe there's an occasional Guido incident at an Upper East Side frat bar or Chelsea club (both of which I avoid like the plague). But in New York that stuff is atypical. Not so in Boston. In Boston, it seems like it happens every time we go out, no matter where we go. People here are uncivil and rude. Friend P., who has lived in Boston for many years now, has this theory, and I think I agree with it, that it's because Boston is full of provincial locals who are inherently skeptical of outsiders and their motivations. They always assume the worst and act like dicks as a result. That type of thinking is ingrained here. Ergo, vis-a-vis, they have a chip on their shoulder before they even leave the house. With all that negativity, it's no small wonder it took the Red Sox 86 years to win another World Series. Or maybe this theory is too cerebral. Maybe it's just this simple: Boston is full of assholes and New York isn't (outside of the Yankee Stadium bleachers).

Sorry Boston. I love you, the city. I love your history. I love your seafood. I love your North End, which is more authentic now than New York's Little Italy. And I certainly love your sports teams. But too many of your inhabitants are complete douches.

Anywho, Sister J. spent the rest of the concert on Lansdowne Street, joking with the cops who'd escorted her out, in an effort to cajole a way back in. Her efforts paid off because she somehow got one of the cops to agree that if The Police played an encore, they'd let her back inside. So I was somewhat (though not completely, since I know Sister J. very well) surprised when her smiling face reappeared next to me during Next To You, which, unfortunately, was the only encore song they played. (Now that I think of it, the timing of the night's events were eerily consistent with the titles of the songs The Police were playing at the time. How weird.) After the concert, we departed for greener pastures, content that she'd found her way back in, a small victory over tyranny for Sister J.

Back to The Police though. Given the combustible relationship among Messrs. Summers, Coupland, and Sting, who have a hard time agreeing on anything, I don't think it's a guarantee that they are going to finish this tour. Particularly if Joe Sumner suddenly comes down with laryngitis, or a touch of the grippe. I'm just glad I got a chance to see them when I could, another check off my "Bands I Must See" list.