In 1980, I was 12. I bought my first vinyl records with my first saved-up allowances that year. They were AC/DC’s Back in Black and Zenyatta Mondatta by The Police. I remember thinking I was just so “very” since I owned that Police album.

In high school in Albuquerque I bought Synchronicity. I lived it. I breathed it. I worshipped it. I wrote my second novel, The Bittern, while listening endlessly to Murder By Numbers, which was the last song on that album.

In 1987 I was a Freshman at NMSU in Las Cruces. I got front row tickets to see Sting on his Nothing Like The Sun tour. About midway through the concert he played Murder By Numbers. During the instrumental break (where Andy Summers’s solo would normally go), he danced over to my end of the stage, looked down at me, and snarled. He looked right at me and snarled. I took it as a sign that I was destined for greatness.

Then came The Pixies. And Nine Inch Nails. And Nirvana. And Pearl Jam. And suddenly Sting began to seem like a total pansy. An old roommate of mine used to refer to him as Stink instead of Sting. And even though I wasn’t listening to Sting much at that time, I remember getting mad at my roommate for calling him that. After all, Sting was an artist. And he snarled at me.

Tonight, dear friends, I had a realization. The Knicks had just whalloped the Lakers. I had just finished sealing the table for Julien’s Rokenbok. And when I came back inside the house I saw Sting (aka Gordon Sumner) prancing around on stage as part of the Super Bowl’s Pre-Game Entertainment, singing his sappy hit Desert Rose which rolled right into a Reader’s Digest condensed version of Roxanne. A football field full of second-rate cheerleaders yanked off their skirts to reveal red leotards as if to accentuate the part of the chorus where Sting sings: “You don’t have to put on the red light.”

Sting has sunk as low as he can go, having finally appealed to the lowest common denomenator of American Society. I feel so very, very sorry for both Stewart Copeland and Andy Summers right now. Roxanne was their hit as well, not just Sting’s … er, rather … Stink’s. Sheesh. What a total dufus he’s turned out to be. I’m almost embarrassed to admit that I once liked him.

Hey, Mr. Sumner? Can you spell “sellout?” I didn’t think so. Go back to your yoga.