I get quite a few letters from Sting fans who have somehow stumbled upon the Temple of Sting website or zine. Many of them are along the lines of "You stupid bitch, don't you know Sting rocks?" Guess what? Letters like this are not inclined to make me change my opinion on Sting, his music, and his fans. But they sure do make me chuckle. Here are some of the most recent letters from readers, both anti-Sting and pro-Sting, sent to me by e-mail or snail mail. Keep those letters coming!
I really think you have too much time on your hands..I think
you are just jealous that you don't have a fucking ounce of his
talent. The guy is one of the greatest song writers that I can
think of. He has one of the greatest voices in music. His lyrics
are simply brilliant. The greatest musicians around flock to him.
(Branford Marsalis, Kenny Kirkland, Vinny Cayutta, Omar Akim,
etc...) You would not know talent if it was shoved up your ass.
I did get a laugh at your website though.. I laughed at just how
much trash there is in the world. I am sure Sting is laughing
too, you pathetic loser. i would love to see a picture of you...i
picture Butt-head from Beavis and Butthead. Wearing a mega-deth
shirt, braces, 90 pounds, once a week shower taking, 37 yr old,
still living at home, smoking hash, and jerking off all day...do
you actually have an occupation? your [sic] probably a professional
roadee for some young "up and coming" punk band. Perhaps
you are jealous that you probably could not get a date if your
life depended on it, while Sting could have anyone he wanted.
Yes you may reply to me if you like..I would love to hear from
you.
-love
Lawrence Spiegel
lspeigel17@hotmail.com
you sad bitch, dont you know that STING rocks? oh and by the
way, nice name!?
BOAR01@stannes.cumbria.sch.uk
Simone Fox
Enclosed is a little Anti-Sting piece that I hope will be of interest to you. I hope Temple of Sting is still a going concern. I haven't seen a copy since I moved back to Montana. Not much subversive literature reaches us out here, probably because Montana, along with several other western states, is actually a giant ranch belonging to Sting's genetically engineered alter ego, Garth Brooks. Anyway, check this out:
The bees may be regarded as superior to the human race in this, that from their own substance they produce another which is useful; while, of all our sections, there is not one good for anything; nay, there is not one which does not render mankind disagreeable - Voltaire
(Voltaire devotes several pages of his Philosophical Dictionary to a wonderful description of bees. If you haven't already read it, do check it out.)
Sincerely,
Todd Balazic
SEVEN THINGS STING WOULD NEVER SAY
by Todd Balazic
1. Maybe I should take some acting lessons.
2. What can I do to help put an end to Brazilian prostitution?
3. Yeah, I guess I am kind of a pompous ass.
4. I secretly control the universe.
5. Hey Andy, do you mind if I cash in by allowing a sample of
your old guitar work to be used in a ridiculous cover of an old
Police song?
6. Please give this award to someone more deserving than myself.
7. Your creative input is always welcome.
Editor's note: The following letter is the longest one Temple of Sting has ever received, clocking in at a whopping double-spaced, neatly typed, 3 pages. Ron had impeccable spelling and grammar and was witty, so I decided to publish his letter in full. But don't any of you other dear readers try sending me a letter this long everagain! Keep it to a page or two, will you? By the way, Ron's zine mentioned in the end of this letter was going to be reviewed in TOS, but I lost it somewhere along the way when I moved to Boston, before I had a chance to read it. I am so sorry, Ron. Anyway, if you like his letter, consider checking out his zine, Soul Invictus (soulinvictus@yahoo.com).
To Janine "Queen Bee" Papp, please consider publishing
the following, as:
GOD IS DEAD... PASS IT ON
by Ron Leighton
I confess: As a semi-geekoid (What's that? Drop the "semi"?),
bisexual knucklehead, I once worshipped at the alter of the god
Sting (and the lesser gods Stuart Copeland and Andy Summers).
I made pilgrammeges to his appearances - once in his Old Testament
Police-phase (after driving 450 miles with my Sting-look-alike
high school buddy!) and once during his New Testament "solo"
phase. I was, during my (early, but by no means finished) awkward
years, utterly smitten with all things Sting. I would stare adoringly
at his pictures. I would memorize his words, prosaic as well as,
um, poetic. I would stumble through my days, meditating on Stingism.
I would proselytize, too: I would implore others to give themselves
to Sting, as I had in spirit (and so desperately wished to do
in the flesh). Like all fundamentalist freaks, I considered disbelievers
bound for hell - that is, if there were a hell worse than the
spiritual squalor of Stinglessness in the here and now. As a bi-boy,
I could not decide which I would prefer more: To be Sting, or
to be stung by Sting. I wanted to have my Sting-cake and eat it,
too.
I can't believe I'm telling you this.
Now I am over him. Sort of. I would still like to lick whipped-cream
from his manhood. I just wouldn't kiss his ass while doing it
- at least not figuratively. That right. I am now a recovering
Stingaholic. I am a heretic. An atheist. I am a sledgehammer-weilding
iconoclast looking to smash all graven images of his Stingness.
Yes, it must be said: God is dead. And besides, as Michael Bakunin
put it, "Even if God existed, it would be necessary to abolish
him."
I am now a disbeliever for three reasons: One, his music (mostly)
sucks now; two, I no longer suffer (mostly) from the delusion
that beauty=goodness; and three, my tastes have broadened and,
I daresay, deepened. There's more to pop music than Sting. There's
more to music than pop music, and so on and so forth.
The most interesting things about Sting (apart from his still
rather dazzling beauty [I am such a (cock)sucker]), were/are his
too-brief and too-shallow Brechtian detour (there must be a whole
mine-full of raw gems in that), his interest in musical variety
and his funkier, quirkier, and unfortunately, rarer stuff. Yet
these are the things that he has given the shortest shrift. Or
maybe that it's just that he does them badly. After all, an appreciation
for country music is one (but not really my) thing, while recording
muzac that sounds like a hellish mixture of one part Christopher
Cross and one part Garth Brooks is another. If you're gonna steal
from different musics, steal the good stuff, will ya? Sometimes
mixing is mixing and sometimes it's just diluting. He says his
countrified stuff is tongue-in-cheek. Well, I'm not laughing!
In fact, it's so crappy, I can't stop crying.
Occasionally, there have been songs that are, at least to me,
pretty satisfying. (Much like I still think "Do unto others
as you would have them do unto you" is a good idea even though
I despise Christianity.) Songs like "Children's Crusade",
Fields of Gold", "All This Time", and "Let
Your Soul Be Your Pilot" I have liked as genuinely and as
deeply as I disliked most of the rest of his "solo"
stuff. "If I Ever Lose My Faith In You", for instance,
is a horridly mechanical, soulless piece of shit song. How ironic:
"If I Ever Lose My Faith In You".
From Sting's point of view, the best thing about his "solo"
career is that he's in charge; everything's done his way and he
doesn't have to fight for his ideas any more. Well, what's good
for his will to power is not so good for his music. Not that Stewart
Copeland and Andy Summers were paragons of artistic purity and
goodness, devoid of nay crass and egoistic motivations, or that
Sting is/was the very opposite, but it seems to me that Sting's
best music came into being when he had to share power, even if
only a little bit. My long-lingering (but now long-dead) hopeof
an ultimate Police album was inspired by the likes of "Masoka
Tanga" and "Murder By Numbers", as well as some
of the quirkier stuff from the Brimstone and Treacle soundtrack
and elsewhere. Some of Sting's solo stuff rather screams "Abandon
all hope, ye who enter here!"
The trajectory of Sting's star trip seems to be the polar opposite
of Elvis' horrible decline and self-destruction. But apparently
there are worse things than dying a has-been fat-fuck on your
toilet. Death really is the best thing stars can do after all.
Maybe Warhol's 15 minutes of fame thing was a literal warning.
"Thus far and no further!"
Though I am now a Stingless heathen, willing and able to think
a little more critically about His Stingness, I nevertheless brislte
at the suggestion that Sting belongs in the same category as,
say, His Travesty, the Dwvil, known more popularly as Michael
Bolton. However - ARE YOU LISTENING, STING? - you are barreling
down the road to Michael Boltonness, and the way is broad and
easy! Beware, Sting, and repent! Forget the focus groups and marketing
strategies and the whole star trip. Shake off the pseudo-country
crossover maneuvers. In a word or seven, Get back to where you
once belonged!
Or don't. I don't really care. I think it'll just be better if
I rid myself of any lingering hopes of what you could be. It's
time for another '76-like revolt. Fuck the pop stars (and the
punk ones, too). As Jefferson said it, Thomas, that is, not George,
"a little rebellion now and then is a good thing." And,
to paraphrase a heretical French preist, "It'll be a great
day when the last pop star is strangled with the guts of the last
record comapny executive ."
Now, undoubtedly, Sting will send legions of his dyed-blonde dark
angels against me, to seduce me (... the flesh is weak, the spirit
is strong, the flesh is weak...) He may even appear to me himself,
waving his special powers of persuasion in my face. I can resist
everything except that temptation. I must be strong...
Psst... God is dead... pass it on.
Yours drooly,
Ron Leighton
aka Norman Vincent Spiel
PS. I've also enclosed a copy of the most recent incarnation of my way-too-serious zine, Soul Invictus. Bee gentle, if you review it, or I'll have to spank your naugthy little bee-hind.
PPS. As for bees, I like 'em just fine as long as they're not landing on me - unless it's you, my darling Queen Bee! And boy oh boy, do I have a seven inch for you to review. Heh, heh, heh...
'Bye now. Bi forever.