It was about ten years ago that I finally gave up on The Police. Like most youth, I had a musical love affair with an artist who I felt I identified with. Around the time "Ghost in the Machine" was released, I became aware of the bleached trio and found their distinctive minimalism and literary lyrics something I could not only dance to, but engage my young mind on social questions, humanity, technology, and yes even politics. I dove into the Salt Lake punk scene in the early 80's, but The Police retained that special place as my one and only. My last opportunity to see them in Salt Lake City in 1982 was quashed by misunderstanding and mishap. "Synchronicity" was released in 1983 and I watched in frustration as the band visited neighboring states without landing in Utah. Although I had been granted a driver's license that year, my inexperience and youth stopped me from actually pursuing a live show through a road trip. 1986 brought a new single and the hope for an album, but aside from a few songs at a benefit, The Police played no more. "The Police Mailing List" was the last gesture I made towards the group. Predating websites, established in 1991, it was the first way to connect to other fans via the Internet. Part resource, part support group, its purpose in my life evolved from essential, to albatross, to tombstone as the years rolled on. Eventually the emails were automatically filed in a folder that I never read. With so many other priorities in my life, the ghosts in my music collection collected dust and fell behind more innovative, younger talents. I married, had children, worked around the clock on a business I was obsessed with, and ran for political office. Music was the least of my concerns. I do not pretend to understand the full depths of their reunion tour. Like most, I suspect the oceans of cash promised to the trio has something to do with it. I eagerly poured in a couple buckets of my own for the opportunity to see them in Denver and Los Angeles. On top of astronomical ticket prices, I bought into the "Fan Club" which promised premium seating, but did not deliver over the codes supplied to me by friends who were members of the "BestBuy Club". Let the corporate priority be known. A bone was finally thrown to the long suffering fans. A "dress rehersal" the day before the opening date in Vancouver, B.C. was promised with "limited tickets" for those fans who had purchased their memberships earlier in the year. Astoundingly, the tickets would be only $50. In spite of the round-trip cost, this still seemed like a bargain to me. Priority seating through a gouging merchant like Ticketmaster is one thing, but if you really want the sucker on the hook, promise an exclusive. I bought in. My seats weren't great, but through a stroke of luck, my 16-year-old "mailing list" finally paid off. A friend who had flown all the way from Portugal was upgraded to the front row because his wife was pregnant. He gave his 11th row ticket to me. The Police played for about two hours that night. They covered the spectrum with hits and some of their under-appreciated work. The light show was spectacular, the political messages still applied through songs like "Murder by Numbers" and "Invisible Sun", and the men who could not be called boys executed a capable and entertaining show. A few months back, I watched a BBC rebroadcast of these same three people at Hatfield Polytechnic before their first American tour was launched 30 years ago. This was not the same show presented by three aging men in Vancouver in 2007. Returning to a club with fellow fans to discuss what we'd just seen, one individual asked deep probing questions like, "Do you think it was right they reunited?" He eventually disclosed he was a psychiatrist. The woman sitting next to me told a tale of woe where she had won concert tickets in the 80's only to have them torn up by her father in front of her face. The junior high-school class she now taught was excited that "the band that Mrs. G liked" was going to be in town. I showed off the baby onesie I purchased, the only piece of overpriced memorabilia that I found any interest in, to another grown man who then revealed he had purchased the same thing. My fellow fans were no longer "some kid" and "that girl". They were people with their own families, passions, careers, and lives that had grown over a quarter-century. Sting, Stewart, and Andy were old, but as they sang, the "truth hit" me, and I realized I was too.