Recently I was discussing one of the most famous cases of blatant stalking in which Gordon Sumner trailed after a woman who prefers to remain anonymous, noting every breath she took, every step she took, every single day.
This horrible creature then proceeded to publicly declare that he would continue watching her, and there was little or nothing to be done about it because, and I quote, “you belong to me.”
If the stalkee in question ever got a restraining order, it never came to light. Maybe because Gordon Sumner became Sting, thus making everything all right.
But why is it different if Sting shows up in your shrubbery, peaking through your window while you’re breathing and stepping, etc?
Imagine watching TV and you see a shadow at the window. At first you’re terrorized, but when you get a closer look, you see that it is Sting, famous musician and collector of inappropriate relationships, (Besides the woman in EBYT, there’s the schoolgirl in “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” and of course, ROXXAAANNNE! and her habit of buying red bulbs for her porch.)
Would you then scream and call the Police and see if they would come over and collect their wayward former band mate? Or maybe even law enforcement?
Or would you recognize him and say, “Oh. Sting. Does this mean you’re stalking me? Great! Here’s the keys to my house.”
Don’t lie. You’d feel pretty good about yourself. It would probably be a little off-putting when he showed up at your work. Not the first time. The first time it would be like, “Did you know some blonde guy followed you into the parking lot and is now sitting outside in a limo?”
You’d be all, “Oh him.” You might even yawn here. “That’s Sting. He’s stalking me.”
Your co-workers would, most likely throw pencils at you and call you a dirty, rotten,no-good, liar whose pants were currently ablaze, what with you lying and everything.
But, then you’d pull back your chair, settle into your seat and say, “Go ahead. See for yourself.”
When your co-workers returned, not a one would say, “Oh you poor dear, have you called the Police?” (Because I already used the play on words, I’ll just let it be, hoping you will recognize it this time around.)
No. Your fellow employees would rush back into the office and see you with new eyes, especially if Sting bought everyone wildly expensive designer sunglasses in order to buy their silence.
Because you would then have to counter with something way better than designer sunglasses in order to make sure your office mates tell everyone, it would be inconvenient. If you’re being stalked by Sting, you want it spread around.
Or you could ask everyone to take a solemn vow not to tell a living soul, in which case everyone would make the promise, and you’d be assured to trend on Twitter within the hour.
Barbara Walters would make you person of the year along with some housewife with her own TV show, a politician who told the truth on the second Thursday of February and Sting who will have to explain while he feels compelled to follow you around to the detriment of his career, reputation and relationship to his wife, despite the restraining order you took out, because it’s not cool to admit you’re delighted to hear “Message in a Bottle” being sung outside your window at night, although it has absolutely nothing to do with the situation and he probably has a better song is his vast library.
You tell Barbara Walters to take a hike because you never forgave her for making Ringo cry in 1980 and because her face has begun to look like a puppet in that only her mouth moves while the rest of her features remain eerily still.
Tabloids begin to follow you around as well, but cease to do so after several “reporters” fall asleep mid-chase due to your lackluster life outside of the whole Sting state of affairs.
The whole situation would probably lose some luster after a month or six, but you continue to let the situation slide because Sting is British and may know Chris Martin and, when you ask him to get you some French Roast coffee, he flies to freaking Paris to retrieve it.
You may even miss Sting when he wanders off when he finally realizes he’s stalking, well, to put it bluntly…you.
Now, the same scenario with Gordon Sumner and a beat up Chevy Impala. Sure, he has a British accent and therefore probably knows Chris Martin, but after he follows you to the office for the third time, you tell your big brother who has a conversation with him after which he disappears from the face of the earth like all the boys you told on before him.
So what’s the difference? We all know it’s because crazy behavior from celebrities is different from crazy behavior from your basic Gordy. It shows up on ET, Letterman makes fun of it and everyone goes back to Charlie Sheen and his antics.
Now let’s just say a 54-year-old woman plants a tent in the yard of another British pop star to have more efficient access to someone whose name I don’t want to mention (again) but his initials are Chris Martin. How long do you think it would take for him to call the police (small p) and have me…or her dispatched? Turns out about seven hours and I can only blame my inability to write a catchy tune about the hypothetical situation.
In closing I want to say that stalking is a crappy thing to do, it is not about a person’s love and desire for another person, it’s about devious narcissism and celebrities should stop it immediately. I, of course, have not pitched a tent in Chris Martin’s yard because I live in Chicago and hate camping. Also because, unless someone has written a multi-platinum selling song about it, it’s just the wrong thing to do.