S.O.S. To The World

The 2009 Golden Globes marked the disquieting re-appearance of Sting – master of pretention, occasional jazz bullshitter, and reluctant Police vocalist (yes, money talks) – modeling an uncomfortable beard. Uncomfortable for his audience, it should be clarified. And in fairness, I’m not making comparisons to the questionable panache of Rutherford B. Hayes, who sported a gnarled bird’s nest on his face while proudly serving in the Oval Office, mouth buried beneath years of knotty twine, happily wearing the sandwich crumbs of a decade; but for those who know Mr. Sumner as a fair-haired musician famous for his ode to prostitution, not to mention as an epic sexual deity to be feared by mortals and porn stars, this new adventure down the hirsute highway seemed to raise more than a few eyebrows in the Beverly Hilton.

Bizarrely, the new carpet was dyed a powerful black, along with the rest of his thinning mane. And when I say black, understand that I mean black as fuck, matte finish. As in Just For Men Black As Fuck, or Grecian Formula Machine Shop Blend. You know, the one that requires a haz-mat license at point of purchase (ask for it behind the spray paint cage). Squint hard, and it looks like a tantric fungus is devouring our favorite egotistical bassist’s head. Sweep history aside, and it’s too easy to assume that the Coast Guard found him lying beneath the Exxon Valdez, bottle smashed, message lost.

Fortunately most children were asleep as the network waited until nine before airing the feed, smartly avoiding FCC ire. Now I don’t have kids, but I’d imagine the sight of a wolfen man who looked like he just gargled tar could scare the bejesus out of most kindergartners. Be afraid.