Sting. I Forgive You, Baby. Now Make Better Choices.

The first time I ever saw Sting he looked like this (Parental Discretion Advised):

(WAIT. Just discovered that I can't use Sting's Dune picture because there isn't one available in the Creative Commons that I can use without paying for it. So instead there's this:

Now imagine that the winged hat is on Sting. When he was much younger. And it isn't on his head. It's on . . . er . . . well . . . Go google Sting and Dune and you'll see. Now, to continue–)

Yes. The man was wearing a winged diaper. He was having delusions of grandeur in a movie called "Dune." And I use the term "movie" very loosely here. It was more like the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster thrown into a Vita Mix and then chucked at the screen, Jackson Pollack style. Not even kidding. That's what  "Dune" was like. With Sting "Winged-Victory-Pants" Sumner flashing his spiky strawberry headed grin at us through it all. Plus his funny undies.

Well I must say, that visual impacted me. I didn't want anything to do with a Greek-godling who wore wings on his . . . well.  I pretty much thought the dude was weird and vowed never to listen to anything he did again. (At least not knowingly. I had no idea Sting sang "Fields of Gold"–a song I knew and loved. I mean, the guy who sang that song never wore a flappy speedo, that I could tell. So I was cool with "Fields," just not so much with Sting.)

Then one day I was invited to a concert. So I went and lo and behold, it was Dune-Boy. Seriously? The abhorrent actor with the flighty-chastity-belt-swim-suit? Um, I don't think so. No. I don't want to hear him sing. I mean, really? What's that going to sound like. Bleah! I don't . . . I . . . I . . .

Oh. My. Heart. What a voice. What angst. What shreddy realism. What heart. I LOVE this guy! He was wonderful. And I had no idea that he was the one who sang half the songs he sang. I KNEW those songs!

Well. It just goes to show: if you're capable of singing something like this:

Don't wear something like THAT î  (Pretend like that's an up-arrow pointing to the picture at the top of the post. I couldn't find a real one. Much like Sting couldn't find a real costume.)

Okay, Sting honey. I forgive you. Just keep singing, and let Trudy pick your clothes. Always.

As for the rest of us? You are what you wear, honeys. Select accordingly.