Every Girl's Crazy 'Bout a Sharp Dressed Man

Disclaimer: I am no fashionista. Far from it; in fact, I do most of my shopping at Target. Take the following as you will, given that knowledge.

SUBJECT ONE: It looked to me -- as it always looks with these guys -- like a subtle pose for his hidden paparazzi. Dark, expensive sunglasses worn indoors, one hand in a pocket, the other at his side. Expressionless. A precise yet impractical head tilt.

His was the kind of spontaneous Westside look that takes an hour to achieve. The neatly tousled hair and brand-new faded jeans bespoke an air of purposeful casualness. Black shirt...passable for inexpensive, but only from a reasonable distance. I was momentarily surprised by the cowboy boots. Surely they were cowboy boots, they were so very pointed at the toe. It's possible, cowboy boots, even here. They have come in and out of fashion as of late. Cowboy boots? Yes. Very pointy cowboy boots, such that I would pity the horse, or the other man in the bar fight.

But then he shifted to a bent-leg pose, as if he knew I wondered, and the lifting of his pantleg revealed a sock-clad ankle. Not cowboy boots but pointy man-shoes. Pointy man-shoes.

SUBJECT TWO: He strode toward me mid-Thursday as I was walking past the noodle houses and anime shops on Sawtelle. Perhaps he was on his lunch break from an ad agency. A lanky six-footer or more, twenty-five years old or less. Short, spiky hair and the requisite black hornrims of the sensitive ar-teest. Black shoes; black pants; black, short sleeved, collared shirt. Taking himself very seriously.

Then, worn as if it were a sweater vest, this.

I didn't see anyone with him, or anyone close enough with a camera for this to be a dare.

SUBJECT THREE: He stood in his suburban front yard at 10:00 on a Sunday morning, inexplicably in the company of two neatly dressed women with whom he appeared to be engaged in conversation. In his mid-to-late forties, perhaps. Beer gut -- or maybe just an actual keg, with a flap of hairy skin stretched over it for good measure -- and the accompanying "manmaries" (thank you, I think I made that up just now).

Shirtless. With beer can.

Come to think of it, that would be a perfect title for a painting in his honor.