I really do not know how better to express this, but this guy -- whom I do not know -- is basically what I have to call call my hero. I almost cried when I found him and was way to intimidated to talk to him. I had to use a giant telephoto lens to capture him (I'm tearing up now).I mean, just look at him [click on the image - do it now!]. He's out on the town with his young lady-friend on his arm like the gentleman he is and alway has been. He is dressed stylishly for any time or any function; integrating form (necklace) and function (eyeglasses) without seam--without effort.
Everything is sharp. Shirt is fresh, jacket is money, accessory facial hairs are perfect. This is who I could only hope to become someday. This is not an accident; this is the result of years and decades of very hard work. He has probably lived six or seven beautiful acts in his play. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he as an act or two remaining. This might be a transition phase between two major works.
What's genius is this perfect being is waiting in a line for a little grub. He could have snapped his fingers (or had his honey do it) and that line would have parted and he would have been presented the key to the universe. But, no, he doesn't go around flaunting his magic. He lets mere mortals bathe in his presence. I mean, shit, it's just a line for some snacks.
I want to be in his posse. I have met the God of Leisure.
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