once, you found yourself sitting opposite a well dressed and precisely tanned frenchman. (it was at park, the penthouse, of course, but that's not important). your knowing eye could tell that he was drinking a glass of tragically mediocre van rouge, but, despite his disgust, he drank it with a conspicuous grace. his hand movements around the stem were expert and choreographed; he knew exactly how to counter a tapered bulb with a subtle backwards tilt of his head; he sipped, not with a delicacy that would suit your lovely michelle, but with a style on which steve mcqueen might have taken notes. indeed, he was all about style. you could not pull off the shirt he was wearing. bouncers mistook him for a style superhero. you loved him because you wanted to be him. and, the next afternoon, you hated him because while you were ordering new business cards thanks to a promotion-in-lieu-of-a-salary-increase, he was just waking up. such is the life of a le bilbouquet bus boy.