Remember that semiotically rich Ferrari that was parked outside our offices a couple weeks ago? We wondered, at the time, exactly what kind of man (of course, a man) drove it. What kind of man would drive around with a Sir Ivan CD and an old issue of Time? Well, today, coming back from lunch, we met that guy. He was dashing out of the building next to ours before a traffic cop gave him the ticket he so deservedly deserved. By now his Ferrari top was off and his passenger side seemed cleaner. Our eyes locked for a moment and in that instant I understood what it meant to wear flip flops and flared jeans, what it meant to let grayish-blond chest hair extrude from a striped shirt, what it meant to smell of Aqua Di Gio and drive a Ferrari. (It doesn't feel good.) And then he was gone. Fortunately, his face was etched into our memory forever.

Our best police sketch artists have come up with this: