Oh, what a beautiful morning, or afternoon... I guess it's afternoon, it being 1:01 PM, PST. But, at any rate, OH, what a beautiful day!

Apart from the maelstrom of manufactured drama and mundane emergencies that cropped up at work, desperate-sounding people calling with urgent requests or recriminations ["Please hold..."], general angst and a low-grade hangover likely due to cheap booze, all is SWELL, swell, here in my world.

I think I may have slipped into a tangential universe somewhere along the way, because although things appear to be their normal physical shapes, there's a hint that something is slightly off-kilter.

Instance one: The Keelhauler is known for his sartorial nonchalance. He wears shorts almost exclusively, frequently ones he has created by slicing a knife through the legs of long pants while he is wearing them, and leaving the resultant tubes strewn on the floor. He has a large collection of t-shirts, bearing advertisements for everything from surf shops to German gas stations. Most of these t-shirts are stained with epoxy or paint, or shredded from being washed with, say, a handful of screws in the breast pocket. He also wears large, loose collared shirts gleaned from thrift stores--Brooks Brothers, Fa�onnable, it does not matter what their pedigree might have been, they all end up with rolled-up sleeves and stains that could be red wine, oil, or blood. This is how he dressed when I met him, and I adored him anyway. He is capable of and not opposed to putting on a suit when required, but for the most part, his wardrobe is catch-as-catch-can, and that is that. Occasionally, I suggest that he looks very handsome wearing hemmed shorts instead of piratey knife-edge shorts, but his response is a hand wave of exasperation and a nonsensical reply. Friends shrug, stepping over errant pant-leg tubes on the floor, and say, "That's just the Keelhauler." And so it is.

Or, so it was. Yesterday, he came home carrying four or five plastic bags, which he dumped out on the floor, revealing a pile of clothes. "Small fashion show," he announced, and began the parade. He'd bought a handsome dark grey sportcoat; a heather grey t-shirt with a lot of Lycra in it, very cute; two pairs of jeans; a pair of Ferragamo walking shoes; three pairs of shorts with hems.

We were due to go out to see a friend perform, and so the Keelhauler was trying on a variety of suitable outfits. I don't know if it was the four weddings we've attended lately, all of which required a suit, or my obvious and irritating fascination with a sportcoat-clad guest at the last wedding we went to, but the Keelhauler has a brand-new style.

The friends we met were pleasantly surprised by the new look, and the Keelhauler seemed pleased by the reaction. On our way home, I asked him if he was dressing up for a new girlfriend, and he snorted at me and said no, like he was twelve, ha ha.

I don't expect him to turn into the reincarnation of Versace overnight, but you know? He cleans up real nice.

Star of the day. . .Salvatore Ferragamo