Once this breed boasted proud pompadours and razor-sharp sharkskin suits as they trolled smoke-filled nightspots, quick with a Zippo and a loaded wink, hitting it hard with the skirts and even harder with the hootch - real drinks that had nothing to do with cranberries, ginger infusion, or energy drinks. Now look at them. Chances are they've never been to Europe or even L.A. - so where does the faux sporty Euro-trash-by way-of Hollywood look come from? And how do we send it back? Indeed, the puzzling pair raise more questions than they answer; are they talking to each other? Who the hell are they constantly dialing up? And if they're having such an awesome time, how come they always seem to be on the horn? I once spotted a gaggle of four or five of these guys all clucking away on their phones at the same time as the night and the world around them simply passed them by as if they were bit players in their own life stories. (A dull read to be sure.) It's the modern peacock syndrome, I suppose, and I guess the ladies really like to see how a - cough - man handles himself around a tiny twittering, beeping annoyance. And what could they possibly do for a living? So many questions... ones their reptilian forefathers could never answer.