True-life story: I have found a perfect pair of swimtrunks. Not too Speedo-like, not too 'I'm wearing manhood insecurity pants which quick-dry so I can hop in my sweet ride'. And they fit in that blessed Eurotrash way, where if the water's a little too cold, the other people at the pool will kindly turn a blind eye, but those in the know say 'he is so hot right now'. My good friend Mr. Wahlberg (who knows a thing or two about appearing nearly nude) has commented that 'Midnight in his swimwear conjures images of long walks on French beaches, of trendy cabanas, and myself in the early Eighties'. Which I'm sure is the highest compliment of an underwear model-slash-actore.
Obviously this is Midnight Shoveler's cartoon persona, which is a strangely realistic depiction of the actual Midnight Shoveler, but in ink form he can have as many muscles as I like. Notice my attempt at some bulkier bisceps? And the heavenly light rays emerging from his mid-region? That's the holy light of the Fashion Epiphany. (Takes place around June and you don't even have to go to Church.)
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