The man with roses was walking toward me very fast.
A man with a rose in his arse, corseted, masked, veiled, bewigged, high-heeled, impaled, laughing, giving us his rictus grin.
At the bar, an exasperated young man with a rose tattoo on his neck throws back martinis like they were shots.
The man with the roses was surprised to see the armed police officer get into a (second) delivery van.
Why couldn't men surprise me with roses or trips to Paris instead of requests like "My girlfriend wants to meet you"?
Bankers, writers, ponytailed tough guys, women in tight pants, men with braids like Axl Rose: everybody sits side by side, drinking their fireballs and Honker's Ale, as the jukebox flows amiably from the Pure Prairie League to Jane's Addiction to 2 Chainz.
I was born in the south in a time of tailfins, when young men with their hair slicked back with Rose hair oil and blast-furnace scars on their necks and arms would thunder down the blacktop with his music pouring from the windows.
"This is a backward area," the former prime minister, a soft-spoken and amiable man, said just before supporters showered him with rose petals.
His ad for the popular soap brand Lux featured him in a bathtub filled with rose petals, a first for macho-man loving Bollywood.
The resulting video shows Rose surprising Japanese men with an aggressive kiss, sometimes even pushing her targets to the floor and climbing on top of them.
