YEEEE-HAWW (inshallah)!

An open letter to the Persian Cowboy I encountered today:

Dear Mr. Persian Cowboy man,

I was sitting at the Amir restaurant on Boulevard l'Acadie, minding my own business and enjoying the tart, mealy goodness of an expertly wrapped shish-taouk sandwich.

But then you moseyed on in and, if for only a split second, you transformed the buzzing Lebanese eatery into the OK Corral. It started from the ground up: your pointy Italian shoes, up to your spray-on black jeans, then a button-down black shirt which, ironically, was not buttoned down at all. No, sir, you had left 3 of those buttons open, so we all might dare to feast on the visual splendor of your "Mediterranean Sweater". Finally, the luxuriant tufts of your Jeri curl were, sadly, overshadowed by your enormous black stetson. How you thought this could be a good fashion choice, we will never know.

Best of all, you were trying to rock this look in the Jewish/Lebanese/Italian garment district of a French-Canadian city. Was that a rolling tumbleweed I spied behind you? No, my mistake, it was just an errant falafel ball that had fallen off someone's plate. Indeed, you were a stranger in a strange land, a man of obvious Middle-Eastern descent, dressed up like a child's interpretation of a mean cowboy, about to order food (you looked hungry, if slightly effeminate, so I bet you went for the shrimp skewers on rice) at a Falafal joint. It wasn't High Noon - it was 12:45, and you looked ridiculous, but you made my day. Ride on into the sunset, Mahmoud, ride on.

Regards,

FS