It may seem a little early and a bit too cold to start shopping for spring clothing, but there's one new collection you shouldn't wait to check out. Burkman Bros., the line by brothers Doug and Ben Burkman, which was written about in Details' Jan/Feb issue, has just hit the sales floor of Barneys New York (Madison and 60th Street, NYC).

This small first delivery consists of washed-and-rumpled plaid anoraks, supersoft button-front shirts in navy gingham, and chino shorts that, when rolled up, reveal a pop-colored lining.

These are the clothes you'll be living in come summer­—but you'll need to act now to get your hands on them. The best part? Nothing in the collection is over $200. Micah Johnson

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One of the cool things from last summer's shows in Milan was this innovative "Freeway Jacket" from Zegna Sport. It was designed to improve safety in urban outdoor situations like biking or running. Integrated into the collar of the jacket is an LED safety system for maximum nighttime visibility, so you won't get run over by a semi or another zealous exerciser. It's made of a water-repellent fabric with breathable finishing, to keep you dry while allowing perspiration to escape.

It's available now in select Ermenegildo Zegna stores for $845. Matthew Marden

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Following last year's exciting menswear collaborations with Tim Hamilton and Loden Dager, Uniqlo continues its "Designers Invitation" this spring. The project pairs up-and-coming designer labels with the fast-fashion
capabilities of Uniqlo's international business.

Beginning March 19, Uniqlo will bring in a collection by hip retailer turned coveted-clothing label Opening Ceremony. The line includes cropped navy blazers, plaid shirts in Easter-egg hues, and lightweight zip-up cardigans.

The second installment, this one by denim favorite Gilded Age, hits Uniqlo stores on May 7. Khaki cotton bomber jackets and two-button blazers can be purchased to throw over the striped polos and waffle-knit henleys that have helped make a name for this New York–based label.

Prices for both collections range from $19 to $79.

Can't wait until March for the "Designers Invitation" to start? Good news—Opening Ceremony has pieces from the collection available in the New York store for Fashion Week. Micah Johnson

Uniqlo, 546 Broadway, New York, 917-237-8811
Opening Ceremony, 35 Howard Street, New York, 212-219-2688

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Preppy style is back, and it's never looked so modern

-By Aaron Gell

Photograph by Scott Schafer

For those inclined to hate Pete Wentz­—and there seem to be a lot of you out there­—a word of advice: Don't ever meet him. It's 11 P.M. when the Fall Out Boy bassist and lyricist­—as famous for his branding efforts, cosmetic proclivities, and tabloid-princess wife as for his music­—strides into a nearly empty restaurant in Barcelona, wearing one of his countless hoodies (this one from his clothing line, Clandestine Industries). "Dude," he says, offering his hand. He stands five feet seven, with a top-heavy bobble-head quality, and exudes so much boyish charm you're almost tempted to lick a palm and smooth his hair out of his eyes.

Wentz has just arrived from Los Angeles, and he's tired. But then, he's always sleep-deprived, he says, despite popping Ambien like Tropical Skittles. He's got a lot going on these days. In addition to overseeing Clandestine Industries, he's keeping tabs on his record label, Decaydance, which he runs like a sort of promotional puppy pile, in which the bands­—including Panic at the Disco, Gym Class Heroes, and the Academy Is ...—share a management team, tour together, and turn up as guests on each other's tracks and videos.

He's also prepping for a second season of FNMTV, the weekly music-video show he hosts, and getting set to unveil the latest outpost of his bar, Angels & Kings, the would-be Planet Hollywood for the emo crowd. Though the first A&K, which opened in New York in 2007, was billed as a gritty clubhouse for Wentz and his friends (a Chicago branch opened this summer), this location­—just off the pool deck in the brand-new luxury ME Barcelona hotel­—is an uncharacteristically upscale affair.

Meanwhile, on December 16, Fall Out Boy­—the less celebrated members of which are guitarist Joe Trohman, drummer Andy Hurley, and singer-composer Patrick Stump­—will release Folie à Deux, a collection of attention-deficit genre mash-ups, featuring cameos by Lil Wayne, Debbie Harry, and Elvis Costello.

And then there's the ultimate brand extension, the one guaranteed to propel Wentz into a whole new sphere of exposure: Bronx Mowgli Wentz, the son he and his wife, Ashlee Simpson, welcomed into the world on November 20. When Wentz found out Simpson was pregnant, he was in Chile with Fall Out Boy, preparing to play a show in nearby Antarctica. "I was like, 'Oh my God, this might be the worst possible time to have this conversation,'" he says. Perhaps to make sure the news had sunk in, Simpson promptly e-mailed a snapshot of the pregnancy test. (Us Weekly, eat your heart out). "I was definitely scared," Wentz says, "just thinking, This is something that's going to exist for the rest of your life and you can't fuck it up."

Wentz allows that the pregnancy was unplanned. "It was a happy accident," he says. "But I think that certain things happen for a reason in your life, and maybe it was time to put the wild child in a cage."

Photograph by Alex Tehrani

The fact is Wentz has never displayed the feral behavior one might expect from a rock star­—especially one whose camera-phone genital study was seen by more people than the finale of Friends. Sure, girls throw themselves at him, he says, but "isn't it a little more thrilling to go on the hunt? It's like if a cow put itself between a pair of buns. I think most people think the rock lifestyle is crazier than it is. Maybe for some it is, but not really for me or our band."

As for drugs, Wentz has long preferred the professionally prescribed variety. The son of a law professor and a private-school admissions officer, Wentz grew up in the prosperous Chicago suburb of Wilmette and was a high-school soccer star. But the all-American idyll wasn't all it seemed. "I was diagnosed with ADHD and depression and, I don't know, you name it­—whatever happened to be the trendy disorder that week," he says.

The problems snowballed throughout his adolescence, and in his twenties, Wentz started having frequent panic attacks. As Fall Out Boy were nurturing a following, his anxiety became overwhelming. On one occasion during an early Warped Tour, he remembers, he stood frozen and weeping in the Denver airport, unable to board his flight. "I was like, Man, I don't want to do this. It doesn't seem worth it," he says. Though he was briefly on lithium­—which was "zombifying, you're, like, drooling"­—Xanax and Klonopin were his favorites. "For a while, I was a total drugstore cowboy," he adds. "I had The Pill Book, which is awesome because I could learn every shape and number, and then be like, 'Those are the blue footballs, those are the bars ...'"

One chilly day in February 2005, Wentz sat in a car in a Best Buy parking lot outside Chicago and swallowed a handful of Ativan. He then began woozily contacting friends and family members, who persuaded him to drive to the nearest emergency room. He eventually wrote about the incident in the song "Hum Hallelujah." Then, about a year ago, he quit everything except for the sleep aids cold turkey. "Dude, after Heath Ledger," he says, "I was just like, Man, this is not going to end up good."

Simpson played a role too. "I realized I'd found my soul mate, and it made me want to be a better person," he says. "Now, with the baby, I want to be the best dad I can be."

The following day the "emogul" is seated on a stage with five top-tier hospitality execs. The occasion is a press conference to mark the opening of the gleaming, 30-story ME Barcelona, and Wentz has agreed to say a few words to the international travel press. He looks intensely absorbed as one suit after another extols the virtues of Sol Meliá, a multinational hotel group in the midst of a massive and probably ill-timed expansion. It's an impressive performance on his part, considering that the speeches are in Catalan and nobody thought to give him one of the instant-translation headsets.

Photograph by Alex Tehrani

Later, sitting in a poolside cabana under a steady drizzle, Wentz seems a bit uncertain about the whole Barcelona deal. "It doesn't really make a whole lot of sense," he admits. "But we'll try anything, dude." Of course, for Wentz's many haters, this relentless branding is just another infraction on an ever-growing rap sheet that goes roughly like this:

Count 1: Pete Wentz is a douchebag. He cops to the charge every chance he gets. Take, for example, the video for "I Don't Care," Folie à Deux's first single, which ends with a bouncer decking Wentz, then peeling off a mask to reveal that the downed man is actually Hills twit Spencer Pratt. "me and spencer pratt being knocked out at the same time," Wentz blogged. "thats like getting two d-bags with one stone." If you admit to being a douchebag, can you actually be one?

Count 2: He's the prince of oversharing. Guilty. Many of FOB's lyrics refer directly to Wentz's personal life, though he swears the new record is not autobiographical. "I'm 29, man. I'm not even trying to be angsty anymore. I'm no longer mad at my dad for throwing away my porn collection or whatever." Then again, anyone seeking a fix of Wentzian self-disclosure can get their fill free online, where he maintains no less than four blogs. One is about the band, another is about Clandestine, another includes his reviews of things he likes (including the musical Wicked), and the last is for updating close friends and anyone obsessed enough to stumble across it. Those who do will find a remarkable mix of sincere reflections, self-lacerations ("if anyone ever really knew me, they'd string me up and leave me as a sign of what not to become"), and enigmatic bits of raw poetry. "i want love in handcuffs," he wrote after midnight on June 19, 2007. "meth bake sales to lower global warming. sweat shop work to burn calories."

Count 3: He can't play bass, and he spins around like an idiot. The spinning thing is kind of impressive, actually, given how rarely he collides with a mike stand. But no, he can't play bass.

Count 4: He took a picture of his Johnson. Like you haven't. The difference is that Wentz's Johnson somehow made it online. Interestingly, "Penisgate," as he calls it, is one of the things that brought Wentz and Simpson together. Simpson, after all, had recently survived her own public shaming on Saturday Night Live. "She just called me up and made me feel a lot better," he says.

Count 5: He married Ashlee Simpson. It was true love, he says. "I've had a thing for that girl for a really, really long time."

Count 6: He's a sellout. "The idea of selling out is one of those things that just seems so ancient to me," Wentz says. "It seems so, like, nineties." In fact, the band has SELL OUT BOY T-shirts on tour­—for a tidy profit.

Wentz, who considers Jay-Z a role model, is always seeking new branding opportunities. While he doubts the world is ready for a Pete Wentz fragrance, he says, "In a weird way, it's one of the things I'd be most interested in doing." But there is a limit. Although Fall Out Boy have done numerous sponsorship deals, Wentz protested publicly when Island Def Jam released­—allegedly without his approval­—a cut of the "I Don't Care" video to iTunes that featured a few too many adoring close-ups of a Nokia phone. "this is NOT the edit the band approved," he blogged furiously. "sorry to let you down."

Count 7: He's a fame whore. "The tabloids are a lose-lose for me," he says. "I don't need to do image maintenance. My band was playing arenas and had a platinum record, all pre-paparazzi." Simpson is now the focus of attention. "When me and Ashlee are on the red carpet together, I'm like her purse."

Photograph by Alex Tehrani

Meanwhile, anyone hoping for a Wentz-family reality series can forget it. "I get pitched, like, Newlyweds 2 once a week, dude," he says. "For like, fuck-you money. Move-to-an-island-after-this money. I just can't do it."

Still, he's self-aware enough to realize that his haters will despise him no matter what. "People are like, 'This dude represents eyeliner and girls' jeans and a swoopy haircut and whining on your blog,'" he says. "I'm the flag of that. So when people want to burn the flag, I'm the dude they go after."

There is a bright side, however. "People, when they meet me, are always like, 'Aw, man. I was sure I was gonna hate you,'" he says. "So as long as you aren't, you know, Hitler, they wind up thinking, like, Oh, this dude's okay!"

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-By Mike Albo
-Photograph by James Westman

Last month, sailing off the southern tip of Capri, a group of men including a prominent Manhattan gallerist and a former pro soccer player made for quite the postcard. In fact, the scene was more like a glossy advertisement for an expensive chronographic timepiece: As the 42-foot Norwegian yacht tacked into the wind, the rugged master-of-the-universe types scrambled to adjust the jib. To the casual observer, they appeared to be active men of means on some kind of luxury bonding excursion. And they were. But they also happened to be homosexual.

Make way for the A-gays. Moneyed, successful, educated, and comfortable in their own skin, they're fast becoming the new archetype of cosmopolitan masculinity. The urban man's man. They don't own yappy miniature dogs or time-shares in Fort Lauderdale; they own Labradors and four-bedroom summer homes in Sag Harbor. Instead of cruising in gay clubs, they jet to Gstaad or the TED conference, and party at Sundance with Zooey Deschanel. They don't want to be part of any kind of closeted group or velvet mafia. Their Savile Row suits are impeccable (A-gays tend to go custom rather than buying off the rack), and they furnish their homes with collectible pieces by designers like Claude Lalanne. They drive to Krav Maga class in Lexus hybrids and read four newspapers a day, including the Wall Street Journal, because they're bosses and entrepreneurs, not employees. Often athletic, they're never steroid queens. And they can pull off having much-younger boyfriends without looking creepy. Artists and photographers approach them with new works. Charity committees beg them to cohost their benefits and sit on their boards—and they have portfolios of philanthropic interests that aren't just gay- or AIDS-related. Some, like one couple in New York City, a lawyer and a chef, aren't just avid operagoers, they're benefactors. Others travel in Wasp circles.

What they're not are the guys running around in torn jeans and leopard-print tops telling women what not to wear. "They have actual power that even straights can't deny," says one veteran of the New York-Los Angeles power-gay media scene, "and usually an imposing sense of style and grooming." A-gays supplant the prevailing media cliché: those irrepressible reality makeover icons, style experts, and fashion minions who have thrived throughout the naughts. They are the antitheses of the Carson Kressleys and Steven "Kojo" Cojocarus—they don't want to talk about how to hide your chunky sister's hips or brighten up a bedroom with colorful pillows. They will never say "Just wear it with a belt!" They own the company that manufactures the belts.

Even those A-gays with kids are able to find the time to perfect themselves, becoming the healthier, more stylish, more popular version of you that might have been. The cultural barriers that once held them back have largely eroded, but instead of waving rainbow flags, they maintain a subtle privacy about their sexuality. Out but not loud, proud but discreet, they transcend gayness in much the same way that Barack Obama is said to have transcended race.

"A-gays mark measurable societal progress," says Laura Gilbert, editor of the pop-culture website lemondrop.com. "People can now be out without being expected to swish. It's the Neil Patrick Harris/Portia de Rossi brand of gay."

Those of a certain pedigree have a tendency to stick together, and A-gays are no different. While they don't shun B-gays or C-gays, they tend to move in rarefied circles, and are apt to be found at upscale restaurants among their straight peers—not at bars with names like Rawhide. For the most part, they have opted out of the gay scene and its social networks and eschew the theme parties and bathhouses of the lower castes. They also steer clear of the typical pink vacation destinations; you will not catch an A-gay shirtless in South Beach or at a foam party in Mykonos.

"My favorite A-gay has to be dragged to gay bars," says Gilbert, adding that she sees the breed as a unique torment to straight women: "At first when we meet one, we feel a glimmer of hope for the existence of funny, charming, debonair, clean-shaven men. Soon, though, the reality sinks in."

But for straight men, the A-gay is even more confusing. The average guy might have a gay friend or two, but they rarely represent a challenge to his heterosexuality. The A-gay's success—with personal style, in business, with friends—has a gravitational pull. Often straight guys hope that some of that A-gayness will rub off on them and, before you know it, they've developed a man crush. And that's when their wives start giving them looks.

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Late 1300s Robin Hood robs from the rich and gives to the poor.
1789 The French Revolution	1848 The Communist Manifesto is published.
1940 Woody Guthrie writes "This Land Is Your Land." 1959 The Cuban revolution establishes Fidel Castro and Ernesto "Che" Guevara as socialist icons. 1969 Sesame Street
1970 Jane Fonda 1971 John Lennon records "Imagine," which he later describes as "virtually The Communist Manifesto." 1973 The Park Slope Food Coop opens in Brooklyn.
1981 The Smurfs, rumored to be an allegory for socialism, with Papa Smurf as Karl Marx, premieres on U.S. TV.	1993 Hillary Clinton's health-care-reform package is decried as socialized medicine.
1999 Zipcar	1999 Napster
1999 Mike Tyson reveals a tattoo of Che Guevara to accompany his tattoo of Chairman Mao.	2004 Che onesies hit the market.
June 2007 Michael Moore releases Sicko. February 2008 Raúl Castro is elected president of Cuba. April 2008 Hugo Chávez orders nationalization of foreign-owned cement plants in Venezuela. October 2008 John McCain says his opponent, Barack Obama, "believes in redistributing wealth." October 2008 Sarah Palin's supporters chant "Socialist!" when she mentions Obama at her rallies. December 2008 Stephen Soderbergh's epic biopic Che is released.

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	SATURATION POINT: THE B.S. RETIREMENT Everyone loves a good comeback story, but as returns to glory are being outnumbered by wishy-washy changes of heart and cheap publicity stunts, a question arises: Isn't it time to retire this trend—for good?
	SATURATION POINT: COUGARS Hot, tight-bodied older women have always fueled younger men's sexual fantasies. But now that every View-watching wildcat is lusting after boy-toy ass, it just might be time to call Animal Control.
	SATURATION POINT: WHITE PRESIDENTS Historically, our chief executives have displayed whiteness that's more than skin-deep. Is the current campaign about transcending race, or are we just fed up with embarrassingly honkyish behavior?

-By Jeff Gordinier
-Cover photograph by Steven Klein

He has heard of a sandwich. An excellent sandwich. "I've been looking," he says, "for a good sandwich in Los Angeles."

It is a Monday in September, precisely noon. The morning fog is burning off. The sky over Hollywood is turning cornflower blue. Keanu—really, for a guy who's been a star for two decades now, the Reeves just feels like a vestigial tail—appears on the sidewalk along Sunset Boulevard, in front of Book Soup and a block away from the Viper Room. He's wearing jeans, a black blazer, a plain gray T-shirt, desert boots, and a black motorcycle helmet. His face is scruffy. He's 44. He removes the helmet and grins. The grin is crooked and contagious. Our plan is to go shopping for books. But he is wondering whether at some point we should drive to Santa Monica, because a friend of his has passed along word of a sub, a magnificent sub, that is made at a place called Bay Cities Italian Deli & Bakery. "I was told that it's got the shredded lettuce," he rhapsodizes. "It's like, you know, a good sandwich."

Everything is conveyed in the unmistakable hollowed-out-trunk-of-a-redwood timbre of his voice. The voice speaks of so much more than leafy greens. The voice says: We will be co-conspirators in a quest for pleasure. It says: Provided, my friend, that you don't turn out to be a dick, you are welcome to accompany me in an adventure. "We can do," he says—and there's the crooked grin again—"a feast of the senses."

First, though, a banquet for the brain. Keanu lopes through the front door at Book Soup—he's been coming here for about 20 years, often late at night—and gallantly kisses the cheek of the pretty blonde at the cash register. "Hello, Fawn!" he proclaims.

"How are you?" Fawn says. "I saw your mom the other day."

"You did?" he asks, and then, after he and Fawn have traded a few pleasantries, he sends up a quick signal flare: "This is a journalist."

"I'll keep all your secrets," she tells him. "Don't worry."

"Everyone says that," he says.

Today is an all-about-the-journey-not-the-destination kind of day. The point is to hang out in the vicinity of stuff that Keanu likes, and Keanu likes books. This might come as a surprise to those who still cling to the impression—one fostered by his past residency in the stoner/slacker/surfer precinct exemplified by films like Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure, River's Edge, and Point Break—that Keanu is, you know . . . kind of dumb. "He is the opposite of dumb," says Scott Derrickson, who directed him in December's The Day the Earth Stood Still. "That is a word that has no application to him. This is not just a director trying to defend his actor and say, 'No, really, he's not dumb.' He's fiercely intelligent."

It does, to be sure, take a certain strain of otherworldly brainpower to be a movie star in an era of microscopic tabloid scrutiny while somehow managing to keep your private life as trackless as a tabula rasa. In The Day the Earth Stood Still, a remake of the 1951 sci-fi movie, Keanu plays Klaatu. Klaatu is an alien who has inhabited a human body in order to mingle with mankind and figure out whether we deserve to be saved or wiped out. Keanu observes that "playing an alien is tough." Which is probably true, though if anyone's up to the task it's Keanu, the most extraterrestrial celebrity in our midst. "He's really still," says Emma Watts, the president of production at Fox, the studio that's putting out Earth. "He's got a stillness, and he's also a man of action." She remembers meeting with him to talk about the movie and noticing that he had jotted down three or four pages of exhaustive notes about the script. In very tiny handwriting.

The trailer for The Day the Earth Stood Still

So could it be? Is Keanu Reeves some kind of . . . stealth genius? "I've swapped a lot of books with him in the last nine months. He is one of the most voracious readers I've ever met," Derrickson says. "He's very unpretentious about it. Nobody really knows, and he doesn't really care that nobody knows." Nor does his reading come across as a glued-on Hollywood affectation—like a habit, say, of toting around a yellowed copy of Leaves of Grass in an attempt to look a few millimeters deeper than a smear of Kiehl's eye cream.

No. It becomes clear after 30 seconds of watching Keanu pinball around the aisles of Book Soup that he approaches the printed word as both a glutton and a gourmand: He inhales a lot, and he's game to order off-menu. He tells me he just finished all of the novels in John Updike's Rabbit series. "So fantastic," he says with a reverent hush. I mention another work about suburban crisis, Richard Yates' Revolutionary Road, and he rears back and slides the helmet onto his head so that he can free up his left hand. "Oh, YES!!!" he shouts. "Let's high-five on Revolutionary Road!" We slap palms. This prompts a rumination from Keanu on the primary characters in that book, Frank and April Wheeler, and "the identities that they're wearing—you know, their authentic self and then their external self and that dialogue that's going on."

As we pass Proust, Keanu reveals that he devoured every page of the meticulous colossus that is Remembrance of Things Past. "It took a couple of years, but I did it," he says. The grin has straightened itself; it's ear-to-ear now. "I didn't do the Moncrief, I did the newer translation. Some books would come in between. But I found that it was a thread—like time—that you could walk away and come back to. I didn't feel like I had lost the momentum of the story at all. It was like meeting a good friend or someone that you like, and you're like, 'Hey, dude! How's it goin'?'"

James Salter's A Sport and a Pastime? Yes, he's read that. David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas? That too, yes. The Butcher, an erotic novel by Alina Reyes? Absolutely. He's never put off by a dash of kink—in fact, he'd be happy to recommend a volume in that vein. "You've read Bataille, right?" he asks.

I admit that I haven't.

"Oh, dude," he says. "Well, let's get you a book."

We search the shelves but find no Bataille. "Dude, I'm not seeing any," I tell him, and then I apologize in case my use of that timeless West Coast honorific looks like a way to curry favor—a transparent ploy to dude-bond with Johnny Utah. I tell him I can't help it sometimes, I went to high school in Southern California, and . . .

"No, dude is an excellent word," Keanu says. "I won't take it personally. I had a great run with dude."

He bounds over to the poetry section and mentions a night years ago when he saw Allen Ginsberg performing at McCabe's guitar shop in Santa Monica. "He had, like, a little piano, and he was reading his poetry," Keanu says. "I just remember him. His eyes, his sweat—he was kind of beautiful and passionate. And there was an eroticism that came off of him too."

Keanu philosophizes with Socrates in Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure.

Off Ginsberg?

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah!" (The word yeah, as a crucial instrument in the orchestra of Keanu's vocabulary, has the nuanced up-and-down dynamics of a Nirvana song: There are whispered passages, and then brassily emphatic ones—all in the course of one syllable.) "He was just . . . illuminated." Keanu still wants to recommend a book. An idea surfaces. "I'm sure you've read it," he says. "The Elementary Particles? Michel Houellebecq?"

I admit that I haven't.

"Oh, fantastic!" he says. "I hope they have it . . . " He lurches back to fiction and spies The Elementary Particles, a book that was kinky enough to scandalize the French. It's near the bottom of a shelf. "Oh, yeah, baby!!" he says. "When I read this, my head exploded."

By now the two of us have amassed a heap of homework—along with my Houellebecq are Borges, Robert Lowell, and Kay Ryan, which I've picked out for Keanu's home library—and I wonder out loud if it's too awkward a load for him to carry on his Norton motorcycle. "Not at all," he says. "I'm a professional."

We bring the books to Fawn at the cash register and pay up. Only later will I learn that Fawn—I'll keep all your secrets—is in fact Fawn Sugerman, née Fawn Hall, the woman who was thrust into the glare of fame in the eighties as the secretary who shredded Colonel Oliver North's documents during the Iran-Contra scandal, and who later battled crack addiction with her late husband, Danny Sugerman, the author of No One Here Gets Out Alive and the onetime manager of the Doors. I find this out on my own, by accident. During our time together, Keanu never breathes a word of it.

Back on the sidewalk. Although the sandwich beckons, Keanu is starting to have doubts. "Why don't we go to your hotel and we can just sit by the pool and have lunch?" he says. I remind him of the quest. The mission. The shredded lettuce.

"It's far," he says.

"How far is it?" I ask.

"It's far," he says. "It's like 45 minutes away."

But there is some interior negotiation—an invisible duel, perhaps, between the authentic self and the external self—and he rallies. Keanu delivers that emphatic "Yeah!" and a few minutes later my rented Ford Explorer is at a red light on La Cienega, and Keanu's sitting in the passenger seat checking out the cover of a Mission of Burma CD and telling me how he spent the morning. "I was dealing with the fallout from the sky that still hasn't resolved itself," he says. He's been collaborating with a screenwriter and a producer on a movie tentatively called Passengers. Roger Michell, the director of Enduring Love, has an interest in it. But there are obstacles, Keanu says: "Making movies is tough." He tends to use words sparingly, but the subject of this script gets him rolling.

"It's a cosmic romance," Keanu says. "Guy is on a ship from the Excelsior Company, and he's going to another planet that sustains life, called Homestead. There's 5,000 people on this ship that resembles an ocean liner, and for reasons that you find out later in the film, he wakes up. But he wakes up alone. And he can't go back to sleep. There's a bartender-robot on it named Arthur, who he can talk to, but eventually that stops being a kind of solace. As he says to Arthur, 'You're a machine.'"

A scene from River's Edge featuring Keanu

At this very moment there is an electronic beep in the rental car. Keanu hasn't put on his seat belt.

"We're gonna get busted, man," I tell him.

"Breakin' the law! Breakin' the law!" he sings, instantly and knowingly referring to Judas Priest, Beavis and Butt-head, and his own cultural legacy. He clicks the seat belt and continues talking.

We dip into his affection for stage plays, many of them stark or absurd: Waiting for Godot, Ubu Roi, True West. He ticks off the names of musicians he likes: the Clash and Randy Newman, Howlin' Wolf and John Coltrane, Boston and Discharge. When he was a high-school kid in Toronto he once drove to Buffalo to see the Ramones. "Yeah, man," he says. "'One two three four—go!' It was fantastic.” We talk about the impression that people have, because of 1993's Little Buddha, in which he played the Buddha himself, that Keanu is a Buddhist. "I haven't taken refuge in the dharma," he says. And yet as we hit traffic Keanu registers his concern quietly, almost imperceptibly, with a slow straightening of his spine in the passenger seat, like a Tibetan monk in meditation who's just had a mosquito land on his nose. We on-ramp to the 10 freeway. Cars unsnarl. Forward motion resumes.

"We're movin'," he says.

"This better be worth it, this sandwich," I say.

"I don't know," he says. "I've never been there."

"Who told you about it?"

"A friend of mine," he says.

"A famous friend?"

Keanu pauses for three comically perfect seconds.

"Really famous," he says.

In his blazer pocket he's got a pack of American Spirits. We talk about his smoking habit. "It was an outcome of having to smoke on a film," he says. "I got hooked making a film. Feeling Minnesota. I didn't start smoking until I was 30. Now I'm just in prison."

"You should stop," I say.

"You're right," he says. He is capable of an irony that hangs in the air, like incense.

Keanu takes a bath with Charlize Theron in Sweet November.

He remains stoic in his refusal to talk about his personal life. (There are reasons to remain stoic. In 1999 he lost a daughter with his girlfriend, actress Jennifer Syme; the baby was stillborn. Almost two years later Syme died in a car accident in Los Angeles. To ask him about these things would seem merely cruel.) Later in the day Keanu notices the query GIRLFRIEND? scribbled on a page of my legal pad. He answers, politely and preemptively, like this: "No."

"No you don't have a girlfriend or no you don't want to get into it?"

"No," he says. "All of its implications." (Recently, for what it's worth, the rumor mill has tethered him to Parker Posey.)

He will talk a bit about his motorcycle accidents. He has veneers on a couple of teeth. "I think they smashed against the handlebars. I don't really remember," he says. "Shock works. I mean, when you fall off a bike you're pretty much in shock. You're sitting on the ground, blood's pouring out, but it doesn't really hurt. Heh heh. I mean, it's not like my arm is hanging off."

"Break On Through" starts playing on the car radio.

"How do you feel about the Doors?" I ask him.

"The Doors rock," Keanu says.

"Do you mean that?"

"I do," he says. "Nothin' like 'em."

"There's nothin' like Ray's organ sound," I say, "but I think Jim was kind of a buffoon."

"Listen to that voice," Keanu says. "He went for it. Showmanship. Showmanship! The shamanism. The shamanisticus. The frontman. The frontman. The front of the band. Rockin'. I think we have to get off this street."

"'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,’'" he intones—very quickly, and in a cadence that calls to mind a surfer having a panic attack, "'I summon up remembrance of things past / I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought / And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.'" Here in the rental car Keanu is reciting, from memory, Shakespeare's Sonnet 30. He also reels off 116 and 119 while we wait at a stoplight.

Keanu goes head to head with Hugo Weaving in The Matrix.

Remembrance of things past, yes. Amazingly, it's nearly the 10th anniversary of the release of The Matrix, the 1999 metaphysical sci-fi kung-fu extravaganza that did for Keanu what The Pirates of the Caribbean did for Johnny Depp: It fixed for him an everlasting place in the Hollywood firmament, and it made him really rich. Keanu remarks on how the film gave the "vernacular," as he puts it, a "nomenclature"—turning, for instance, the question of whether you should swallow a red pill or a blue pill into a 21st-century Rorschach inkblot. "You know, you can take red pills and then sometimes they can turn into blue pills," he muses. "You thought you ate a red pill but really you had a blue pill. But then you can take another red pill. Maybe. But obviously I was drawn to the red pills. When I first read that script, it made my blood happy."

Right now, the thing that would make his plasma sing is an excellent sandwich. Which means we must return to our quest. "I know a couple of places to get a good sandwich," Keanu says, "but I'm talking about that other level. Like, in Chicago you can get the other level. And I'm sure that other level is here in Los Angeles, as well. I just haven't found it. But I've been on this search."

We exit the 10. Now we're on Lincoln, blocks from the storied sandwich. "This could be it," Keanu says, "here on the right." Yes. We see a deli. We see neon signs. We don't see a line, though. So transcendent is this repast that there is supposed to be a line out the door every day. But there is no line. And in the windows there is only darkness.

"There it is. Bay Cities Italian Deli and Bakery," Keanu says. "Oh, shit. What day's today?"

Monday.

"They're closed Monday," he says.

"You're kidding," I say.

He grins. Ear to ear. And then he says it: "Awesome."

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Dressed in a tailored suit, Jesse Waits sits atop the backrest of an alligator-skin banquette. It's the early hours of a Friday morning in August at Tryst, the hugely successful nightclub one floor below the blackjack tables at Wynn Las Vegas. Alongside him a couple of leggy women sip champagne while a cocktail waitress in a bustier fusses with bottles of booze and an armada of drinking vessels. To one side of the crowded dance floor, a group of NFL players manage a harem of female fans.

But Waits focuses his attention elsewhere: At a nearby table a baby-faced Californian hotel owner in his early thirties dances solo, conducting the booming beats with devil-horned fingers, while his girlfriend, a voluptuous blonde in a hip-hugging skirt, looks on.

After ordering a couple of thousand dollars' worth of champagne, the hotelier tells Waits that he'd like some girls to party with. "As many as you want," Waits says. Tryst employees round up a half-dozen women and ask them if they'd like some champagne. Soon the millionaire is at the center of a marked-up Cristal frenzy. "He says he and his girlfriend are going to take a few girls back to the room," Waits says between sips from a bottle of Evian. "The guy's a rock star."

Over the next few hours the hotelier spends in excess of $25,000—helping Waits become a wealthy man. Tryst, in which he and his identical twin brother, Cy, are partners, generates annual revenues of $40 million, Jesse says, at a profit margin of 70 percent in an industry where 30 is the norm.

The Twins, as they're known around town, are also co-owners and managing partners at Drai's, a louche Vegas after-hours joint. And, with Victor Drai, who was a founding partner at Tryst, they plan to open a Vegas-style club at the W hotel in Hollywood in 2009. But their biggest act yet is the centerpiece of Steve Wynn's new Encore hotel and casino. Opening in December, the $96 million nightclub, called XS, will be the most expensive ever built.

It's easy to confuse the Twins. In addition to their buzz cuts and good looks, the 33-year-old brothers share a passion for martial arts and designer clothing. Both have mansions and children fathered with ex-girlfriends. They try not to mislead women about who is who, or as Jesse puts it, "pull a switcheroo." But, Cy says, it has happened. "I spent all night talking to this beautiful blonde," he says. "We got to my truck and she said, 'You're not Jesse—you're the brother!'"

Jesse makes the rounds at Tryst. He chats up Celtics star Paul Pierce before swooping in to guy-hug Floyd Mayweather. The welterweight boxer routinely pulls up to the Wynn at the head of a procession of associates driving Maybachs, Ferraris, and Land Rovers. He's been known to blow 30 grand in a visit.

After giving the champ his props, Jesse excuses himself to visit the kitchen with Cy and Drai, to sample the flash-frozen, liquor-spiked Popsicles invented by Drai. A former Hollywood producer once married to Kelly LeBrock, Drai is a sort of godfather to the Twins. He teams up with them on all their ventures.

The three men suck on Chupa Chup-size treats, declaring the lychee martini pops good, the mojito ones in need of fine-tuning, and the ginger-sicles just plain awful. Once the flavors are perfected, Drai hopes the drinks the pops are in will sell for $17 to $20 apiece. "We need the pink bubble gum," he says. "Those are the best—vodka and chunks of bubble gum!"

At about 3 A.M. the following night, while driving his Hummer across Las Vegas Boulevard en route to Drai's, Jesse blows through a red turn arrow. He doesn't bother checking his rearview for flashing lights. "I know the guys at Metro," he says. "You'd be surprised at the influence that comes from owning a club in this town."

Now as ubiquitous as slot machines, clubs are a relatively recent phenomenon in these parts. Before 1994, when Club Rio opened alongside the gambling floor of the Rio All-Suite Hotel & Casino, Vegas nightlife revolved around lounge acts and old-school stand-ups. That changed when Club Rio brought in scantily clad waitresses and big-city DJs. The cavernous RA in the Luxor, House of Blues with its members-only Foundation Room at Mandalay Bay, and a revamped Studio 54 at MGM Grand soon followed suit. By 2001, celebrities were massing at the Bellagio's Light. When Tryst opened four years later, Vegas nightlife was a crush of velvet-roped operations: TAO in the Venetian, Pure in Caesars Palace, and JET at the Mirage. For the Twins, success was hardly a given.

The brothers started modestly, growing up with post-hippie parents in grungy no-name towns in Southern California and Hawaii. Their mom died when they were 5; their father, a Vietnam vet who passed away nine years ago, raised them with military-style discipline. They developed a strong work ethic and had little time for girlfriends. "I cuddled with my pillow when I was 20 years old, thinking, One day I'll have a princess," Cy says. "Now I don't know what girls want from me. They use me, and I use them right back."

Jesse, too, is making up for lost time. "I love girls," he says. "I love hot girls. I like tons of girls."

Forgoing college degrees, both boys ran through a series of flunky jobs. In 1996, at age 21, Jesse came to Las Vegas and got hired as a snowboarding instructor on nearby Mount Charleston. Through a client he landed a job as a greeter at Planet Hollywood, then steadily moved from club to club, bartending, working the door, training new employees. One of his former bosses, Andy Masi, now CEO of the Light Group, which has restaurants and clubs at the Bellagio and the Mirage, remembers him as "eager and confident." Jesse says that he's naturally shy. He abhors small talk, sometimes mumbles, and is surprisingly introverted around strangers.

"Vegas forced me to approach people and talk to them," he says. "I've never been able to bullshit my way into situations, and this is not a town for anyone who is quiet. But I find that people appreciate it when you mean what you say."

Cy took note of his brother's burgeoning success in 1999 and quit his gig as a machinist for an aerospace firm in Southern California. Soon he, too, was on the nightlife fast track, hosting high rollers at MGM's elite cocktail lounge, Tabú. He had a knack for making guys with $500,000 lines of credit feel important. So much so that they'd occasionally hand him $10,000 tips. Within a few years the brothers had received a course in nightclub management.

In 2001, Victor Drai poached Jesse to run the door of his eponymous after-hours club. In no time at all, Jesse was overseeing the entire operation. Four years later, Steve Wynn opened Wynn Las Vegas, which featured an ill-fated nightclub called La Bête. Drai rode in for the redo. Needing youthful partners with good connections, he roped the Twins. He gave them a piece of the profits to do the heavy lifting, and rechristened the place Tryst. In October 2005, two months before the club's unveiling, the brothers got things rolling with a huge party at La Bête to celebrate their birthday. "The music was great, the vibe was great, the place was filled with high rollers," remembers Quira Manthei, who now works at TAO. "I wanted to go to Jesse and Cy's place every night."

Steve Wynn expected the revamped place to gross $18 million in its first year. The Twins more than doubled that. "Their fuckable rating is up there," says Roman Jones, who co-owns Mansion in Miami and Privé in Vegas. "They're at the club every night. Their work ethic inspires the people they employ."

Indeed, both can be spotted bending down to pick up tiny pieces of trash that litter Tryst's carpeted staircase, and both take it upon themselves to deal with unpleasantness—everything from a dude cutting in line at Tryst to a customer lighting a blunt at Drai's.

The brothers eschew costly advertising in favor of personalized marketing. They employ a team of fast-talking, sharply dressed hosts to recruit deep-pocketed customers (bottle service accounts for 75 percent of Tryst's revenues), keep track of their preferences, and make sure they're happy at all times—whether they need a table full of girls, a birthday cake ablaze with candles, their own theme song (played right before a bunch of bottles are carried out), or table-side performances by rappers like Xzibit and Ne-Yo.

When it comes to dealing with clients, Jones says, Cy and Jesse know how to "draw the most fun and the most money out of their space. They seat one big-bottle buyer near another and try to create a competition." After the Ricky Hatton–Floyd Mayweather fight last December, Tryst instigated a "bottle war" between two high rollers, who were provided with custom-made silk boxing robes and introduced by Michael Buffer (at a cost of $5,000). The winner, a stock trader from London—nicknamed the Fireman for his habit of spritzing Dom Perignon around—ordered $160,000 worth of champagne. The runner-up, a real-estate developer from Memphis, cleared $100,000. Bottles of Dom were being carried out 50 at a time. The club grossed $1 million.

"Where's the Drai-mobile?" Cy asks, standing at Wynn's valet parking, moments before Drai's limo pulls up. The 1993 Lincoln stretch is tricked out with a suede roof, wood trim, a bumping sound system, and a high-def TV—the customization a birthday present from the Twins. It's a fine ride for a Wednesday-evening jaunt to LAX.

After passing through that club and another, Wasted Space, a new spot at the Hard Rock, the brothers leap back into the limo with three blondes. Jesse has been avoiding alcohol tonight—running a finger across his throat each time someone offers him some.

As the limo rolls toward Las Vegas Boulevard, he and Cy strike up a debate about whom Drai favors more, eventually agreeing on Jesse. The thought hangs in the air for all of one beat before Cy counters, "Yeah? But I get more pussy." Drai beams. Jesse looks amused. Before anyone can reply to this assertion, Cy surveys the back seat. "Who's dated more of the girls in this car?" he asks. "I've gone out with all of them."

The group arrives at Spearmint Rhino, and their booth is quickly swarmed by a posse of strippers. Cy hands one $20 to go away. When her face sags in disappointment, he gestures toward a girl from the limo. "Give her the most outrageous lap dance I've ever seen," he says.

The stripper mounts Cy's friend, who puts up no resistance. Before long, she's making out with a guy in a corner booth.

The following day, looking a little worse for wear, Cy sits in the huge living room of his brother's home facing a large sixties-style painting of his mother. Hunched over his cell, he's firing off messages. "I'm sending out apology texts; sorry, sorry, sorry," he says. Come nightfall, his penance complete, he puts on an ivory-colored suit and gets back to business at Tryst. The club is so packed that Drai feels compelled to surrender his beloved front-and-center booth to an elderly Middle Eastern man, who enjoys a dance from a trio of off-duty strippers. In the world of the Waits twins, the customer is always the first priority.

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When Sacha Baron Cohen crashed a runway show in Milan this Fall disguised as Brüno, his Austrian alter ego, the audience barely blinked. Dressed in an absurd Beyond Thunderdome pastiche of layered fabrics and dangling tassels, the comedian emerged onto the catwalk with an expertly executed strut. It was only after security stormed the stage and escorted him away that most spectators realized they'd been had.

If industry cognoscenti have a hard time distinguishing between fashion coup and fashion joke, it's easy to see how a mere civilian can, with just a few daring wardrobe choices, stumble into punch-line territory. Extreme style infractions are less forgivable in men than they are in women: Since they have fewer opportunities to blunder, guys must almost willfully court catastrophe. Train-wreck dressing isn't all about egregious misjudgments, like showing up at work in Boy Scout shorts. Even the simplest misstep can make you look like an asshole: white plastic sunglasses, an "It" man bag, or a scarf worn indoors. The well-dressed man knows his limits, and though he might occasionally test them, he never attempts to make a statement he can't back up.

Sure, there are guys who can pull off a madras-shirt/bow-tie combo or oversize Elvis Costello frames, but for every man who manages to look cool in a cowboy hat and chaps there are a thousand who'd look like rodeo clowns. Clothes can be transformative, but they have to correspond to your personality. You know you've spotted a fashion victim when you notice what a man is wearing—those metallic patchwork high-tops, the skinny-fit women's jeans—before you notice the man himself.

"A fashion victim is literally a slave to fashion," says Tom Ford, who has seen his fair share of casualties during his 25-plus years in the business. "The clothes wear him instead of the other way around." Dean Caten of Dsquared takes it a step further, seeing victims as junkies fiending for the latest fad. "Addicts overdose," he says.

There are degrees of victimhood. The least offensive is probably the Logo Whore, the guy whose self-esteem is pegged to the number of designer labels he's promoting. Next in line is the Mannequin Mimic, who dresses from head to toe in a single brand. Still worse is the Character Actor, whose wardrobe is based on a theme, whether it be nautical or early Bowie. And finally, there's the VMAN Subscriber, the fashion devotee who is always trending. Right now he's most likely wearing a shawl-collar cardigan, a quilted vest, two-tone wing tips, electric-blue jeans, and a gaggle of Thai bead bracelets. "He has to have it all at one time," says Dan Caten, the other half of Dsquared, "and it doesn't make any sense."

For the better part of a decade, fashion houses have treated men as the new women. They've built them their own boutiques and encouraged them to play with jacket lengths, patterns, and even jewelry. But with all that choice comes a greater potential for error.

There are those who believe there's no such thing as a bad sartorial decision. "If you love what you're wearing and you're enjoying it, that's really all that matters," says Simon Doonan, creative director of Barneys New York. Sadly, that doesn’t apply in all cases: Fashion sense might be subjective, but only to a certain point. Embracing seasonal fads is often the first step in a journey that ends with bondage trousers and a jauntily doffed fedora. Men who adhere to the classic and timeless can stay current without having to make risky leaps into the abyss. "Let one thing you're wearing speak," Dan Caten recommends, "and everything else be quiet."

Ironically, the very people who are paid to dispense such style advice often turn out to be the worst offenders. For proof, look no further than Phillip Bloch, the mustachioed stylist-to-the-stars who rolls around L.A. in a backward Kangol hat.

In the end, you can only really trust the guy in the mirror. Ask him if he'd wear the same outfit to brunch with a date, drinks with clients, and a family reunion in Bush country. If he answers no, make him change.

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1911 After leaving politics in 1909, Teddy Roosevelt forms the Bull Moose Party to run—unsuccessfully—for a third term as president.
1973 At a concert in 1971, Frank Sinatra announced his retirement with the line "'Scuse me while I disappear." Two years later he comes back with a TV special and album entitled Ol' Blue Eyes Is Back.	1979 Elton John calls it quits on a 15-month retirement.
1995 After quitting acting in 1993 to attend Vassar, Roseanne's Lecy Goranson reclaims the role of Becky—and shares it with her replacement, Sarah Chalke. 1989 Marlon Brando, who retired from acting in 1980, returns for the first of eight more movies. 1995 Michael Jordan ends two years of retirement, returning to the Chicago Bulls with a two-word statement: "I'm back." See also: 2001, when His Airness follows two more sunset years with a return to the Washington Wizards.
2001 Five years after swearing off the movie business to cobble shoes in Italy, Daniel Day-Lewis stars in Gangs of New York. 2005 Eminem's friends tell reporters he has quit rapping. A week later the star claims he was just taking a break. 2005 Following a two-year sojourn as a preacher, DMX returns to hip-hop and releases Here We Go Again.
2007 After a three-year farewell tour, Cher kicks off her "retirement" by announcing another studio album and tour.	2007 Two years after stating he had given up acting, Quentin Tarantino casts himself in two roles in the Grindhouse double feature.
January 2008 Rapper Lupe Fiasco declares he'll quit following the release of his third album, L.U.P.End, but later admits he wasn't 100 percent sure—more like 85. January 2008 After eight years of dancing in private, Tina Turner, 68, says she'll release a new album. April 2008 Fourteen years after putting away the hair gel, New Kids on the Block reunite for a tour and an album. June 2008 Two years after Chris Martin convinced fans Coldplay had chosen parenting over pop stardom, the band releases Viva la Vida. July 2008 Eddie Murphy proclaims he's done his last movie. The next day he agrees to make Beverly Hills Cop 4. August 2008 Following a tearful announcement in March, Brett Favre forces the Green Bay Packers to trade him to the New York Jets, where he is guaranteed field time. September 2008 Lance Armstrong vows to ride out of a three-year retirement and into the next Tour de France.

Photographs: Popperfoto/Getty Images, Tony Sapiano/Rex Features, Associated Press, Brian Rasic/Rex Features, Neal Peters Collection, Lynn Goldsmith/Corbis, Mirrorpix/Courtesy of Everett Collection, David Longendyke/Everett Collection, Ethan Miller/Getty Images, Everett Collection, Kevin Kane/Wireimage.com, Charley Gallay/Getty Images, Jason Hedges/Retna Pictures, Ronald C. Modra/Sports Imagery/Getty Images, Steve Dormer/Icon SMI/Retna Ltd., The Kobal Collection/Costa, Tony Bennett Raglin/Wireimage.com, Tina Burch/Ladin/Wireimage.com

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