The Bon Vivant My best friend David and I were looking at magazines at Kroger in Linwood Square. "OK," I said to David, "I"ll tell C.* about you.** I"m going to say you"re 40, single, 6-feet-tall, athletic build, a grant-writer by profession ..." "Uh, wait a minute. I need to market myself differently than I have been. So tell her I"m a bon vivant," David interrupted. "Do you have something against being known as a grant-writer? That"s a pretty interesting job, you know," I replied. "No, nothing against being known as a grant-writer, for that is, in fact, my job," David responded, "but I"d not like that to define me as a person; it is, after all, only a small part of my personage. Let"s face it: Grant-writing consumes only a few of my waking hours; the rest I devote to being a gadfly, a man-about-town, a bon vivant." "A bon vivant," I said. "Yeah, a bon vivant, just living in a bon-vivantish or, if you prefer, bon-vivantly manner. Ask any of my friends in Chicago and they"ll tell you: "That David, he sure is a bon vivant,"" he said. "Can"t I just tell C. that you enjoy the good life, or something like that?" I countered. "Absolutely not! There is a difference between being a bon vivant and merely "enjoying the good life." I am a committed bon vivant, and I think your friend C. will be excited by the idea of going out with a real-life bon vivant." "OK, OK, OK, bon vivant it is, but I can"t guarantee anything," I said. The next day I saw C. and broached the subject of David with her. She scratched her ear in contemplation, then said, "Oh, I don"t think I"m interested; bon vivant sounds suspiciously like a euphemism for unreliable cad to me." * Editor"s note: "C." is J."s friend Constance, whose identity is obscured here because she told J. she didn"t want her name "showing up in the tabloids." ** Editor"s note: Oops.