Every guy, like every girl, has his own distinctive look.

Some guys look good with a goatee; other guys look like they have a small dog attached to their face. Personally, I have to make sure I shave every day because after a few hours of stubble I start to look like a rabbi . And it's hard to get dates when you look like a rabbi (unless you're in one of the Hasidic neighborhoods.)

If I were you, and I'm not, but I'm merely trying to help, I would try out different looks.

Grow a moustache, slick your hair back, get an orange tan, whatever you can to be an original. If there's one thing you want to be in this town, it's your own man, that is, unless you're a wannabe Hollywood actor who wants to look just like Brad Pitt. That works well too. So try out some different ideas. Play with your style. Wear a pink shirt, grow a faux hawk or stuff your crotch full of socks. It may not be true in other places but in Los Angeles, size definitely matters.

A word to the wise however is in order: Do not, I repeat, DO NOT go to the hottest clubs in town while you're tweaking your own personal look. Those places are the big leagues, and everyone knows that once you get to the big leagues there's no time to make adjustments. You've got to be a pro, bro. So hit some local bars in your area, share a pint with the friendly citizens of your local tavern, maybe try and pick up a girl. You can try out those sleazy pick up lines you're always hesitant to pull out. Go ahead. Have fun. Be your own man.

As for me, I tried out two of my local watering holes, Tom Bergin's (840 S Fairfax Ave), where I had the luxury of watching the basketball game on nine screens at once while trying to have a conversation with a guy who was on his fifth gimlet, and Molly Malone's (575 S Fairfax Ave), where I knocked back a couple of beers at the behest of the rowdy crowd, nearly threw up on my shirt and might have experienced permanent hearing damage due to the live music. It was another glorious Los Angeles evening and even though my night ended, for the most part uneventfully, I remembered that it was all for practice (that night I broke in my leopard skin underwear).

Story by Ben Brandfon.