The post-metrosexual man

SO WE’RE ON THE way to a little shop called Book Soup -- they’re delicious when properly prepared -- in that mall of malls, South Coast Plaza. Ever been? You get on the 405, spend about four hours driving south, past that funky Orange County development where the sound wall appears to be part of the housing -- seriously -- and suddenly you’re there.

“Whew, that was fast,” I say when we eventually arrive.

“Do they have Jamba Juice?” the little girl asks.

No. But they have pretty much everything else. Every kind of purse, shoe, belt, skirt and fashion hoo-ha you could ever imagine -- and some you couldn’t -- all conveniently clumped here in this quaint little shopping village. There is valet parking and personal shoppers. It’s “The Ultimate Shopping Resort,” brags a brochure.

“I love Ella Moss,” the little girl says, as if it were her last dying gasp.

“Who?”

“Ella Moss,” she says, “the designer.”

“Me too,” I say.

Strange place for me, this shopping mecca. I am a post-metrosexual male in a fashion world that has yet to catch up. I favor plaid shirts and jeans frayed around the edges. I believe good fashion starts with excellent nutrition, comfortable shoes, an honest smile and the body God gave you.

“Basically, I still dress like Dobie Gillis,” I tell the little girl after 30 minutes here.

“Who?”

“Hey, look at that jacket,” I say, spying something through a store window.

Of the 50 stores we visit, I see one thing I like, this rust-colored jacket that is part cotton, part linen. I’ve been looking for a jacket like this, on the slight chance I’ll get invited somewhere I need to look like a corrupt Italian senator.

“Very nice,” says the little girl.

“It’s OK,” I say.

There is no price on the sleeve and the shopgirl is, of course, on the phone. Shopgirls are always on the phone. Many of the clerks at South Coast Plaza have phones surgically attached to their heads, so they can fold clothes and swipe your credit card at the same time. I think it’s the future.

“One-ninety-nine,” the clerk calls over when she sees us looking at the jacket.

“A buck ninety-nine?” I tell the little girl. “That’s not bad.”

“Oh, Dad,” she moans.

Fortunately, we are not here just to buy clothes. We are here to promote a new branch of American letters. You’ve heard of “chick lit”? I’m hawking “dad lit.” It’s a book I wrote about an American family that leaves behind friends and family to live in a new country: California. They deal with a new culture, a strange language, odd customs, hideous traffic, gruesome architecture and restaurants that close a little too early.

In chick lit, the girl gets the guy (and a new purse). Everyone lives happily ever after.

In dad lit, the guy gets the girl (and a big honkin’ mortgage). Everyone lives happily ever after -- except the dad, who dies a little every month when he pays the bank $3,500 for a house that’s about the size of a box of Wheaties.

The garage is a mess, the fridge is making monkey noises, and the dog’s teeth need cleaning ($225). Everywhere you look there are bills, bills, bills and kids, kids, kids. Mostly, it’s a romance.

As a genre, dad lit will last about two hours (they only printed eight copies). But I’ll take it. My new book has a hard cover and a soft heart. Perhaps best of all, it doesn’t ever need to be charged, upgraded, downloaded, rebooted, defragged or burped. You just open it. Talk about user-friendly.

At Book Soup, almost a dozen people turn out to hear me talk about it and my secrets to a happy life, only to find I have no secrets, just a big honkin’ mortgage and a family I can’t really afford.

The highlight of the evening, and there are many, is a gentleman named Dick. Grandpa Dick drove two hours to get a book signed for his great-granddaughter, an aspiring writer. Dick is nearly 80 but looks 60. A good 60. A California 60. His eyes sparkle like the Laguna surf.

After everybody leaves, we chat a while. Dick’s dear wife of 49 years passed away last year, but he’s doing great, all things considered. Looks like a million bucks here in the fancy mall where a million bucks isn’t what it used to be. I think he’s a post-metrosexual guy -- like me -- in a world that has yet to catch up.

“What’s your secret?” I finally ask him.

“You know, I had a great wife,” he says, smiling proudly.

Dad lit. Mostly, it’s a love story.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes .com or at myspace.com/chriserskine.