JimmyCsays: At the juncture of journalism and daily life in KC

As most of you know, I wrote last week about the problem that many men have picking out suitable attire, if they don’t have a female fashion consultant, be it a wife, girlfriend, sister or just plain friend — someone, anyone who doesn’t want you to look ridiculous.

Today I want to cite an example of someone who not only needs a fashion consultant but also needs to — as the old saying goes — get a life.

I speak of “Marlins Man,” the goofball who has sat in the first of second row of each World Series game, wearing an orange Florida Marlins jersey and an orange Marlins visor, which he usually wears cocked to one side.

This guy is strictly an exhibitionist, who is paying thousands of dollars per game to be seen on national TV.

He’s a lower-key version of “Rainbow Man,” who, in the ’70s and ’80s wore a rainbow, Afro-style wig and held up signs reading “John 3:16” at various sporting events.

That guy, Rollen Stewart, was a certified nut case, who now is serving three consecutive life sentences in prison on kidnapping charges.

“Marlins Man,” on the other hand, is just a guy with too much money and much time on his hands. His name is Laurence Leavy, and he’s a 58-year-old Miami attorney.

He has attended major sporting events for years, but I presume it’s just this year that he has begun to seek out the cameras in a major way.

Here’s how he explains his odd obsession.

“I never had any kids, nor have any wife. You don’t have to pay for a wife and kids, so you have money in the bank.”

See what I mean? No wife, almost certainly no girlfriend…no guidepost…no social compass.

After the World Series ends and he goes back to Miami, about the best thing Laurence Leavy will have is TV recordings of himself sitting in the first row at Kauffman Stadium and the second row at AT&T Park. Wow. What a thrill.

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Critical as I am of Mr. Leavy, I have to admit that I have my own fashion fixation — one that I’m not particularly proud of but that I just can’t and won’t give up.

I speak of plaid pants.

Over the years, after having been out shopping on my own, I have come home with various pairs of plaid pants — some sublime and some outrageous.

Each and every time, Patty has rolled her eyes and shaken her head. And whenever I get bold and put on plaid pants to go out to an event with Patty, she immediately waves me back to the bedroom for redressing.

So, we have come up with a deal of sorts: She will not object if I wear plaid pants on the golf course, or maybe to a Halloween party.

Of the three pairs of plaid pants that I own, my favorite is the enviable, eye-catching pair of golf pants that you see below. After I bought them and took them to the tailor shop in Brookside for alteration, the shop owner’s wife — a seamstress who happens to be a blond bombshell — gave the pants an enthusiastic endorsement. I’m sure you can see why!

A few weeks ago, though, I had a big scare: I went to the closet to get out the pants for a round of golf, but I couldn’t find them. I looked everywhere (well, almost everywhere), including going to the cleaners to see if I might have left them there after the last cleaning. No luck.

I had just about written them off, when, one day, I looked in the bottom of my closet and saw the blue laundry bag where I put the clothes that are going to the cleaners on my next trip. I noticed that the bag had a slight lump, and when I opened it up — hooray! — there were my golf pants.

The only thing I can compare my relief to was a certain night in the spring of 2006. I was lying in bed in an Oklahoma motel, thinking about my future and listening to “country legends” music. All of a sudden, it hit me: it was time for me to retire from The Star.

…That’s how relieved I was to find those pants in the bottom of my closet.