Bonobos

If we take pride in just two things here at Bonobos HQ, it’s knowing our customers and being able to do an absolutely nasty earthworm on the dance floor. If we take pride in just one thing, it’s knowing our customers. And we know how important good customer service can be. Let’s be honest – the modern world is a fast-paced, impersonal, post-apocalyptic nightmare. The knowledgeable and compassionate customer service representative of yore has been replaced by an army of metallic-voiced customer service robots from the future, hell-bent on destroying our civilization. They demand, in their heartless robot voices, that we press telephone keys and voice choices, and then they have the unbridled audacity to repeat our options. We hate this, and we imagine you do as well. Here at Bonobos, a human, or possibly a human-like primate, will always respond to your questions and comments as part of our Bonobos Consumer Experience. We will do everything in our power to do so as quickly as possible and as helpfully as possible. Is ‘helpfully’ even a word? We think it is. If you have an issue with your pants, let us know. If you want to learn more about us, give us a holler. If the entertainment is a no-show at your bachelor party, heck, we’ve got balloon animals and a whole lot of helium. We love making pants, and our goal is to have our customers love wearing them with equal ardor. After all, without you, we cannot exist. And without us, well, you’d probably be just fine, but we like to think that your pant wardrobe would be a bit less impressive. Drab, even. And then the robots would have won.

Click here to see what customer service is like with other pant companies

It is something of a tradition here at Bonobos HQ to host avant garde bohemian poetry slams the fourth Thursday of the month*. The poets are generally of the young, edgy sort, full of urban angst and caffeine, raw howlers dealing in the currency of hot words. Something strange happened last night, however. Through the veil of cigarette smoke and fumes of existential woe, a figure appeared. Clad entirely in a yellow salt-stained slicker, beard white and fierce, his eyes spoke of things unspeakable and experiences beyond words. He edged past the black turtlenecks and tiny black spectacles and he approached the podium. The room went silent. Who was this strange nautical figure? I leaned forward in my Mint Juleps and cast my eyes his way. He cleared a throat cured by rum and seawater and began. He read not from paper, but from the endless scroll of his fevered mind. And thus he began the Samuel Taylor Coleridge classic, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”:

It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
`By thy long beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me ?

The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin ;
The guests are met, the feast is set :
May’st hear the merry din.’

He holds him with his skinny hand,
`There was a ship,’ quoth he.
`Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon !’
Eftsoons his hand dropt he . . .

His words rose into a squall, and the beatnik poets quaked in enraptured terror. The room exploded into applause when he reached his final crescendo, and we all rushed the podium to hoist the old sailor onto our shoulders. We cheered, toasted, and spent the rest of the night trying on pants. Our own ancient mariner left the little gathering with two Pink Panthers and a Tequila, Tequila to his name. For the gallant Spanish ladies, he said with a wink, and just like that, he returned to the sea.

*Disclaimer: This may or may not be true

Recent weeks have seen a strange fulmination of rumors regarding new pants. Haunted, half-shaped whisperings of a St. Patrick’s Day trouser hidden at a top secret military base; fuzzy photographs of a large ape-like creature lumbering off into the woods wearing sharp wool slacks known only as the G4. Here at Bonobos HQ, we believe strongly in the scientific method, and we investigate each pant rumor carefully before declaring it fact or dismissing it as fiction. One rumor, however, has us truly baffled. The only tangible evidence in our possession is the photo at left, taken by an infrared motion-sensing camera at the bottom of Loch Ness. What could it be? A sunken Viking ship? The flipper of a plesiosaur? A new herringbone tweed wool slack? It’s too early to tell. Andy and Brian are leading an expedition to investigate further in the near future, and unlike last year, they’ll be checking the batteries on the unmanned submersible camera.

Brian and father on last year’s expedition to uncover the fabled Seersuckered Sasquatch.

Life at a start-up is full of interesting twists and turns, and unanticipated conundrums. It’s a bit like doing a crossword puzzle, underwater, without any hints, in the dark, while listening to Air Supply. Ok, it’s not really like that, but we do listen to quite a bit of Air Supply, and we do come across the occasional dilemma. Recently, as our faithful blog readers know, we lost a good friend in the form of our ironing board. Today, perhaps saddened by this loss, another one of our most crucial team members vanished into the blue. It was our coffee filter. Being the wild and crazy Trousers By Day, Bacardi By Night gang that we are, or at least pretend that we are on our eHarmony profiles, coffee is an essential part of our mornings. It is the lubricant in the gears of our lumbering pant machine. Without coffee, this machine gets cranky. Confronted with the vanished filter, we had no option today but to try a mysterious French Press coffee device hiding in the back of the pantry, with lackluster results. What came out was gritty, weak, and utterly unappealing – somewhat like Squiggy from “Laverne and Shirley.” We don’t know what tomorrow may bring, but hopefully it will be something akin to a coffee filter. It would be a shame to strain coffee through a lovely pair of Shore Clubs.

No, Team Bonobos is not designing polymer-based bobsleds or training the next generation of great Romanian gymnasts. At least not yet. But we try to do our own small part by sponsoring athletes of a different sort. We have strong admiration and respect for those who have chosen careers in which service is a higher priority than earning potential, be they teachers, nurses, volunteers, or rescue divers. We, as a society, can’t say thanks enough. With this in mind, we have created the Bonobos Sponsored Athlete Program. Click on the link to check it out. We have already recruited a few special individuals for our squad, and we would love to add more. Here’s a note we received recently from Jon Nordin regarding the Bonobos Sponsored Athlete Program:

I caught wind of Bonobos from Steve Harris (high school classmate) and did some browsing of the site. I thought you guys were on to something with the overall concept for Bonobos, but then I happened upon your Sponsored Athlete program. I must say, I am extremely impressed with this endeavor and I applaud you for doing something like this for all the “athletes” out there. I’ll be sure to spread the word about your company to my brethren.

v/r,

CPT Jon Nordin
1-503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment
FOB Orgun, Afghanistan

We appreciate the positive feedback, and we appreciate even more the efforts of those striving to make the world a better place. Thanks from all of us.

To those of you who asked us for a fresh, new pant formal enough for a Nobel Ceremony, yet versatile enough for Parkour, we have some bad news. Not gonna happen. But, for those out there searching for a stylish wool dress pant with an about-the-town flair, your ship has come in. No, not literally, stop looking at the harbor. We’re talking a new Bonobos style here. The G4, to be more specific, which is now available on our website for pre-order. Think heathered slate gray. Think cashmere blended wool. Think. Put them on for work and keep them on for drinks. Or take them off for drinks. That’s your business. These woolen delights will go fast, though, so get in your pre-order today and secure a G4 for yourself. Because once they’re gone, they’re gone. That ship will have sailed. Damnit, stop looking at the harbor!

I met the old man at a weather-beaten shebeen in one of the many anonymous hamlets between Letterkenny and Kerrykeeel – shires too small and indefinite to bless with a name, yet too stubborn to sink quietly into the bog from whence ages prior they had sprung. His cheeks were burnished by years of the craic, and his face marred by near a century of tussles, yet his eyes burned bright and true. On his head he wore a plastic derby that said “100% Irish,” and in his hand was a plastic yard glass filled with bright green beer. Perhaps it was his quiet greeting in gaeltacht Irish that beckoned me over to him, or possibly his blinking LCD shamrock necklace, I can’t recall. But in either case I rose to greet him. We exchanged pleasantries and sipped quietly at our drinks, and a comfortable silence enveloped us. Slowly, that silence gave way to talk of rumors that had been swirling like a Lughnasa mist . . . strange stories of a legendary pant strong as the great Cuchulainn, yet lovely and yielding as the flaxen hair of Fionnula herself. A pant even greener than the Mint Julep, or the Gaelic trouser of yore. “T’is true?” he asked me with an urgent expectancy. “Are the pants real?” I turned up the collar on the threadbare Aran Island sweater that served as my only armor against the cold, and I nodded. “A pant is coming,” I answered in hesitant confirmation, “to celebrate the day of Naomh Padraig. A pant that will live forever in song and lore.” The old man’s eyes flared like bonfires in miniature, and he shook with uncontrolled emotion. A howl of joy erupted from somewhere deep within, and I ordered us two Irish Carbombs from the surly publican behind the bar. We toasted to the new trouser style soon to grace us in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, and I got out my wallet to pay, only to realize that I hadn’t nearly enough, thanks again to the weak dollar. The old man told me not to worry, and removed a thick wad of Euros from his billfold. “This one’s on me,” he said, “but I want a pair of these new pants.” Soon, my friend. Soon.

The circle of life. As the wildebeest is born, so must the lion hunt. There is a season, turn, turn, turn. We all know these simple truths, yet occasionally the passing of a friend makes them all the more relevant. Today was such a day here at Bonobos. We had to say goodbye to someone who was with us from the start. A tad on the stiff side, but able to stand hot metal and steam like no one else. Our ironing board. Many a fine pair of Bonobos, from Pink Panthers to Tequila, Tequilas, have had a wrinkle removed or a fold flattened on its sturdy back. But sadly, like Old Yeller, its time had come. It had to be put down. So fare thee well, old friend. You will be missed. Somewhere, though, there is a fresh, callow ironing board, wagging its tail, yipping at heels, just waiting to cut its teeth at Bonobos HQ. The circle of life.

Pictured Above:

Bonobos Ironing Board: 2007 - 2008

Grandma Gunderstrump: 1928 - Present

The query is posed to us again and again and again – what do you guys listen to while working at Bonobos HQ? Well, I’ll tell you. On our good days, it’s the Ken Burns documentary “The Civil War,” set at a low, pleasing volume in the background. Something about the rich timbre of Shelby Foote mingled with the burble of our miniature Zen tranquility fountain just gets us all in gooseflesh. Occasionally, however, while packaging our Shore Club Specials and folding our Bonobos logo t-shirts, I must admit that we listen to rock music. Loud, hard, fist-pumping, nobody-tells-me-what-to-do-not-even-my-old-man rock music. For just a sample of this pant-clad electric thunder, check out the Cribs, MGMT, and this age-old classic by Heart. And enjoy it while you can, slake your thirst on these devilish riffs, because tomorrow it’s gonna be Second Bull Run and Ocean Waves w/ Whale Songs on our ambient noise sleep machine.

Ouch! I just touched one of the few remaining Series A pants, and I won’t be able to play pizzicato on my fiddle for a week. That’s how hot these things are. They are going like aspirin in a Dublin apothecary on March 18th. Like fruit-flavored malt-ternatives the day before Prom. Like conversion vans in northeast Ohio pretty much any time of the year. Series A, we hardly even got to know you, that’s how quickly you’ve sold. Our only hope as you launch out across this great land is that you make people happy and help improve their lives, like Johnny Appleseed, or Michael Landon and Victor French in these outtakes from “Highway to Heaven.”