Bonobos

Dear Andy, Brian, and Rob:

I was fortunate to take my maiden Bonobos voyage on a fine Friday
afternoon in the Friendly Confines of Wrigley Field. I was a part of
one of the many soon to be inebriated bachelor parties that take to the world’s finest sporting venue to watch the loveable losers and take part in the ballyhoo that often accompanies the event. But being my first game of the year, it was imperative that I attend the game in style. Still smelling like last night’s bourbon beverages, I stood in front of my closet scouring it like Lou to a lineup card for the a shirt to accompany my baseball lined, red stitched, Cubbie Blue lightweight cords– The Clarks.

Armed with my day old beard and hangover providing an uncanny Piniella impression, I walked out into the 73 degree Spring Chicago afternoon and made my way to the bachelor party at the ball park. The Cubs jumped on Pittsburgh early, their bats making the Pirate staff  look as foolish as Orlando Bloom’s thespian skills in Disney’s three installments of Pirates of the Caribbean.

After seven innings of Old Style and Budweiser and a comfortable Cubs lead, my bachelor party compatriots were taking to the neighboring coeds with as much delicacy and grace as a German panzer division on a poorly defended Belgian town. It was time to stretch and head over to the adjacent watering holes. Little did I know a walk down the Bleacher catwalk and a kingly strut as royal as the hue of my fine pants to nearby Sheffields (a fitting place for pants called Clarks) would cause such a raucous. Sporting my Clarks, I was the dapperest dude in Wrigleyville, garnering the wanton attention of lascivious ladies and the equal chagrin of jealous males wallowing in their stonewashed denim misery.

I was a celebrity at the bar. “Where did you get those pants?”, “I need a pair of those!!” were as frequent as a the “Go Cubs Go” sing alongs. In my presence, fellow male bar patrons felt as comfortable in their inferior britches as Steve Bartman in a box seat. Girls couldn’t help themselves from pinching my fanny–now if this is a result of their curiosity on the soft feel of the light corduroy or the look of my posterior as result of the fine craftsmanship of the Bonobos pant, that remains to be argued.

The day was a complete success. A “W” flag was flapping above the scoreboard, the Northsiders remained atop the NL Central, my fellow bachelor party mates were over served, and my bottom looked as if I had made good use of a spray paint can in a Singapore parking lot. One may not be able to sport pinstripes within the Brick and Ivied hallowed grounds of Wrigley, but any fashion conscious, beer drinking, fun seeking guy can privy himself to the comfort, fit, flair, and panache of Bonobos.

Warm regards,
Jim Dowd