Does it come with matching socks?

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if the J. Peterman catalog was more like real life…

There I stand, watching a pale, green-tinged sun come up over the water. I’m lost in thought. (But not too deep. Coffee won’t be ready for another five minutes.) The mouldering, ramshackle dock groans like a hungover barmaid with the wake of each passing bass boat, loose, rusty nail-heads digging into the soles of my grubby dime-store flip-flops. A breeze comes to me from the next valley, bringing with it the flat, metallic bite of gasoline-tainted lakewater and the drone of onrushing urban sprawl. The collar of my shirt flutters. Just a little. It almost seems more at home here than I am.

Not surprising, really. This is a shirt made to take everything in stride: bar fights, out-of-control bonfires, chainsaw accidents, two-day hangovers, entire weeks bunking on a sprung pull-out sofa.

The man who wears this shirt can meet the worst life dishes out and sleep right through it. They could have used a few up in Washington after the Bay of Pigs.

This faux-broadcloth button-down marvel gives the unmistakable impression that it’s never seen the inside of a drawing room or a symphony hall. Or a washing machine. It’s cut nice and full through the chest, and just a little long; I imagine it would stay tucked in just fine, if you ever bothered. But of course you won’t. Not this shirt.

The rich, yarn-dyed colors hint that, just maybe, you know a thing or two about fashion. The dull, unimaginative micro-plaid says, “Don’t bet on it.” And buttons? This, clearly, is not a shirt that gets too hung up about such things. Oh, there are a few, most of which even match. But they tend to slip open once or twice a day, and it’s missing one or two at the very top, so the shirt is always open just a bit further than most. Gives a man room to think.

Or not. No pressure.
The Apathetic Shirt (No. 1367).

Available in XL-XXL only.

Colors: Shades of faded blue. Imminently forgettable.

Price: $37.95

Already own one? Or three? Then I’ve got just the pants for you…

Thomas Jefferson never wore pants like these. Neither did Andrew Carnegie. MacArthur might have looked once, but not twice. I shudder to think what Oscar Wilde would’ve had to say about them..

These are not pants that negotiate treaties. They do not control fortunes or found nations. They don’t drive company cars.

These are the pants that drive across three states, at ninety miles an hour, to get to a sold-out concert, and just as fast back, so as to be on time for work. These are pants that climb chain-link fences to steal ‘high-voltage’ signs. These pants have been inside a strip club at ten in the morning, and have slept in the bottom of a homemade canoe on the Green River.

These are the pants that bailed you out of jail at three in the morning. There was probably another pair sitting on the bunk right above you.

These pants have been on fire. They’ve been stabbed, spat on, shot at, bled in, ripped apart, sewn up, thrown away, bought secondhand, and set on fire again. These pants smell like bong water. And do you know what?

They’re still pretty good pants.

I think it’s the pockets. There are eight altogether; between them, you can carry just about everything you own. Maybe more. Pockets like this make a man feel… What? Competent, maybe.

If Hemingway had had a pair of these pants, he might have dragged those sharks out of Bimini Bay with his teeth. He’d have looked like shit doing it, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be the one to tell him.

No-Bullshit Pants (No. 1273). Made of a miraculous twill; heavy enough to last forever, but light enough to be perpetually wrinkled. Pockets range in size from coins to six-packs. Fit is roomy, but the fall is always about an inch short.

Men’s even sizes: 32-52.

Colors: Our choice of 12, all guaranteed to match nothing you own.

Price: $55.95


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