Found Bills Thanks to a Guy Named Franco
By John Bobey
These days, I’m fortunate enough to call myself a professional writer, and that means a few things here in the big city. For one, my personal appearance isn’t part of the job, so I pretty much eat whatever I want, whenever I want (yes, I’m single, but let’s keep this friendly and assume there’s no correlation). Secondly, I get to wear whatever I want to work, and that usually means jeans, a t-shirt and a blazer…you know, kinda’ like an unemployed actor. Lately I’ve been wearing a lot of Kiss t-shirts, not just because they’re one of the greatest rock bands of all time, but I’m staring down 40 and wearing a faded shirt emblazoned with men wearing make-up and platform boots makes me feel less…like I’m staring down 40. Anyway, for about the last 2 years I’ve been writing for radio and TV personality Glenn Beck (yes, that guy—I only write the funny, insightful stuff you like…all the other stuff about the end of the world that terrifies you--that’s all Glenn).
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John Bobey (right) & Glenn Beck backstage on tour |
Twice a year I work with Glenn on his live stage show—we tour the country for two weeks in the summer and two more at Christmas. Not only is it a lot of fun to travel the country and see my jokes bomb in person, but Mr. Beck is a man of class—on the road, we eat well and often. This past Christmas was my third tour with Beck and company, and since the previous Christmas outing I’d put on, oh, I don’t know…5, 10 or 30 pounds. It’s not just my normal sedentary lifestyle where having to walk to the printer is like climbing Everest, but when we travel I consume food like I’m in my own personal eating contest. No one should eat as much steak and cheesecake as I do (and especially not for breakfast).
So this past Christmas I and my extra 30 pounds were in the first few days of the tour when Glenn got invited to a big fancy speech by presidential candidate Mitt Romney. Glenn didn’t have any clothes appropriate for the occasion packed with him, so we needed to do some fast shopping. Since all the pants I had with me had been acting as tourniquets, cutting off the blood supply to my lower extremities, I thought I might also take the opportunity to get something more appropriate for my new robust self, something an…occasionally employed actor might wear, something in…a 40 inch waist. Glenn and his crew are all long-time Bills wearers, and they were quick to point out that Franco’s in Richmond, Virginia—our haberdashery destination—had a stellar selection.
I’d been familiar with Bills myself for quite some time—you can’t be an aspiring writer on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and not know what’s new and important in the world of khakis--they can take away your collection of Woody Allen DVDs for such a thing. So off to Franco’s we went, and while Glenn was being attended to by Franco himself—as delightful an Italian sprite of a man as you’ll ever meet—I headed for the racks of khakis and picked myself out a pair of Bills. First I tried a 36 (call me a crazy optimist). After that humiliating experience, I slunk back to the rack and grabbed myself a 38 and a 40 (Model 2s, straight-up khaki twill). I won’t bore you with the self-loathing details inspired by the 38s, so let’s just say that when the 40s went on, things began to look up (and button).