It's the Pants that Make the Player

On Friday night Mr. Sidetable and I hit the oh-so-swinging streets of Princeton, New Jersey, a town where madras and argyle are worn without irony. Mr. Sidetable was visiting for the night, after I'd spent the previous evening with him in New York, where we took in the revival of Mamet's Glengarry Glen Ross. Mr. S. was free to spend the day looking at nineteenth-century pornography in the rare book room at Firestone Library as he had been disinvited to the Yankees-Mets game by our pal Sivacracy, who took Alterman with him instead. So while we saw no baseball, we did see a genteel Princeton student at a local watering hole wearing these pants with little golf clubs all over them. Much to our amazement, he picked up a Jersey hottie in them. Only at Princeton could one get laid wearing these pants...