Cargo Shorts Mafia

This one’s going below the belt. A 6 pocket newsletter. A sermon on cut off khaki. But not too cut off. Just a gentleman’s whisper below the knee. North of the shin. Sitting just where I need them to hear Crush by Dave Matthews Band as it was sonically intended. Pair it with the free shirt I got from a Sports Illustrated subscription when I was 15. Then some Havaianas between the toes. This is the vibe I’ve been chasing all summer long. And I’m not alone. Here’s a text from frequent newsletter contributor @Alledgedly.

A bounty indeed.

Not even two decades ago, our shorts began creeping up the leg to the fault of absolutely nobody. It was time. I think we saw that photo of Harrison Ford at Cannes. Then came the Patagonia baggies. Shitty thigh tattoos. Gaelic football in Normal People. And there was no going back from there.

Or so we believed…

Luckily our friends at Lululemon synergized the 5 inch inseam. Kevin Hart made 15 movies in Fabletics. Chubbies took hold of die tables across the American South. We had veered so far into a trend’s backyard, it became common knowledge. Unable to remember life when our knees had shade. So naturally, under the human laws of cyclicality, a quiver of cargo began to reveal itself…In closets, at garage sales, and in Goodwills. Then…admittedly on my Pinterest.

All we needed was a man strong enough, to string the bow. His name was…

I actually have no idea who our pocket seeking Odysseus was….My Robert J Cargoheimer. I just know I am now a part of the Cargo Shorts Mafia. A band of brothers letting it hang a little looser. Yearning to scream WELCOME TO THE O.C. BITCH at all times. Abercrombie catalogue, 2005. Don’t tempt me with a set of puka shells. I just might fucken wear ‘em.

I might sound like captain obvious right about now. In no way the first Substack artist to report on inseam economics. So call me a trend hopper. Ringer chaser. Click merchant. I don’t even care. I feel good in my gos. Calibrated in my cargs. Ready for whatever the day has in store. Wherever that day might occur. Hell, @Allegedly and I even took them to the dirt roads of Mexico. Recreated the Armstrong x McConaughey jog. So yeah, that’s been done already.

Still with me? Half of you? That’s good enough. Now time for a side story:

My July 4^th was off to a rough start. No need to get into specifics but let’s just say that morning, I fired up In Rainbows a little more than recommended on America 250. I was in my navy blue gap 11” cargos, naturally. Tried to rally in the afternoon with some friends at a party on Venice Beach. Crowd wasn’t doing it for me though. Like any other Venice Beach function, there must’ve been a bat signal sent out to all 37 year old healers and kava suppliers in a 5 mile radius. I needed a quick exfil. It was time for an ocean dip.

“In your cargos?” Friends asked.

We had a long night ahead of us. A going-away party to attend. Maybe a bar or three after. But I swear, I just needed the Pacific (had to whiz). These shorts would dry in due time. Right? They were my Gap 11” legends. My Frank’s Hot Sauce. I put that shit on everything.

The cargos stayed dangerously damp as day turned to night. Slowly drying, pocket by pocket. Continuing to weigh upwards of 475 pounds. But methodically, as my emotional state progressed - these damp shorts began to feel weightless. Dare I say the cargos were beginning to change my perspective on it all. I was still aware of my armor but as the truest pieces of garment should, my cargos became one with me. That night, upon returning to my grey, brutalist, particle board apartment, I jumped in bed before remembering what I was wearing. Wet cargos? Those can play. But on damp sheets? Nonstarter.

Luckily, my cargos, once soaked in saltwater, were now dry once again.

The cargos will always dry. Life goes on. So go ahead and call it a trend. A Pinterest fetishization. I can’t hear you. All I listen to is the khaki cloth that hugs my knees. Those six pockets of wisdom. My brothers in arms.

The cargo short mafia.