Reports From the Field: A Very Spitch-y Internship

OK, so here’s the deal: I have the distinct privilege, as a part of the 1% (people who like a very specific butterfat-concentration in their milk), to be working an internship in New York City, while simultaneously living in an apartment there. Few people survive living in NYC, according to old people in every small town ever. As such, my summer should be littered with speak-easies, rock ‘n’ roll music, and fraternizing with minorities (read: a lot of naps, John Mayer, and anything I write for this third one is going to come across as racist). Hopefully the following few anecdotes will be enough to convince you that living at home with your parents and your “up-and-coming” online company are going to be just plenty.


“Yeah, no, for real, Mom—like, six people visited ‘’ this month!”

So I can’t exactly tell you where I’m working—for fear of some rule that I’m sure I’m ignorant to—but I can give you this helpful hint: Go watch the movie Mean Girls. Done? OK, what happened to Lindsay Lohan? She was hot, talented, and even seemingly tolerable as a human being—she’s really gone off the deep end since then. Ok, sorry, now go watch Season 1 of Mad Men.

You’re welcome.
2: My internship experience is basically scene-for-scene the development of Peggy Olson.


I even got [spoiler:] pregnant. It’s been a crazy first week.

I got home from the west coast with little time to spare before my first day, and I still had to move into my apartment (details to come), so when I checked out my inventory of “business” clothes, I didn’t really have time to care that it was scarce, I just grabbed a couple shirts, my one decent pair of dress pants and then stole a few of my Dad’s ties.

I get up at 3:30am every morning for work, because I have to be in the office by 5am. All that means, aside from the fact that my first thought every morning is, “I hate myself,” is that I get off work everyday at 1:30pm. Time is on my side. So I’m on the subway, headed back downtown from Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce (that’s a Mad Men joke you uncultured buffoons), and I think to myself, “I wonder if Bonobos has a store here.”

"No wonder he made that 1% joke earlier."

Bonobos, for those of you who don’t know (read: women, and men who don’t care about what they wear), is a men’s clothing website. It’s not worth trying to describe what’s appealing about their stuff aside from the fact that they sell good-looking, professional clothing for men, and I had a need. So I googled them on my Steve Jobs phone (oh, the irony), and it turns out that they do not have a store, which makes sense because they are an online company (not like yours, though). They do, however, have an office, and their website has this to say:

"CAN I STOP BY THE OFFICE? Sure! We’d love to schedule some time for you to drop by. We don’t keep our full inventory in the office, but we’ve got plenty of samples for you to get sized, try some clothes on, and feel fabrics in person. To visit the HQ, schedule an appointment with our Bonobos Guides or call 877-294-7737.”

Boom. I’m there. I set up an appointment—because what better things do I have to do besides nap, for like six hours?


OK, quick nap, then I’ll set up an appointment.

So I set one up for the next day after work, and I went. It’s located in what looks to be any other office building with a tiny little elevator. I use my deductive skills and find that they’re located on the fifth floor, hit the big “5” button inside the elevator and I’m off. I expect to find a hallway with several offices, but the doors open and BAM I’m inside Bonobos HQ. I start in, mouth slightly ajar, and the two carefree receptionists fumble over who will ask me, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I, uh, have an appointment, Peter Swanson.” It’s now occurring to me that I’ve gotten myself into a bit of an ordeal here.

“Oh, yeah, just take a seat over there and we’ll be with you in a minute. Would you like something to drink while you wait?”


Oh. Well, maybe I’ll just play into this whole high-roller business. And I do.

I’m introduced to a nice young blonde woman who will be personally assisting me with sizing, selecting styles, and otherwise kissing my ass. I think she thought I had some money. In fairness, when I told her where I worked, I did my best to leave out the fact that I was an unpaid intern.

So basically I got to tour Bonobos, try on a handful of clothes, and get treated like an artist-formerly-known-as Prince, all for free. For some reason I ended up spending money I didn’t have on something called “Weekday Warriors”


They have “Monday” embroidered into the waist, I couldn’t help myself.

Aside from the fact that I’m working at an ad agency in 1960’s, (it’s another Mad Men joke, come on) there isn’t much to report on my actual job, but keep your eye out for weekly reports on the life of a lowly intern living in New York City. In the mean time, you really might want to consider subscribing, donating to, or at least just reading our blog on a semi-regular basis. We promise to post unintelligible words onto the interwebs all summer long.

Sincerely Yours,