Requiem for a Shirt

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Favorite Shirt, I discovered a rip in your sleeve today.

Actually, I didn't discover the rip. My co-worker did. Right after I pointed out a worn-out hole in her sweater. So maybe it was karma.

Shirt karma.

I don't know how it happened. Maybe it was when I demonstrating to that co-worker how I once ripped a shirt back in 1999 or so when I had the habit of fist-grabbing my cuffs and pulling my sleeves tight. I ripped a former Favorite Shirt that way, and my mother cut the sleeves off and refashioned it into a short-sleeve shirt.

But you wouldn't look good as a short-sleeve shirt, and I no longer wear short-sleeve dress shirts like Dwight Schrute, so I guess this is goodbye.

I enjoyed our time together. Really. You were orange. You were the kind of shirt I could wear and people would see it and say things like, "Wow, nice shirt." Or maybe they'd say, "That's a really cool shirt."

And they weren't complimenting me. They were complimenting you, Favorite Shirt.

I bought you while I was working at a job that didn't require dress shirts. I bought you at the Banana Republic in Rockefeller Center — at the full $59.50 price, even; I didn't wait for you to go on sale — because you looked good on the headless mannequin. I never looked as good as a headless mannequin, but fuck it, I bought you without even trying you on.

See how much fun we had!

I unveiled you at the Pokémon holiday party, and yes, I did keep the tag on in case I chickened out and decided to return the shirt afterward, but later I realized that you, Favorite Shirt, were made for me.

And when I switched jobs and joined a company that required dress shirts every day, I had to buy a bunch of additional dress shirts, but none of them could outshine you, Favorite Shirt.

You were an important part of my life during these last five years, Favorite Shirt. Some mornings, when I just couldn't bring myself to get dressed to start my day because of the existential dread that gripped me with a soul-sucking paralysis, I could put you on and feel good enough about myself to not consider ramming a fuel truck on the Long Island Expressway during my morning commute.

But now you've been ripped. Sure, I could continue to wear you with the sleeves rolled up or while wearing a sweater, but who are we kidding? You were meant to be seen, in full, and I know you wouldn't have it any other way.

Goodbye, Favorite Shirt. It was a great run.

Ah, screw it, shirts can't read tributes. It's off to the garbage can for you!

On Getting Older But (Maybe) Looking Younger

Birthday boy.

Today is my birthday, and as I get older there are more people whom I've outlived. By "outlive" I mean "lived to a greater age," not "lived to a more recent year." Going by the latter, I've outlived everyone in human existence who died today or earlier.

As a Wikipedia junkie, I can quickly research the lives of famous people to see (that is, be depressed by by own lack of accomplishments while considering) how much many of these folks have accomplished during their shorter-than-my lifetime.

For instance, consider who died at age 27:

• Jimi Hendrix
• Janis Joplin
• Jim Morrison
• Kurt Cobain
• Amy Winehouse

Sure, I've listed a quintet of live-fast/die-young recording artists who all died from drug overdoses — if you discount the conspiracy theories — but when you realize that you've reached the age that John Lennon never will, well, you start to feel old.

On Theft and Time Travel

"Forget about that fire raging right
under my crotch — what time is it?"

More than I'd care to admit (but not so much that I'm too ashamed to admit on in a public blog), I spend a lot of time thinking about time travel. In fact, I've even written plays and the occasional article about it.

Obviously it's because I live in the past and am occupied with many regrets that I would like to someday remedy or erase, but one offshoot of my time-travel musings involves finding ways to make a lot of money with the assistance of transportation to (and, in most cases, from) a long time ago.

I tend to overcomplicate things when it comes to the consideration time travel, however — but not from a purely technical standpoint. I don't care about physics or metaphysics — which for all I know might be the same thing — nor am I interested in the actual transportation vessel. I'll let the scientists or physicists or metaphysicists handle the mechanics like how thick the walls of the time machine would be.

What I focus on (other than trying to kill the parents of my enemies before these enemies are conceived, which is fodder for a different post) is determining the most practical way to make a lot of money off time travel with ease and without causing too many major disruptions in future world history.

Most of my time-travel money-making opportunities involve stealing stuff and bringing them to the present day where they'll be considered old and therefore valuable. Here's a representative example of a scheme I've considered, along with some of the potential roadblocks to achieving financial independence:

On Food

HELL YES

I was inspired by a blog post I read, by someone I happen to have married, regarding her curious food habits and preferences. So, hey, why not blog about my own thoughts regarding food and other things I eat?

You know, since no one's asked?

LET'S GET THIS STARTED
All right, then. Let's start somewhere randomly:

In my present state, I am a very finicky eater. However, I was even worse when I was younger. Every child has a unique set of eating habits, and mine was pretty frustrating for my parents. I could compile a Ten Five Commandments of Eating When I Was Younger, had I known how to chisel commandments into slabs of stone.

I Am Published Somewhere Else on the Internet

The funny folks at The Higgs Weldon published an article of mine today. PLEASE TO ENJOY!

My Latest "Song"

Most of the songs that I (and, in some cases, Mrs. The Anthony Show) compose are related to the Christmas season, but this time I took a stab at a Valentine's Day theme. This was also my first attempt at using iMovie to create the crude video that complements the song; in the past I used MovieMaker.

I meant to publish this on February 14, but, hell, you know how it goes.

On "Crazy," and Living With a Crazy Person

"Crazy" once meant something, but thanks to overuse, it's a blanket term for anything weird, non-traditional, or abnormal.

I admit that I, too, am guilty of stretching "crazy" like a sheet of Saran Wrap I cut too short to fit that uneaten slice of pizza destined for the back of my fridge. It's crazy that I still can't eyeball the correct amount of Saran Wrap. It's crazy that I'm too cheap to tear off a new sheet, so I apply a smaller "patch" sheet that doesn't really stick right. It's crazy how I'll react when I notice the patch peeling off in the fridge. And it's crazy that I'll probably end up throwing out that crazy slice in a day or two anyway.

Crazy, right?

During my freshman year at college, I lived in a dorm containing four-person suites, each suite a pair of two-person rooms separated by a narrow bathroom. The bathroom could be accessed by any of the four people, but you and your roommate were able to lock the door separating your room and the bathroom, if you wished. (In the bathroom there was a stall shower, two sinks, and a toilet in a very small "room" with its own door that could also be locked.).

After my first semester one of my suitemates moved out, and the remaining suitemate was assigned a random roommate. When I showed up in January, a day before the dorms officially reopened, I met the new guy.

It was my first experience with someone crazy.

"Oh, pish-posh," you might be thinking. "He couldn't have been really crazy." Which is an understandable thing to think. Up until that point, I'd thought I'd met crazy people. In fact, I myself had been been called crazy numerous times, and I'll even admit today  several times during my life that sometimes I get a little crazy.

But John was crazy. Like, really crazy.