Author Archives: Pete Riddell

Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts Intermezzo / Torso at the Crossroads

We made it, and yet we haven’t made it … yet. 

For 13 days straight we celebrated a different treasure from my — chooses adjective carefully — “consequential” T-shirt collection. 

But it’s still 11 days before Christmas, not to mention 17 until the calendar turns over, which means over 400 hours left in our present fast where — in a fit of hubris mixed with a spasm of poor decision-making — I pledged to Karry that I could make it the rest of 2025 without buying another t-shirt. 

Or what the supportive members of my family have dubbed the “You’ll Never Make It” Tour.

As the supportive members of my family are quick to attest, the act of my setting out to accomplish something and actually accomplishing it … is no small accomplishment.

Outside of the bags of frozen Reese’s Cups I deplete on a regular and consistent basis (which is EXACTLY what eight-year-old Pete imagined adulthood looking like), my track record for finishing tasks within specified parameters is what the historians would call ‘pock-marked.’

Since the odds of future goal-setting-and-accomplishing suggest betting the Under, we thought it appropriate to seize this rare ‘mission-accomplished’ vantage point for a reflective moment, much like we do in the sugar high afterglow following double-digit Reese’s consumption.  

I think it’s fair to say alchemizing my t-shirt affection through a retrospective lens has proven successful, at least in the recent modest sample size, in curbing my appetites for acquisition. 

So my torso and I find ourselves at a Crossroads.

A.) Keep the retrospective going

(B.) Declare myself ‘cured’ and — for the next 17 days — trust in my newfound ability to resist the algorithms massing at the gates of my feeds hurling temptations like so many flaming projectiles launched from medieval trebuchets

(C.) Give in and hit ‘launch’ on my 2026 T-shirt Registry, which is almost-but-not-quite-as-full as my closet

(D.) Empty a bag of frozen Reese’s trees while we decide

(E.) Both A & D, with possibly a C chaser. 

When you put it like that, is it even a question?

Gauntlet thrown. 

By which we mean Japanese cat tribal warrior t-shirt added to the ’26 registry, bitches.

Can we keep the streak going? 

Can we perpetuate the momentum? 

Can we make it to ’26? 

What will run out first … my will power in the face of great odds? The number of clean t-shirts in my closet? The Reese’s currently in my freezer? 

As we step out in faith into uncharted territory towards an unexplored map with unknown temptation and peril waiting at every turn, we look — as all great explorers do — to Ernest Shackleton, famed leader of three expeditions to the Antarctic,  for inspiration. 

*Adds to ’26 registry.

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Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 12: CATSA

My friend Stephen designed this badass logo for his badass wife Sam’s badass business, whose mission is to “create the coolest, space-themed, design objects for cat lovers.” 

Mission accomplished.

Proceeds from their refined, feline designs fund cat rescue and advocacy projects for community cats and their caregivers, which me and Viktor the Cat (my sensei) agree is righteous.

I could pick this logo as Stephen’s out of a police lineup. He’s had his own singular sinister aesthetic since I met him when I was a clueless intern in the mid-90’s. I owe my professional career to Stephen’s brilliance.

Check ‘em out at catsa.co. Their merch is next level and their wearables so soft they’ll make your torso purr. 

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Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 11: City Lights

Type “cathedral” into my brain’s large language model, you’ll get an image of 261 Columbus Avenue in San Francisco’s North Beach. 

This t-shirt unlocks so much for me … beginning and ending with the Pilgrimage.

Whenever work or friends would take me to San Francisco, I’d stay at the Hotel Rex on Sutter, which was part of Chip Conley’s Joie de Vivre collection of boutique hotels, each one inspired by a different magazine. The Rex was inspired by the New Yorker, and was designed to evoke San Fran’s literary salons of the 1920s and 30s.

Their lounge was The Library, all cushy chairs, reading lamps and the magical musty smell of old books (swoon).

Its atmosphere was cozily curated for unburdening … conducive to liberating one’s hands to alternate between a good book, a pen and paper, and a half-full glass of the house red.  

Make a left exiting the hotel, I’d walk the few blocks down to Bush, hang a left and climb its hill to the iconic Dragon’s Gate.

From there take a savoring stroll through North America’s oldest and largest Chinatown, a world unto itself. 

Keep walkin’ until I find North Beach. Make the right, slowing to a reverent saunter through Jack Kerouac Alley, pausing to bow and whisper read his pavement words etched in its center, “The air was soft the stars so fine the promise of every cobbled alley so great.”

And then, proof that alley promises come true: City Lights — Ferlinghetti’s fierce, tender, defiantly flickering eternal flame of a bookstore. 

Every single second I’ve spent walking amongst its stacks has been a replenishing.

The sound of one’s shoes creaking its old wooden floors while in slow-browse reverie? A poetry all its own. 

I love reading the staff’s hand-written recommendations slash love letters adorning the shelves as much as I do the books they hype.

The pleasure of stumbling upon treasure you didn’t even know to look for.

Going upstairs to the poetry room, where Ferlinghetti’s rocker — the ‘poet’s chair’ — still sits by the window in open invitation. 

Harvesting an armful of sustenance for the suitcase home.

Walking back to the Rex drunk on Kerouac’s soft air and fine stars, clutching my brown paper bag tightly as I imagine he did his.

 

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Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 9: Old Crow

In the years when we were legally adults, but intellectually and emotionally still ‘ripening,’ we cultivated what some of us consider an ‘abiding affection’ for Old Crow, while others of us, if they are feeling euphemistically generous, would acknowledge under oath as a ‘relationship.’

All I know is that during the dark ‘post-college-graduation-scuffling-by-on-part-time-jobs-with-no-real-prospects’ years, Old Crow’s firm place on the bottom shelf was an accessible and fortifying presence.

And ever since, we have reverently and dutifully honored Dr. James Crow for inventing the sour mash process.

There is a loose thread of American history (that we choose not to tug terribly hard at) that believes that Old Crow was indirectly responsible for winning the Civil War. 

It was well-known that Ulysses S. Grant fancied himself a good tipple now and again. It was believed that Old Crow was a preferred part of his, um, medicinal regimen.

A story has sloshed around that critics of the general once complained about his drinking to Lincoln. To which the 16th president purportedly replied, “I wish some of you would tell me the brand of whiskey that Grant drinks. I would like to send a barrel of it to my other generals.”

We’ll drink to that. 

Because sometimes it’s more about good memories than good memory.

Also, as anyone who has ever been brave, desperate, or just (like us) poor and dumb enough to send Old Crow down one’s gullet knows … it’s out for vengeance.  

In his book “The Social History of Bourbon,” author Gerald Carson relates a tale that, during the Northern Army’s siege of Vicksburg, Grant enjoyed generous nightly nightcaps of Old Crow. 

Served neat, of course. (autonomic sympathetic body shudder goes here)

And not to draw a parallel between the Union Army’s 47 days waiting out surrender and us waiting out the last of our adolescence enjoying Red-Hot-doused frozen taquitos from the microwave … but I find it hard not to wax nostalgic when it comes to Old Crow.

Its vague place in our country’s history. 

Its humble yet consistent place on the bottom shelf. 

Its proud place on this author’s torso. 

And its hallowed place keeping us company while we figured — and continue to figure — our shit out. 

Cheers.

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Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 8: Macho Wars

This one’s brought to you by the 14-year-old boy who lives inside us all.

I’m an unapologetic sucker for a good mashup. 

Macho, Elizabeth and Hulk tagging in for Luke, Leia and Darth?

Ringside seats, please. 

It’s one thing to have a brilliant idea, another thing entirely to bring it to life with impeccable craftsmanship. 

Reverent nod to the designer’s inspired choice to go with a wide-eyed Hogan.

I mean, big leg drop on prone opponent, right there. 

Anyone who subscribes in equal parts to The Force, Hulkamania (mid 80’s edition), and Macho Madness (all eras) will find it impossible to stare at this shirt for more than three seconds without thinking, if not saying aloud, “Ohhhhhh Yeeeeeaaaaahhhh!” 

Seriously, give it a try. 

I’ll wait. 

(One … two … three ….)

*Raises arm and/or light saber in triumph.

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Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 7: Fahrenheit 451

Joe Mugnaini’s brilliant cover for the first edition of Ray Bradbury’s incendiary novel. 

The book holds a special place in my heart for a couple reasons, on top of its timeless cautionary tale.

My daughter and I read it aloud together across many Saturday coffee-shop mornings when she was a young teenager, which was my first re-read of it in a good 20 years or so. What a wonderful way to be reacquainted. 

And during our re-reading, I was profoundly moved by a passage late in the book when Montag, on the run, encounters a group of kindred spirits living in the woods on the outskirts of town. And around a campfire, he remembers his grandfather. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone back to this passage since.

Its still glowing embers warm me as much as the campfire that coaxed the words from Bradbury’s typewriter.

It’s not only been medicine to my heart, but I’ve shared Bradbury’s beautiful words with friends and kindred spirits seeking warmth in the darkness of their own loss.

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.

It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the (person) who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.” 

Always makes me think of the gardeners I’ve known in my life.

Reminds me to keep planting.

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Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 6: Wait a Minute Chester

I turn to this one whenever my bag is sinkin’ low.

I’m pretty sure Robbie Robertson had this t-shirt in mind when he wrote the line. 

Rick Danko singing American Shakespeare. 

His signature high-lonesome pretty much capturing the beauty and ache of what it means to be human, at least to this peaceful man’s ears.

The boys stackin’ harmonies like firewood. 

I mean, the image … coupled with the line.

I could write a 1,000 words on Levon with his sleeves rolled up.  

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Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 5: Nip it!

This is as close as my closet comes to an everyday driver. 

… in the bud.

Courtesy of Morgantown West Virginia’s favorite son, Don Knotts, five-time Emmy-winner for bringing Barney Fife to life on the Andy Griffith Show. 

This one makes one’s torso feel like the ceiling of the Sistine.

Echoing Sun Tzu (“strike at what is weak”), Mayberry’s sensei knew that everything is weakest at its beginning. 

Nike’s pretty proud of Just Do It, eh? 

Hold my chocolate milk, Thelma Lou.

In my house we just nip it ….

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Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 4: Wisconsin Curling Team

AKA “best/worst team-building event ever.” 

The story behind this t-shirt?

A cautionary tale.

If you’ve never been curling before, I have two words for you: proper footwear.  

Few years ago while visiting our mothership in Milwaukee, my boss at the time organized an after-work team-building outing. He thought it’d be a good bonding experience for us to go to an ice arena in Milwaukee and try some curling. I’d never been before. After signing a waiver, I remember we got a quick primer, during which the instructor mentioned that competitive curlers have special footwear, which we would be forgoing for our 90-minute session. 

We broke into teams. I was paired with our Director of Creative Operations. She’s very competitive. 

We were in the middle of our first match, and were nursing a one-point lead over the other teams. It was my turn to ‘sweep.’ 

As you proly know, way it works is that one person aims the stone towards the scoring rings at the other end of the alley, while their teammate sweeps the ice in front of the stone with a special push broom, which can impact the stone’s direction and speed. 

Couple seconds after my teammate launched our next stone, I was dutifully following it down the alley. I remember her voice reverberating in the arena as she yelled … “Sweep! Sweep!” 

And I’m sweepin’ like a motherf*cker … when all of a sudden my legs go out from under me … and I face-plant on the ice.

Must’ve blacked out for a second, because next thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing my teammates’ concerned faces staring down at me while flat on my back.  

I had a cut below my left cheek from where I smacked the ice, and was bleeding a bit … whereupon it was decided I should probably get a couple stitches. 

My teammates accompanied me to the ER and very sweetly waited while the doc stitched me up.

Pretty successful bonding experience, as far as team-buildings go. 

I like to point out that, since we were winning when I went ass over tincups, technically speaking I am undefeated on the curling circuit. 

Ever since, whenever I see curling on TV, I instinctively run my hand over my left cheek and say out loud to anyone within earshot …

 “Shit’s harder than it looks.”

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