Princess Leia dressed as a school marm holding a balloon of the Death Star.
No further explanation available.
Or needed.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 5: Nip it!
This is as close as my closet comes to an everyday driver.
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 ….
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 teacups, 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.”
The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 3: As You Wish
“As you wish was all he ever said to her.
“That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying, ‘As you wish,’ what he meant was, ‘I love you.’”
The perfect choice for weekend chore work in service of one’s Buttercup.
I find that wearing this liberates me from having to say much, which thereby lessens my odds of saying something dumb, and/or something that will get on Buttercup’s nerves.
The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 2: Franktuary
Spill a little mustard on your shirt for Franktuary, which sunsetted its brick and mortar a few years back, but still operates a food truck here and there I hear.
Reverently prepared hot dogs.
Peter and I used to pilgrimage to their Lawrenceville location for boys day out Saturday lunches.
And like the great philosophers of antiquity, we’d spend the purgatory between our ordering and our munching engaging in spirited, hangry debates over the universe’s cosmic questions.
Does ketchup belong on a hot dog?
Answer: as you will consistently find across both your meat-eating eastern and western religions, the creator intended ketchup for hamburgers, mustard for hot dogs.
Are Franktuary’s fresh cut fries with garlic aioli better than Shorty’s fries with gravy?
Answer: What, in life, is truly objective? Just as Plato and Kant tussled with that hot potato across centuries … Peter and I staged “The Great Potato Debate” across many a table over the years. He was unequivocally Team Frankturary. Me? I was polytheistic on the matter. For the ultimate answer … ask God next time you see her.
Without irony, I believe that you can test the mettle of a good cathedral by the questions and conversations it engenders.
Once, while Peter and I were debating metaphysics, Heidegger, and the nature of being — by which I mean whether honey mustard was a salad dressing (Peter) or a condiment (me) — a father and young son, both dressed in Pirates jerseys, sat down at a booth across from us.
No sooner had they taken their seats when the son, maybe eight or nine, asked his Dad, “Who’s your favorite baseball player of all time?”
Which settled the question of God’s existence for me once and for all.
In dogs we trust.
The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 1: Tuscan Serenade
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so seen.
I love this shirt so much.
I imagine the person who designed it going on to an amazingly successful full life — Nobel-Prize-winning scientist or somesuch — and still knows in their heart that this shirt will always be their greatest accomplishment.
It clicks on so many levels.
For starters, the juxtaposition of the Tuscan Raider’s Gaffi Stick for the boom box? Stop it. Wearing Lloyd’s coat? Get the f*ck out of here. Goddamn landspeeder replacing young John Cusack’s 1976 Chevy Malibu? Punch me in the face already.
Full disclosure I’m on V2 for this shirt.
Wore the first till it completely faded, which Lloyd’s love for Diane will never do.
My only regret? That I only have one torso.
Will I get a third version?
I don’t know, but I know that I don’t know.
Letters for Maggie 