Mine is blue. Says “Surfer” on it, or at least it used to.
The elastic on the collar is shot, there’s paint on the sleeve, and the screen is beyond faded. So faint, in fact, you can barely read the word.
I pieked it up during a visit to OC during the mid Nineties. Cas gave it to me, and I can not … I will not move it out of the rotation.
It’s a Mega shirt.
The Megas we keep are not about what the shirt says or how they look, but when they came from. I tried thinning out my own shirt drawer this weekend, in anticipation of the coming sweater-lanche that accompanies the arrival of dreaded, fearsome November. And I didn’t do that well. Apparently the “when” still trumps a lot of the “now.”
Most guys own around 20 t-shirts. That’s almost three weeks worth of odor-free apparel without a single load of laundry. But most guys also also have a prime rotation that includes just four or five.
Trust me, the numbers are accurate. Some of my best friends are guys, and they’ll back me up.
That means that most guys have more than a dozen shirts that we don’t wear, but that we insist on keeping because of some strange connection we have to a place and a time.
Fact: I own two organic cotton T’s. Not because I don’t embrace my Agri-Sexual side, but rather because my zero-growth t-shirt policy doesn’t allow for wholesale changes. Or shwag changes for that matter.
Conclusion: Fuck storage space. I love that shirt.