The T-Shirt’s Last Day

I imagine Echo and the Bunnymen’s Nothing Lasts Forever has sound-tracked the end of many a relationship. Today it reminds me that clothes – like people – grow apart. Or fall apart in this case.

It wasn’t until I caught the reflection of myself in a cafe window that it hit me: this was the last day I would ever wear my favourite blue t-shirt.

As I sat on the train I wondered how on earth I hadn’t seen the signs of wear and tear sooner. Or better yet, why my mirror failed to warn me of its demise. I had been cheated by my own visage.

For years, this blue Supreme tee and I had been an ideal match that never required much in the way of critical reflection. People often told me we looked great together and that we were the perfect fit. It had become a staple and looking good in it was a given. And over the last four years it sure did serve me well, outliving many of its contemporaries in the process. But it no longer fitted its Supreme label.

In fact, when I look back on moments of social success, so to speak, it wouldn’t surprise me if I wearing Ol’ Blue. Whether it was casual work drinks, a date, or even the prowess of company at a fashion show – the simplicity of my tee held its own.

Now that I think of, this probably wasn’t the case – but it was at least comfortable.

It was time to face up to the facts – Ol’ Blue was not in good shape. It hadn’t attracted a compliment in some time. It had let itself go, especially around the waist. Four years of wear, and wash cycle after wash cycle, had finally taken its toll.

Ol’ Blue now resembled a man of pore posture whose life had been run ragged. The neckline was unstable, slouching down low, and it was thinning up front. If you cared to look close enough you could even spot my chest hair poking through the strained fabric.

After realising how bad I’d let it get, I couldn’t wait to get home and take it off. I studied the judging looks from co-workers and clients alike while in a meeting. All of whom seemed to sneer at Ol’ Blue. I felt compelled to let everyone know that this was going to be its last day in the office, and we would not be holding farewell drinks for it at the pub after work.

Still, parting company with such a loyal garment wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe I’d keep it hidden away where it couldn’t hurt anybody, in a drawer behind those unused condoms. No. It had to go. It had to. Katie from accounts confirmed it with a withering stare. But I couldn’t ignore the memories that lay within its very fabric.

I’m sure you can sympathise. We’ve all allowed clothing items to outstay their welcome as trends left them behind. Maybe it’s a camo print, early 2000’s stained denim, or that pair of Adidas button up tracksuit pants you’re holding on to. It’s emotional.

But I was farewelling this one thing that transcended time and trends. It didn’t bear the scars of bad screen-printing or hideous fluoro. It was cool – plain and simple

Come to think of it, my Ol’ Blue tee didn’t outstay its welcome.

It simply outwore it.

Chris is currently interviewing new t-shirts. He is a mens small, enjoys a fitted feel and durable heavy-duty fabric. He’s taking recommendations here: quasitis@gmail.com

Christmas Gone Wrong

When opening your presents please beware

Whether naughty or nice you’re in for a scare

Because the toys inside have completely lost their mind

They’ll pull your hair, scratch your face and be anything but kind

So run for the hills, run for your lives

It’s the only way you’re going to survive

Take it from me, it’s time to go flee

Before you get sucked into the Christmas tree.

Relic in Waiting

My wallet is overcrowded. It’s my fault, I treat it like the second bedroom of my single bedroom apartment. It’s full of junk. In fact, up until September 1, 2014 nothing inside my wallet was of any real value. But thanks to Opal Card my stash of old train tickets will eventually become collector’s items in the distant, distant future. They’ll be kept in those glass cabinets you see in antique stores. The ones that require a series of rusted minuscule keys to unlock. Keys that can only be turned by weathered and wrinkled hands. Simply asking to view an old train ticket will instantly raise eyebrows and attract muttered whispers of jealousy like… ‘They must have a fair bit of bob’.  

I’m saving this one to put my great great great great great grandson through University. You’ll see. It’ll happen.

The Height of Entertainment vs The Bottom of Enetertainment

The Emmys = talent, wit, & charisma

 

The VMAs = butts, butts & more butts

 

 

 

 

The Bump Into

We met inside Joe’s Coffee House. Well, technically, in the doorway of Joe’s Coffee House. She wore a bright blue dress with a decorative floral print (which, by the way, still looks amazing to this day). That morning, I was on my way out, and she was on her way in. I was still jittery after indulging in my second cup of coffee; she was flustered, and struggled to balance her awkward combination of urgency and clumsiness that I too saw in myself. Then it happened. We bumped into one another. She stepped right, and so did I. We both giggled. I smiled and she blushed. Then I went left, and she went left! I made the first move, and nervously apologised. She blushed some more, brushing the hair away from her face and said, softly – ‘It’s okay.’ Not wanting to hold her up (although, secretly hoping to) I stepped left once more, but coincidentally, so did she. We both excused ourselves simultaneously, stammering over the top of one another (which was cute… then) It was as if it was our destiny to bump into each other. Fate had brought us together, in it’s own romantically clumsy way. But after twenty thousand-odd left and right footsteps later, we’re still caught in the same doorway, unable to get out of each other’s way, not unlike an animated GIF.

As time went on Joe’s Coffee House eventually closed down and became a laundry mat, then a beauty spa, followed by a Thai massage parlour, a tattoo parlour, a Starbucks, a KFC, a tax agent, an adult store, and eventually another coffee shop. It didn’t seem to matter what happened either side of the doorway, we remained permanently stuck in our clumsy collision. She grew cold, irritable and sarcastically sinister, while I exchanged my smiles and charming mannerisms for demeaning mumbling slurs (directed mostly at myself). 

As unhappy as we were, our timing remained impeccable. She still shuffled left when I shuffled left. And when I went right, she wearily stepped right as well. Gradually, our apologies subsided to a mere sigh or grunt, then inevitably ceased to exist. Each time she brushed the hair away from her face, I quivered inside with rage. The awkward little nuisances we originally fancied in one another became one gigantic pain in the arse.

Still today, our doorway predicament often draws an audience of onlookers who sigh ‘awww’ in unison. Over the years we’ve featured on multiple news programs and even signed a book deal. The publisher thinks our story could be turned into a movie one day. She calls it ‘Hollywood’s first ‘Doorway Romance’. Together we’ve witnessed all types of things in the doorway. A couple of years ago when the cafe was still a KFC there was a robbery. They managed to escape through the open doorway with the safe and four hostages by walking right between us, without breaking our bind. KFC were so livid they attempted to sue us for neglecting our duty of rescue. The court hearing took place right there in the doorway, where we were forced to demonstrate our bind to the jury, as if we had a choice.

The latest coffee shop is currently undergoing renovations, the owner’s concerned that we’re going to get in his way. How ironic. ‘It’s nothing builders haven’t worked around before’ I told him. If something was to change and either she or I made an unexpected move and broke free, I don’t know what I would do with myself, to be honest. It’s been so long that I’ve grown comfortable, content even. My parents have been married 45 years and they can’t stand each other, but they persist. I guess it’s easier staying together sometimes, even when you have a choice.

When we’re alone at night we often talk about missed opportunities to travel abroad or the fact that we’ve never been intimate. As we grow old the chance that one of us may become too weak to stand is kind of exciting, thrilling even. We’ve even started placing bets on who will go first. She thinks it will be me, because of my arthritis. Hopefully, whoever goes first will still be young and healthy enough to travel, heck, even meet somebody else. As long as it’s not in a doorway that is. 

Our timing is so impeccable that we’ll probably go at the same time: dying in each other’s way. Come to think of it, that would be a fitting way to go. Romantic. A real Hollywood ending, the publisher would say. Like Romeo and Juliet, but nothing like that at all.

Little Like The Fly

I return to the table from a short bathroom break and our eyes meet. My date smiles at me as she elegantly brushes the hair away from her face, while sipping her green tea. I sit down and do the same hoping it will calm my nerves. I don’t have any hair so it doesn’t quite come off. As I’m about to take a sip of my tea I happen to notice a small dark blur floating around in my cup. I catch it in the bottoms of my eyes as it passes beneath my nose and hurries into my mouth.

I try to convince myself that I’ve only swallowed a loose tea leaf that somehow managed to slip through the tight security of the strainer. Then paranoia sets in. Could there have been a fly swimming around in my tea cup? What if I have swallowed a fly? I hate flies; I have a phobia of them, they call it – Pteronarcophobia. It all happened so fast I can’t be sure what I saw. I’m starting to sweat. My date excuses herself from the table and I’m convinced that my least favourite thing in the world is now inside me.

I imagine the fly must have landed in my English breakfast whilst I was in the bathroom earlier. Perhaps it attempted to drink its way out at first, eventually swallowing more tea than it could stomach. Is it possible that the fly was lactose intolerant? Did it drown, or was it still breathing? Meanwhile, the back of my shirt is now completely soaked.

Should I say something? Do I ask the waiter for a new cup? By asking and explaining the situation am I going to embarrass myself? Even if I didn’t swallow the fly, she’s still going to think I did because I mentioned it and made a whole big deal over nothing. She’s going to wish she swiped left rather than right. Tinder hasn’t been kind to me, I need this. I don’t have to tell her, and I won’t. Still, I’m worried about the fly that’s now nesting inside me. My date returns to the table and looks uncomfortable; did she see me swallow the fly? Perhaps she noticed that it was in my tea and didn’t say anything, or tried to, but it was already too late. She starts staring at me, swiping left with her eyes.

We talk about a range of topics, but not the fly. She’s amused that we share the same taste in films, music and food, but not so in our choice of tea; I avoid the topic of tea altogether and steer the conversation elsewhere. She seems to have forgotten what happened and entertains me with her quirky tales of adventures abroad, but all I can think about is this disgusting fly. ‘It’s possible he swam out.’ Says a voice coming from within me. ‘What? No! What did he do? Swim to the side and climb out using the ladder?’ I mutter to myself, earning an odd look from my date. ‘Flies shit wherever they land’ Says another voice. Great, now the voices are back. How common is it to suffer from both Schizophrenia and Pteronarcophobia? I’m not thinking clearly, my body’s having a reaction to the fly. I’ve gotta keep it together.

The voice continues ‘I’ve heard if you swallow a fly it’s like swallowing gum. It clings to your insides for eight years and you’re unable to digest it.’ The other voice butts in. ‘No, that’s ridiculous. Gum stays wherever it lands; it hugs the streets, hides under school desks and resides on the backs of cafeteria seats. I’ve never seen a fly stay anywhere for too long, they can’t sit still.’ I cover my mouth and whisper back ‘When it’s alive that is.’

 The date may as well be over, she waves her finger in the air to signal the waiter for the bill. ‘I strongly believe if the fly is in there, he will fly out and everything will be okay.’ Says the voice. ‘She was the only girl who swiped right! We need this!’ Adds the other voice. I wonder what the chances are that he will fly out of my stomach, up through my throat and out of my mouth? Can a fly escape from an ear? Or nose? Or? Oh no. This is bothering me a little, little like the fly.

The Double Life of a Wattle Bottle

A winter saviour by night. A cold rubbery thing by morning.

Nobody Ever Thanks God On A Monday

A face that says it all.

If there was a voice that summed up Monday it would sound something like Morrisey. If Monday was a face it would look like Daria. If Monday had a flavour it would be Tofu. If Monday had a texture it would resemble Sandpaper. Thank God it’s not always Monday. 

Bath Age

Andrew Nguyen and Korina Chow. From 23 to 73 in just 3 hours bath time

Ever wondered what it might be like to make love when you’re old and wrinkly? Simple: stay in the bath that little bit longer. That’s right, they’re calling it Bath Age, and it’s the latest trend being soaked up by hip millennials.

The bath craze was believed to be inspired by Rookie founder and socialite – Tavi Gevinson, who published a series of risqué images of what looked like a senior version of herself, revealing a fair amount of wrinkled thigh. Fans of the tween icon were initially shocked, wondering if their idol was suffering from the side effects of excessive smoking. However, Tavi’s people were quick to kill the rumour, responding with a rejuvenated image of Tavi’s skin restored in all its glamour with the caption and hashtag: show us your #bathage.

Since then selfies of teens looking like their grandparents have flooded social media. Instagram has been inundated with retro-chic filtered images of wrinkled hands: knitting, making tea, and gardening. Pop culture and social media expert Sophie Banks believes it’s simply a natural progression for young people obsessed with all things old and vintage.

‘When you think about it, it’s a natural evolution of the whole retro-hipster thing. Vintage cameras, filters, fashion, music, and now skin! With #bathage you can even look vintage, you know.’

The art of staying in the bath too long has inspired curious young couples to experiment with the idea of having sex with a wrinkled partner. Jessie, a 24 year old barista from Collingwood, says it’s helped change her perception of old people.

‘Yeah, I mean, like, I’ve always thought getting old and still having sex was gross. Like, picturing your grandparents still going at it. It’s weird. But me and my boyfriend thought we’d give it a try, so we took a 3 hour bath. I’ve got to admit, And I never thought I’d say this, but, it was like a turn on.’

Sophie Banks believes that the idea of experimenting with extended baths is a tempting thought. A preview of what’s to come, so to speak.

‘I’m not suggesting that everyone is going to use baths as a way of glimpsing into the future, and take up wrinkly love making. But if young people can grow an appreciation for vintage skin, then they may just gain some respect for their elders who still possess the desire to ‘go at it’ you know.’

Brands have already jumped on the trend, with Dove rushing out the release of a new bubble bath product designed to speed up the ageing process of a bath. Rather than spending your whole night in the bath, you can achieve the desired ageing process in just minutes. And better yet, the bubbles help prolong your wrinkles for longer love making.

Will you show the world your #bathage?

Letters To My Favourite Products: Oat Milk.

Dear So Good Oat Milk,

You’re not just a fridge staple anymore, you’ve become a true hero of mine. You saved cereal. Ever since dairy started playing up on me the idea of consuming anything that resembled milk sadly soured. Imagine sitting across from a date, sipping your coffee and realising you have 10, maybe 11 minutes tops to find a bathroom before your world came crashing down. Forget about your date, you can’t even process anything she’s saying.  It’s over. You’re not going to manage a proper goodbye, either. You simply don’t have the time. One sudden move can reduce that 10 or 11 minutes to a few seconds if you’re not careful. That is what happens when milk turns to the dark side. You’re lactose intolerant, and if you’re not careful the whole cafe is going to know about it. So things needed to change.

For a while there I was a soy advocate, warming to its flavour and indulging in the nuttiness that it added to my cereal and coffee. Then Google ruined Soy. I’m not going to go into it, the why or how it happened; but it’s over between soy and I. The thing is: when you’re the type of person who craves cereal for breakfast, lunch and dinner, you’re not just going to give up on beige coloured liquid which vaguely resembles milk altogether. No fucking way. You’re going to find a replacement, real fast. That was when almond milk came onto the scene. First I tried it sweet (not great), then unsweetened. The best word to describe the flavour of unsweetened almond milk is invisible. It didn’t leave a bad taste in my mouth, it simply left no taste at all.

You see, I didn’t just want liquid on my cereal for liquids sake. I wanted something that complemented my cereal, gave it layers, and a purpose, while remaining milky for old-times sake. And there you were, spawned from the same grains that gave me porridge. You were oaty and milky, you were flavoursome, you were high in fibre, and folic acid, and vitamin E and phytochemicals. You’re fucking cool Oat Milk. I’m not looking any further, as far as I’m concerned you are milk. End of story.

Yours forever,

Chris

P.S

See you in the morning…