stinkin' up fordham law

Want to hear about my weekend? I stayed up way too late.

On second thought, I’m not going to tell you about my weekend. Instead, I’m going to tell you about my shirt.

Saturday: Artsy warehouse party in Brooklyn. My attire (head to toe): Who tee, long-sleeved shirt with buttons, grey boxer briefs, cargo shorts, brown belt, no-show black socks, black and white skater shoes that I purchased for seventeen dollars and ninety-nine cents at Target. Fore the night was up I sweated through the whole damn getup, even the belt buckle. We danced like this was our very last shot at dancing, as if dancing as we know it would end forever at 5 a.m. Pictures turned out wicked awesome. Lucas’ animistic camera was on acid or something because it snapped up more than a few forehead-slap pixie dust whizbang photos that oughta be bound up proper and made into books for coffee tables.

Lucas (to me): “Dude, you were sponsored by sweat last night.” I was. Upon return to Lucas’ place at 5:30 a.m., fatigued and semi-conscious, I exorcised the offensive article (my navy blue shirt was hit the hardest) with grand disgust and made a ball of it, neatly punching the shirt into a small compartment of my shoulder bag. It must have weighed four or five or nine pounds, like a child.

Sunday, then. Now I’m forced to go with the Who shirt. No other options, really. Can’t run home. We’re already late for a Thurston Moore/Ian MacKaye Q&A at Book Fest. Book Fest was swell. Later we watched one quality short and two lousy ones in a Bushwick film house. Somehow Lucas and I and his friend Kate wound up drinking beer and going out again, this time to a roof on the edge of the East River, where we remained until Too Late. Suddenly I come to and hey wait a second I'm five-deep into the PBR, not my usual Sunday. A mystery, unsolved for damn sure, who put these beers in my hand? After our bi-weekly ritual (pronouncing New York the Greatest City In All The Land, vigorously shaking hands with ourselves for choosing such a swell place to lay our heads at night, sighing dreamily at the skyline), we dragged over to a subway and then we rode it. Then we’re back at Lucas’ again and I haven’t brushed my teeth in 36 hours which is a bummer really and there’s the couch, so I laid on it and went to sleep.

Monday. Wake up. Shower. My towel? The sweat shirt. I actually dried my body with that dishrag, which (I shit you not) was still damp from Saturday night. Then I'm on the L train, wondering where it all went wrong, hygienically speaking. Today I delivered mail to 60 law professors at Fordham University whilst rockin’ a too-small Who t-shirt mired with sweat. Somnambulent from lack of REM, you know how it is.

Alright, guess I ended up rambling a bit—this drivel wasn’t really about a shirt but then it was really—but who cares that kid with the cart and that stupid rock ‘n’ roll t-shirt is a tragicomedy if I’ve ever seen one. And he smells funny.
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