Back in 2001 when the Wasatch Brew Pub started advertising this beer — the billboard campaign occasioned near incandescence among the local Mormons — I tracked down their T-shirt link before I was quite done reading the newspaper coverage. I see they no longer seem to offer St. Provo Girl (“If you just said Oh My Heck it’s probably not for you”) but they have come out with Evolution Amber Ale (“intelligently designed”). You can’t quite see the small print on this shirt: “Bring Some Home to the Wives.”
This was the sort of thing calculated to drive the teetotaling Utah establishment right out of their little pink minds. Whether or not the Latter Day Saints have figured out that yelping when your tail is pulled just provokes more tail-pulling, the Utah legislature has finally decided to jettison some of the baroque liquor laws that provoke frustrated pub owners to highjinks like this. Come this July first, the bartender will be able to hand you your beer directly over the bar, without walking around a glass partition. I’m not sure what that was supposed to accomplish, but some glass maker is probably going to grouse about being out of work.
I did eventually buy a mixed case of beer online. The porter was damn good.
I don’t wear this shirt to mess with people’s heads but sometimes it does. A lady real estate assessor once eyeballed me nervously throughout a visit to my house, and I only realized afterward that I was wearing the 1995 Gay And Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation T-Shirt, a pleasant memento of a past life of two-bit journalism.
Back in the nineties I committed the weekly atrocity of writing an opinion column for a local paper. My journalistic skills were about as well honed as Molly Brown’s piano playing, I had no idea what I was doing, but I fought the good fight on everything from leash-law scofflaws to voter apathy. My best broadsides, however, were reserved for the local wowzers who were then on a particularly frenzied warpath against gay people. The gay paper is in the library! They’re trying to recruit our chlidren! Lesbians are raising a child together! Get the courts to take him away!
I had a ball potting at these people — they were easy targets, who could argue poker-faced that uncensored Internet access in the library could lead to porn viewing by teenage males and thence directly to “rug damage.” Eventually, the DC chapter of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation invited me to a meeting and then to their annual dinner. I came away with this shirt, the flattering memory of having Newt Gingrich’s petite sister Candace check out my chest, and the sobriquet “Ms. Firecracker.” Not only that, I got asked back a couple years later because they were honoring Neil Gaiman and someone remembered I was a comics junkie and, having no one to seat at the table with him, applied to me hurriedly to recruit (see, you knew they wanted to recruit!) some intelligent gender-bending comics fans and dealers from my favorite haunts. And that is how I ended up, late in the evening at the National Press Club after a savory supper of rubber artichoke, kneeling after a server mishap to wipe a huge glurt of cream off of Neil Gaiman’s black jeans.
It was a Kodak moment but nobody took one. I treasure this photo more anyway, taken at the big-ass gay march on Washington in 1993 when scads of couples staged a marriage ceremony on the steps of the Supreme Court and I ran into I swear EVERYONE I had ever figured was in the closet because of their job. My late-and-ex took turns with me carrying this sign.
The L&X, though of an older generation than most of the wowzers hereabouts, had been in theater and knew if didn’t matter a fuck who a person slept with or wanted to marry, just as long as they didn’t fluff their cue.
This is the sort of shirt that’s only worth wearing to sci-fi conventions because 99% of the people on the street won’t get it.
It was a gift, from someone who knew I am (to put it politely) jaundiced about children, but have been a huge Lovecraft fan all my life. No, I didn’t like kids even when I was Kid Age. According to family legend, I returned from my first and only day at “nursery school” stating that I would never go back because “all they do is fuss and fight and play with blocks.” I would have fed them all to the Elder Gods if I had only known where to find one.
I sport a “Cthulhu for President 2008 — Why Vote For the Lesser Evil”? bumper sticker, and I can’t bring myself to take it off because of the one double-take I get every three months in some parking lot or other.
For those who share my perverted tastes, if you haven’t run across http://www.cthulhulives.org, their feature silent film of The Call of Cthulhu is worth every penny. I have no real use for roleplaying games, which one and all bore the ass off me, but hats off to gamer geeks who can come up with something like this.
Just in case Nursemyra is still offline for the second Friday in a row, I decided to give it my best shot and schedule this to publish overnight — is someone else out there willing to second it?
FFE, you have a special invitation. We know you can do better than that photo of your jeans.
I haven’t got Nursie’s buxom panache, but I’m doing what I can to make a statement and keep the Friday thing alive till her ISP gets its head out of its butt. (The paddle is for whoever’s stalling the job.)
Last month a nation’s nostalgic cat lovers said goodbye to one of the few cats who has ever occupied the White House (for some godbenighted reason, our Presidents tend to get dogs; yappy, goopy, drooly dogs).
I own at least three Socks the Cat T-shirts but this is the most personal. Back in late 1992, when I was still married to my late-and-ex and we belonged to the local fruits-and-nuts food co-op, I was buying tofu or sprouted barley or something and a little gnomelike man who had just checked out ahead of me waved around some plain white business envelopes that had been printed with this design. I knew him as a ubiquitous co-op maven and general local pie-fingerer; let’s call him Pi. It appeared his latest project was printing this design on envelopes, arranging to get them all cancelled at the post office on Inauguration Day, and hawking or giving them as souvenirs (he was also a big Democratic Party hustler and Clinton booster).
Somehow, he finagled me — Pi was and is a virtuoso finagler — into coming back to his home office to work the printer so he could generate a couple hundred envelopes while getting something else done. The reward was this T-shirt.
Ultimately, some years after my divorce, when I was dating my Albino Ex, he and Pi — who were from diametric poles of the political spectrum most days — helped stage a hostile reclamation of the co-op from a bunch of idiots who were methodically running it into the ground. Pi made so many jaw-droppingly tasteless remarks in the course of our endeavors — most memorably asking Albino Ex if I was a “screamer” — that when I got around to writing my local a-clef mystery novels I chucked him off an overpass just this side of DC and lingered over the medical examiner’s findings in Chapter 2. But I cherish the shirt nonetheless. Ambivalence is human nature.
Goddess love you, Socks. You gave this burg some class.
I was going to put up a favorite microbrew shirt, but in Nursemyra’s show-some-skin spirit, and remembering the recent mortgage closing that sidetracked me into a sex shop, here’s a little social barometer from the world famous Good Vibrations of San Francisco. Try wearing this to the local County Fair (I did) and see whose head snaps around.
A sex toy store collectively owned by women (for a quarter century, no less) was something that I guess San Francisco simply had to have. Other parts of the US, probably the most schizoid part of the world when it comes to sex, are not so lucky. Did you know that a while back, The Lone Star State of Texas passed a law establishing possession of more than six dildos as a felony indicating intent to distribute?
Here’s about a ten minute clip on the subject, all worth watching, though the first few minutes of the late great Molly Ivins gives you the flavor. Not a good state to be a Lone Star in, I’d say.
Coming in a bit late, but it’s still Friday for another hour and a bit here in the Atlantic states. This is a shirt my Albino Ex bought for me the second time we saw Puppetry of the Penis. I still think it’s one of the most brilliantly funny shows that ever went on the road, and I’d been yearning to see it for at least a year when it came not just to DC but to Arlington, at a theater partially leased by the County. The uproar! The harebrained fiscal conservatives fuming with outrage that penises!!! were going to go on display in a venue connected with local government (as if we don’t get pricks on parade in the County Board room every meeting day). Albino Ex, possibly the county’s most notorious fiscal conservative, announced that his lady friend was jonesing to see the show and far from disparaging it, he was on it “like a dog on a bone.”
He took this additional picture of me in the shirt near the baseball stadium in Baltimore, while we were there for a fire truck convention. Hamburger, anyone?
You know how one thing leads to another? There is a panda-like, absurdly young engineer who once came across this shirt while helping me chuck out a load of stuff that had quietly passed its sell-by date in the recesses of my cupboards and storage areas. He refused to believe I had ever actually worn it, so I kept it back for the psychologically correct moment. On being reminded of my first and favorite gym while writing my last post, and with this T-shirt Friday thing floating around in my head, I shot a picture to divert him while he’s visiting family over this Purgatorial Thanksgiving holiday.
A bit more PG going on R than the average T-shirt submitted to the fabu Nursemyra, but just so I can say I did this sort of thing once in public.