The Shirt

There are times in a young man’s life that one might deem “epic”. For example, Fitz would say that Gloucester Senior Prom was epic. Danny would say that driving a tractor on his grandparent’s farm was epic. And Bobby would say the music from five o’clock Mass was epic. Now I throw the word epic around just as much as I tell girls at parties that I have my own radio show. However, using a word so powerful, so often and in various contexts can cause it to lose its grandeur. So what do you call events that are so epic that you’ll remember them forever? I think HIMYM answered this for us: legendary. Last night was not merely epic, it was epic times infinity. Thus it was legendary. This is not a story about one American kid in London. This is a story that transcends borders, oceans, time and even space. Some people believe in fate. I like the song Fate by Lydia, but I think we all know Signs was a ridiculous movie. After last night, Mel Gibson is my favorite actor, M. Night Shyamalan is my favorite director and Joaquin Phoenix is my favorite baseball player and rapper.

I knew something was up when I heard my flat mates talking about “The Shirt” two days ago. Our conversations in the kitchen are always about various enthralling topics ranging from blankets and luggage to Wales and The Sandlot. Normally I only understand half of what they say, so I zone out a lot. And if they ever look at me I usually nod my head and say, “Yeah,” like Usher. But The Shirt was something new, something exciting. As I often do, I rudely stopped the conversation and said, “Wait…what?” They explained to me that The Shirt was a Christmas gift Matt 1 received from his father. Unfortunately Matt 1 didn’t like The Shirt, so his dad bought him a replacement shirt which turned out to be equally unfortunate for Matt 1. My interest was piqued and I had to see both shirts. Matt 1 went to his room and when he returned I had a very weird feeling in my gut. “What is this feeling?” I thought. It wasn’t butterflies in my tummy, it was something far more grand. Then I knew. The veil was removed and for the first time in my life I had clarity. This was destiny at its finest. I was Arthur seeing Excalibur for the very first time. The pattern, the color, the stitching and the way it popped were all too much to handle. I shed a single tear of joy, but turned away so my flat mates wouldn’t judge me. “The Shirt. The Shirt. The Shirt,” I said in my head over and over. I was mesmerized, captivated. The Devil Wears Prada suddenly made sense to me. Clothes really do matter! In several months The Shirt will filter its way down from the chic boutiques of high fashion to the department stores of the plebs. Walk into the Gap (or Hollister if you’re Richie) and you’ll see The Shirt in various colors and sizes. Go to a frat party (or Pharmacy Club if you’re Sean) and you’ll see The Shirt on all the broskis. Broslikethissite.com will write a blog about The Shirt and how it’s the regal garb of bro kings. I guarantee it. This was the beginning of a beautiful friendship…

Now fast forward exactly one day. It’s Wicked Wednesday at the Walkabout. I have been told over and over that the Walkabout is not a club, but for the purposes of my mostly American audience, the Walkabout is a club. Back in Flat 38, Matt 1 has just graciously bequeathed me The Shirt for the night. Ahhhhfsalkdfjas;lkdfjaeoifjafasdkljf. I can’t control my excitement even now. The Shirt! It takes a special kind of bravado and confidence to pull off The Shirt and I didn’t know if I was ready. Ultimately I felt it was more important to take a risk, for these sorts of life changing moments don’t present themselves everyday. Carefully I unbuttoned La Camicia (Italian for The Shirt) and slid my arm into the Slim Fit, 100% cotton sleeve. It was size M. Hey I’m size M. Destiny is calling me. Open up my eager eyes. It was light and breezy. “So this is what it feels like to not wear an undershirt,” I said aloud. Sean Anderson has been rocking no undershirt since the days of his baggy Sean John apparel at Ridge, but I lost touch with loose clothing after years of wearing tight t-shirts and undershirts. Sean I understand now. Thank you, you are a trailblazer. I looked in the mirror and watched in amazement as I witnessed my sexiness grow exponentially before my very own eyes. Mirror mirror on the wall what shirt is fairest of them all? The Shirt, duh bro. Exactly. Unfortunately I mailed in all of my gold to Cash4Gold because otherwise I would’ve worn a gold chain as well. And this last touch up was not necessary, as I was already going to make the ladies weak at the knees, but I wanted to look like the lead singer of Muse so I styled my hair.

The night was young and I was all gussied up for my first ever British club experience. After a pregame with Sainsbury’s Triple Distilled Vodka: Pure Grain Spirit and a couple Carlsberg at The Waterfront, Wissam and I reached the line outside of the Walkabout. Some Brit was peeing on a wall and then handed me his beer. It was suspiciously warm to the touch and I deduced that it was probably filled with his urine. Looks like I got Punk’d. Dang it (read using Kip’s voice in your head). I might’ve been fooled, but pee is sterile so nbd. I promptly went to the lavatory and washed my hands. Whilst there, the paper towel man assisted me with the soap dispenser and said, “You take care of me eh?” Wtf. First off why is there a guy that hands you paper towels in British bars/clubs??? And second off why are there five thousand bottles of Lynx (same as Axe) and cologne lining all of the sink counters??? Neither is necessary. I dried my hands with the paper towel, which I’m pretty sure was actually toilet paper and when I started to leave, the towel man nudged me and stuck out his hand. Geez man. I reached into my pocket for some change and produced what I thought to be some sort of menial pence coin. Turns out it was a pound coin. Punk’d again. That guy fooled me into giving him a pound for a paper towel. Not fair, I was drunk! But again, I refused to have a bad night. I was wearing The Shirt!

Out on the dance floor everyone was dancing like it was the 80’s. Richie told me about this phenomenon, but I didn’t want to believe him. Girls were dancing with girls and wait what??? Guys were dancing with other guys??? The occasional couple could be spotted, but fie! No grinding! I only know two ways to dance: grinding and slow dancing, both of which take no effort on the guy’s part. I realize that grinding is a very vulgar form of dance; however I am the product of the environment in which I grew up. Go to any high school dance in America and it’s sure to be a grindfest. This was like Junior Prom all over again when my date told me at the door, “Oh btw I don’t grind.” I spent that night dancing like it was the 80’s and felt like an idiot. Alas, I was no longer the same little boy. I was three years wiser and under the influence so Wissam and I hit up the dance floor. We settled in nicely just as Mr. Brightside began to play. Rock on! There was a large contingent of sloshed British dudes dancing and jumping up and down to our right. To the left were three ragazze (floozies for Matt). They had potential and I knew for certain that with the power of The Shirt I could dance with two while Wissam danced with the other. I didn’t want to make Wissam feel bad though so I held off. The Killers came and left and then some Queen song came on. Ugh, how was I supposed to dance to Queen? I thought about asking the DJ to play the greatest slow grind song of all time (can you guess it?) but I didn’t want to be a show off. I had an unfair advantage wearing the shirt and as the most modest person I know, I didn’t want to point out to the DJ that his music sucked and that mine was awesome.

After what felt like seven hours, Queen finally stopped playing and Journey came on. I looked around and saw every single British person sing, “…born and raised in South Detroit.” Yeah doubtful. Singing along and dancing with Wissam was great. I had a lot of fun. However The Shirt demanded more. It became heavier and heavier on my shoulders just as the Ring became heavier and heavier around Frodo’s neck the closer he got to Mordor. “Something is going to happen. Something is going to happen to me,” I thought (if anyone knows what I’m talking about I’ll paint them a nude portrait of Sean or better yet I’ll go to Mass with Bobby). The Shirt. The Shirt. It was too powerful and I was drunk. Should I cast it into the fires of Mount Doom and call it night? Or, or should I keep it like Isildur and get my mack on? I chose the latter and asked Wissam if he wanted me to find some girls to dance with us. Wissam replied, “No, this is not America.” I didn’t believe him. They played American music and the people spoke English so I was convinced that with a little Ohio charm and The Shirt I would be unstoppable. In my periphs I targeted two girls dancing with each other. This was my chance. I briefly flashed back to Metropo 2007 when Matt asked two girls to dance with us and they said no. Fear and panic coursed through my veins. I couldn’t handle another rejection. It took me two years to get over the Metropo incident. It wasn’t until I used this line at a Nevil’s party that I knew I was ok again, “Hey you’re standing awkwardly alone, so I thought I’d come talk to you.” Boom. The Shirt said go for it so I did. I turned, opened my mouth and started to say, “Hey! Would you…” She promptly averted her eyes and shook her head unnaturally fast. Dang it (Kip voice again). I was humiliated. Everything I believed in shattered. The Shirt. The Shirt! I turned to Wissam and he too shook his head at me, “I told you man.” This indeed was not America.

xxx

bretzel