I Love T-Shirts

TNG co-founder Zack spent some time over Valentines Day reevaluating what inconsequential things he loves. All this week he will tell you what he came up with. Check in tomorrow for "Things I Love" pt. 2.

Yesterday I received a press list announcing that Playboy was unveiling its annual "Rock the Rabbit" line of clothing. The gimmick is that contemporary indie artists design shirts based on the Playboy logo and the magazine sells them for a limited amount of time. By the time I finished reading this I was sporting a sartorial erection which threatened to tear though my Levi's and knock over my desk. Its not that the prospect of Yelle (pictured) or Diplo making a shirt was overly exciting for me. Instead, it just made me realize what I've been trying to deny for too long: I fucking love t-shirts.

I love t-shirts the way parents love their children. I collect t-shirts the way some folks collect stamps. I am as protective of them as a mother hen. And I should be embarrassed of this but I'm not. Most of my close friends know of my addiction. And now its time to shout it from rooftop to size-small, faded cotton, rock band or random-sloganed vintage rooftop.

Counting baseball tees, and not counting what I've given to my boyfriend, I own 65 t-shirts. 65. I don't own 65 of anything else. What if I had 65 forks or 65 cats? You'd ship me to Belleview. I'd pay for the stamps. But yet I don't bat an eye at owning that volume of cloth torso-covers. I don't generally like to concede that an object can make me happy. (Because that's what money and being attractive are for.) But I can spend five hours wading through the dankest bowels of a central Ohio thrift store only to emerge with one shirt, one single, solitary reward for my efforts, and spend the next six hours grinning because it fit right or had a v-neck. It's wrong. But it feels so right.

Several years ago someone introduced me to the concept of the OGT, or Obvious Gay Trait. Many people are quick to say that a love of clothes is mine. But I'm still reluctant to somehow connect my overflowing dresser drawers to my propensity to put penises in my mouth. I don't want us to get too far into another stereotype discussion, but I really would love to know who started the rumor that gay men and clothing go together like peanut butter and rama lama ding dong.

I guess it doesn't matter. It's just smokescreen to divert attention from my most ridiculous obsession. I know, however, that I'm not alone. People who don't appreciate t-shirts won't like this post. But people who do? I know they're reading. They want to compare notes on the merits of long sleeve vs. ringers. They can tell the texture of a shirt from six feet away. They're purists like me who see those Urban Outfitters faux-retro designs as a mass-produced abomination. They've seen the same black and pink "Taste of Chicago" shirt at four different Salvation Army's and learned to believe in a higher power.

And maybe they want to take me thrifting this weekend? Even though I'll buy 6 $2 t-shirts at a pop I still can't justify the expense of a zip car.