Wait, wait, wait—as you pull back from your computer screen, revolted—“this is not fashion!”
Oh, but it is. You see… I got it on etsy. AND… it’s 21 years old.
Why they hell are all concert t-shirts black? How did I get away with wearing this to work? And didn’t I give this to Rob for Christmas? Mysteries to chew on while you rummage around your kitchen looking for wine.
I decided crappy music t-shirts (as in, real ones; not Trunk LTD* recreations or $400 luxuries from What Goes Around Comes Around) are like big game hunting. It’s about the pursuit. You sweat your b’s off earning the right to one, leave the ordeal hard of hearing—needing desperately to grip that proof of your conquest in your hot little hands. No offense to P.G., but I’ve never known what to do with my taxidermic bad taste once I bring it home.
Alors, I banked on someone else’s regret with this $24 t-shirt—as previously mentioned, on loan from Rob. Innyways, y’all, it’s my favorite band, not his.
[Worn with Made With Love bracelets, a Shaashi necklace, Miu Miu clogs, and Current/Elliott Elephant bells.]
I decided to consult with P.G., the British rhino, on the matter:
Hey, Peege, how’s my t-shirt? In poor taste?
Have you ever seen Spode eat asparagus?
Revolting. It alters one’s whole conception of Man as Nature’s last word.**
There you have it.
*I just remembered I bought Rob an awesome Lynyrd Skynyrd Trunk LTD t-shirt with a pack of smokes on it for Christmas 4 years ago. Time to renege on that little arrangement!
**Dialogue courtesy P.G. Wodehouse’s The Code of the Woosters.