Crappy T-shirts:

Oh, Lord. Help me… I have become the OLD MAN BACHELOR. I’ve recently noticed I very much enjoy my old, hole-ly, quickly-disintegrating “work out T-shirts.” I’ve discovered this while doing laundry. I have more crappy workout shirts than I do the requisite Polo and golf variety that more becomes my age. – Let’s face it, when you step lightly over 50-something, those Iron Maiden tour shirts that look brand new are a definite scream for intervention.Still, I’d like to think I’m still a step or two away from when they write my name in the collar, so that leaves little in choice of home-casual attire.

As long as I’m not wading out in public (Good heavens, like that would make any difference amongst the hoi polloi and Donald Trump supporters), I slip on my old Wisconsin T-shirt I once absconded from my then-GF, Melinda (Sorry Mel, it’s about all I have left to remember you by) and I feel great! There’s little left of the shirt, really… in fact, it sort of reads: W con n, now.

That shirt, my old 505 blue jeans, a turntable full of scratchy Glen Miller songs, a laptop full of words I’m assembling in some sort of order I’d like to someday call “A Novel,” and a glass of tart orange juice, picks me up on a cloudy, soupy rainy Saturday morning.