When I went to the Record Exchange to get “Who’s Next” by The Who on vinyl earlier this week, the guy who checked me out was wearing this “I’m Lonesome” shirt in blue-gray.
“Hey, I have that shirt too! But in flesh-tone. I love it. It’s like a bandaid.”
“For the wound that never heals,” he replied, smiling wryly.
I found this profoundly hilarious. Because dark humor, like dark chocolate, is a pure, rich and bitter treat that can be the most deeply satisfying of them all. (That’s what she said.)
The “I’m Lonesome” flesh-tone t-shirt is by the artist Erin Cunningham, who somehow lives in Boise even though she should be SoHo famous. Her talent is vast, and varied, and she issued these shirts last Christmas-time at a gallery shop (for $25, plus it came with a complimentary mixed-tape burned CD called “Lonesome Times”). As soon as I saw one, I found it hilarious. “Those are on the nose,” the sad clown would say. Erin also did the black-and-white cartoon-style piece featured above my record player. It’s titled “Alone Party.” There might be a running theme here.
Xhilaration black layer skirt, $12.50, Elite Repeat consignment boutique in Bend, Oregon.
Franco Sarto two-toned leather flats, $40, Nordstrom Rack in Union Square, NYC. Tan in the front and black in the back, I bought these flats during a brief flare up of travel-triggered, footware-scapegoated existentialism. Later that same night, I wore them to the Comedy Cellar in Greenwich Village, where one of my all time favorite comedians, Dave Attell, bought me a drink from stage and asked me what penis size I prefer. I’m pretty sure these shoes still hold a hint of kismet magic and front row Cellar grime, so I shall cherish their dirty soles forever.
Aviator sunglasses, as seen for 30 years on Ray Holmes, impeccably taken care of, gifted to me by my dad after my dear grandpa passed away. When I wear them, I feel I have a piece of him with me too. “I’m looking through you, where did you go?” a Beatle (or the Beetle from Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis) would muse.
Eel skin case, $10, ReStyle, probably made in a pre-laptop and eel rights era, but still carrying all my black sheep hopes and lone wolf dreams in the form of some inked-up notebooks and a busted-up MacBook Pro.