“Never tell anyone outside the family what you’re
thinking again.” – Don Corleone to Sonny Corleone
Man, oh manicotti…If I was held to that golden rule
of mobdom, I’d be sleeping with the fishes. Not that
I necessarily have a big mouth. I do, but that’s not
what this piece is about.
It’s about my wardrobe.
Ever since I moved to the Adirondacks, I’m no
longer a clothes horse. I no longer have to be. I
don’t have to attend client meetings, do lunches
with my boss in some over-priced Manhattan bistro,
walk into fancified Fifth Avenue shops. Now I’m
more of a clothes jackass…what’s known in more
forgiving circles as a t-shirt and jeans guy. That’s
where my big mouth comes in.
My drawers are filled with t-shirts that talk. Some
chatter about the things I love. A few scream about
what I dislike. That leaves the rest to chime in on
the general subject of what kind of a guy I am in a
way that silk ties never could. Some are louder than
others but, forgive me, Godfather, most of them
love to tell everyone what I’m thinking.
I grew up in an Italian-American family…no, not that
kind of family. BUT…without ever realizing it, Vito
Corleone’s fatherly advice could have been
emblazoned on our family crest. It was never
spoken. It never had to be. It was just bred into us
somehow.
And then came 1967.
No, I’m not gonna get all tie-dyed shirty,
Woodstocky, love-the-one-you’re-withy on you. It’s
just the first I can recall seeing kids wearing clothes
with words on them. Suddenly I knew what they
were thinking, cared about, aligned with, etc.
without them ever having to open their mouths.
And it was…cool.
For me, 1967 was less about a sexual revolution (I
was 9 years old, folks) and more of a contextual
revolution. What my young mind didn’t process
until years later was this: it was advertising. As Mark
Twain said, “I was young and foolish then; now I am
older and foolisher.”
Some of my shirts are simply like autographs which
are really just proof that you’ve met someone you
admire or visited a place that impressed you like my
Ausable Chasm t-shirt. One proves that I once
enjoyed walking the halls of the Vinegar Museum in
Enemy Swim, South Dakota. Another one boasts
having docked my boat at Hickok’s Boat Livery (now
USM) over on Fish Creek. Still another proves that I
saw Steve Earle play in Rutland, Vermont.
Miscommunications have happened. Last week I
was proudly wearing my Pink Floyd “Darkside of the
Moon” t-shirt, you know the one with the prism
refracting a beam of light into the colors of the
rainbow? One kid congratulated me on my cool
“Pride” t-shirt. I didn’t correct him. Nor did I correct
the construction workers in Bloomingdale who,
while I was wearing my Caarhardt hoody, nodded at
me as if I was somehow part of their union. But my
ASPCA “Love My Kitty” t-shirt underneath made
them immediately suspicious.
So what’s my point? As usual, there ain’t much of
one. Except to say this: it’s hard to find any piece of
clothing, or product for that matter, that doesn’t tell
everyone who you are or who you think you are in
some way. Own a pair of Levi’s? Drive a Ram
pickup? Wear Nike anythings?
You, too, sleep with the fishes.