Vestis facit virum

The last week or so we, as in Mah Girl and I, have been tearing through closets and cabinets and drawers, sorting clothes, inspecting clothes, trying out clothes and other activities involving clothes. The end result is a couple of big paper bags filled with stuff we'll give to charity, and that I did a thorough inventory of my clothes.

And my oh my do I have clothes. Here's a list of what's left:
- 60 plus tees. I lost count after 60. Mostly band tees, but quite a few geek tees as well. My favorite is this one for the Ludovico Technique.
- Seven shirts. Yes, I have seven shirts. Who knew? Most of them are short-sleeved though, so maybe they don't count.
- Nine hoodies. Again, mostly band stuff.
- Two zip hoodies. These are more like jackets, but not really. One Rocawear, one Eckö Unlimited. That's how hip hop I am.
- 19 pairs of pants. 19!! What the hell? I'm not buying another pair, ever. Except maybe those tobacco Carhartt cargo pants...
- Eight pairs of shorts. My favorite pair is in tatters. If I ever find them in a store again, I'm buying as many as they have.
- Two pairs of sweat pants, in various stages of disintegration.
- Track jacket. Looking for another one, but all those I've found have too much print or bling on them.
- Two jackets, one camo, one rain.
- Winter coat.
- Dr. Martens overcoat.
- Seven pairs of sneakers. You can never have too many sneakers.
- One pair of Dr. Martens low boots. I need another pair to act as dress shoes.
- Velour pajamas. Don't ask. I don't wear it, unless I'm going for a Love Boat look. Which never happens.

I don't really know how this happened. How I came to own so much clothes, because to me this is a lot. I have friends (work colleague Pink Shoes, among others) who own far more, but come on. This is me we're talking about. Mr wears a tee and cargo pants. Whatever. Cleaning out the closet was liberating. And I didn't find a single skeleton.

What's your favorite piece of clothing? Mine is the Dr. Martens overcoat. It's sort of military in style, and has been with me for fifteen years. Not only is it really comfortable, but it's also kind of unique, since it's from a test batch of coats they made and then never manufactured in numbers. I'm special!

If I want a rush I just get out of a chair when I'm not expecting it

We saw the one and only Dylan Moran on Monday. It was...bliss. I laughed for ninety minutes. With a pause so Mr Moran could get some more red wine. And he spoke to me.

Not really to me specifically, but about people like me. I'm not quoting him to the letter now, but it went a little something like this:

There's a certain kind of man, around thirty (this is pronounced “tuurty” in Irish), who wears t-shirts meant for children, t-shirts that say “Zap” or “Pow” across the chest, and pants that you're not really sure if they're pants or shorts. What this kind of clothing says is “I don't ever want to get a real job, and I will be drinking milkshakes for the next fifteen years. Fuck off”. These men spend all their time with their friends, playing video games. These men are single. They will remain single. This is why there are so many women who never find the one. He's busy playing video games, drinking milkshakes. And if he ever has children all he has to teach them is how to get past the snakes on level six.

For the record, the night in question I was wearing a Skynet tee and my favorite baggy, long denim shorts. I like milkshakes. I like video games. I'm never having children. Never ever? Never ever ever. Mah Girl theorized that he saw me before the show and only avoided mentioning the beard to spare my feelings.

I have no problem with people seeing me as childish or as someone not capable of contributing to the continuation of the human race. There's too much crap floating around in the gene pool anyway, so why add my own flaws there?

I'm quite happy with who I am, on that level. Childishness is something to be cherished, cultivated, and used. Childishness is joy, and simple joys at that. I mean, come on, if you can't laugh so hard your jaws hurt and tears run down your cheeks at things (like when we play Lego Star Wars, for example), you're dead inside. And who would want to be that?

They can buy, but can't put on my clothes

I bought corduroy pants yesterday. Yes, you may point and tell me I'm an old geezer.

Granted, they're Carhartt, and they're baggy-ish cargo pants. So they're at least supposed to be in my style. But still. Corduroy. Not sure how to feel about that.

Then again, it might not be until I wear a corduroy shirt and beige slacks that you need to start worrying...

So now I'm walking around the office, announced by a soft swishing sound. Swish, swish, swish. Who's that? Beardo, can't you tell from the swishing?

Mah Girl came to the conclusion that these are not pants for assassins or ninjas. Stealth is out of the question.

I'm not far from applying for a membership here. I mean, come on. A membership card in a corduroy swathe. How can you beat that?