Two Claires, a guy and an after party (Part One) …

Two stories come to mind when I slide into this John Butler Trio scribble tee: The How-I-Got-It part, and the How-I-Didn't-Get-It part. Both make awesome memories and both take place in the second half of Year 12 ... that endless summer of 2003.

The How-I-Got-It part:

I owe it all to the Claires (Weston and Simpson). As my 18th birthday approached, Claire W organised me a thoroughly awesome ticket to join them at a John Butler concert at Sydney's Enmore Theatre, and I couldn't have been more stoked. I bought the tee at the shirt stand on the way in.

It's a bit faded now, and warped from being hung on the clothesline so often, but one glance at it spirits me back through time faster than a TARDIS ever could.
The Claires scored us tickets with seats. But because my birthday was some months after their birthdays, when they bought my ticket my seat was several rows back and all on its lonesome.

Well, almost.

Turns out I scored a seat next to some dude, his missus, and a baggie full of roofies he kept offering me.

"Want one, man? It'll totally amp your night.''

You betcha. "Nah, it's cool. Cheers, but."

Next thing, Dude's off to the bar and he comes back with a VB tinnie with it's topped popped, white froth fizzing out the hole.

"Have a beer then. Totally amp your night.''

Cheers, Mate. I dunno what he put in there, but the can's walls pulsed like an ill-maintained hedge clipper.

I mean, cripes, that beer was giving off fumes!

I could picture how I'd end up if I downed that beer -- hanging via atomic wedgie from a fire escape by my undies in Kings Cross with wet paint on my hands ... kicking back on a bed of ice with two small pangs in my lower back ... or walking into a motorcycle gang's dojo
and screaming "Bitches! Where are all the straight guys?"

So I waited a bit, bought the next round, and left the noxious brew at the bar, which by that stage twitched by itself like it had done three rounds in a paint mixer.

Then he paid again. Same routine.

I'm drinking my beers, so somewhere in the second hour, I'm struggling to remember which is brew is tainted.

That's when the T-shirt stepped up.

If I hung the tee over my left shoulder = my round. Down that fella.

Right shoulder = spill it on your jeans.

By the end of that sweaty, three-hour gig, I reckon I had the wettest crutch in Sydney. Who knows what the Claires thought when they saw me.

Should I have undone the top button on my girls' blouse and guzzled his beers? I still think no.

Still, despite the subterfuge, there were some ace tunes to be heard, and the two Claires and I had an awesome night.

And the Dude?

Well, by the end of the show, Dude and I shook hands, bro-hugged while he swore he'd call me on the seven-digit phone number I left him, and his Missus nanna-pashed my cheek and told me I was cute as I left.

Just proves hemp shirts don't have all the fun.

B --

Cotton candy for the lady ...

This T-shirt -- Laura’s favourite (on me, not her) -- reminds me of a major problem solved.
What in heck do you wear on a first date?
No, not just a first date, the flutters in waters said, the first date.
Since I met Laura Lambert at that party , I didn’t ever want another first date.
So it had to go well, which meant I had to choose my shirt wisely.
No stains or crinkles, but not over-ironed ... just an effortlessly understated statement.
Crud.
It was March in Batemans Bay, which meant the weather was awesome and warm, so it had to be shorts and T-shirt.
Wear pants and sleeves and she’d think I’m an Emo, or worse, a Mormon.

"So which shirt?’’ I asked the laundry basket.

Not one I’d worn on any date before (which eliminated about one from the pile), and not one that was dirty (which, sadly, ruled out plenty more than the aforementioned).

Hmmm -- gotta be a band shirt.
But which band? Choose wrongly, and the implications were ugly.

AC/DC = Bogan.
John Butler Trio = Hemp lovin’ hippie.
Jimmy Eat World = Emo cutter.
Green Day = Pre-pubescent emo cutter.
Butterfly Effect = Keep away from sharp objects.
Bad Religion = To impress the Minister’s daughter? Idiot, Ben!

The pile of discards grew large on my bed.

(For the record: I love these bands. Just giving you a look inside the panicked mind of a boy faced with the terrifying prospect of going on a date with a gorgeous girl.)

Then it hit me. The Streets tee. Pale blue with palm trees.

Peace was declared in the Middle East of my mind and everything the horizon touched turned golden.

I bought that shirt at a Big Day Out with Zeb because I kinda liked the band, just not enough to actually go see their live set, so I got the shirt, instead.

It was still a dicey call. I only really knew about one of their songs ... (``Your fit, my God, but don’t you know it ...’’), and if Laura ended being a fan and wanted to trade trivia, I’d be sunk.

But she wasn’t. Aces!

We ate fish on the floating jetty on the Tuross River ... sat on the bank a while, and ... um, while there is still some conjecture as to who actually kissed who first (it was so her), the main point is this.

We did kiss, it rocked -- still does, matter of fact -- and in no small part, I owe thanks to that 35-dollar cotton tee.
(Either that, or my legendary ability to generate affection out of pity.)

Love you Laura. So glad you dug the shirt.
B --

My heart on my sleeve (or sleeves)...

T-shirts.
I don't ever want to meet the person who doesn't love them.
Laura, bless her, reckons I have too many. So does Mum, now I think of it, as does Dad, and probably Jason, too.
They're wrong.
Dead wrong.

My shirts are my children. (Well, almost…)
No matter how old, stained, moth-eaten, I can't throw them out.

And why should I? After all, they have been very good to me.

The photo above is a slice-and-dice of almost forty of the tees that mean just that little bit more than the rest of the threads that have graced my kinda girlie shoulders in recent times.

They aren't necessarily my All-Time All-Stars … there may not be my grandfather's PMG work shirt I wear most Friday's to the paper; there's not the first band shirt my brother Jason presented to me when he came back from his first rock concert -- a sweaty black Screaming Jets number; or that Star Wars shirt I wore the first time I was kissed, or that blue The Streets shirt I wore that first date with Laura on the shores of One Tree Point, Tuross, NSW, the place where Laura and I had our first date, and I knew then that it'd be my last ever, first kiss.

(Actually – I've bent the rules a bit to include that tee …)

The shirts you'll meet in the next few weeks are my daily drivers.

Billboards to my soul. Comic books, cartoons, music and TV shows.

And triggers to awesome memories.
Laura.
Family.
Friends.
Batemans Bay.
Big Day Outs.
The finer of life moments.

Life is good, and so is cotton.

B--

Laura susses the competition ... (and realises there is NO competition...)

Hey all. Been way to long between drinks. Sorry -- but hopefully these delightful pics of Laura being bested by the (not-as-cool) Mercury's spot-the-difference will appease you. (See: cool)
It's been so long because between posts because I've only really wanted to post stuff I really liked, and what happened initially with this page was that I thought it'd be awesome to make a blog that was about cameras, photos, stuff, hopes, dreams, ambitions, veiled threats ... et all ... it goes on ... you devour it all, beer pours from the heavens, it's loved by all.
Wrong.
Lame.
Skip it.

Let's get a bit passionate, baby -- you're going to see what I wear on my sleeve from now on.

I promise. Literally.

Don't believe me? Stay tuned and see.

B --