Casual Wear
Friday, November 30, 2007
The statement tee has given me much happiness, for its proliferation in others’ closets has blessed my daily skulk around the city with a tad more amusement. Most of those who wear these things do not give justice to the haughty declarations crying from their chests. I have yet to see a man wearing an FBI: Female Body Inspector tee (or some such cheap shirt boasting their superiority in the sack) who didn’t look like gangrene-on-a-stick, or a woman wearing a Bitch Goddess or Pour Me Rum and Here I Come tee who didn’t look like she’d never seen real cock before (and was very much afraid to). Every single time I see text on fabric, I make sure to read it. And then laugh. And then marvel at the city as it basks—nay, smolders—in the warm, warm rays of Irony.
Biding my time at good ol’ EDSA Central one evening, I saw a woman wearing a black tee with the words I Am The Reason! printed on it in bright yellow. As she crossed the street to my stretch of sidewalk, I took a good look at her face and dismissed her as yet another tee casualty. Mousy, for the most part. Didn’t seem at all like The Reason for anything worth all that silk-screened swagger. Naturally, though, a few moments after she left, I started to wonder what The Outcome was in the first place. And got bothered by it. She was The Reason for what? What? What was this end-result that Mousy over there was hinting about? Though I knew it was probably some I Am A Good Little Gerbil in This Multi-National Corporation/Call Center/Pyramid Scheme and That Means I Matter, Fuck It kind of deal, it still tried to sound apocalyptic. And being that I had not much else to invest my emotions in, I forced myself to feel great concern.
What? What?!?! The Reason for whaaaaaaat?!?!?!??!!!
A few minutes later, a guy wearing the same shroud of mystery crossed the street. He looked pretty plain; didn’t seem like The Reason, either. And then another unremarkable guy with the same threads followed close behind. And then a girl. And then two guys. And then another girl. And then another guy. And another. And another. And then, suddenly, it seemed that every other person crossing the street—none of whom looked a notch beyond Puwede Na-brand pogi or basta hindi ako mukhang paa—was The Reason. And on The Reasons surged, their collective nondescript-ness oozing menace, however muted, along that chunk of city, and then went their separate ways. It was after six. They were off to their respective evening haunts, most likely, to announce their newfound importance to friends and loved ones. Or fight crime. Like Batman.
I never figured out what The Outcome was, or even which rinky-dink conference or mass wedding these people came from. I didn’t bother to ask because I’m hopeless that way. That, and I would rather not know, despite going mad from all that wondering. Part of the statement tee’s irreverence, I suppose. Because no matter how striking the mismatch, I wouldn’t really ask Inspector Gangrene for the basis of his pekpek-prodding prowess. Even if he’d looked way too thankful or surprised that I, a random human of the opposite gender, was speaking to him. For he might really be an ace in the sack despite everything, just as those Reasons might really be the, um, Cause. Or not. Guess I like to keep guessing. Or at least pretend that certain people have a few bombshells left for me.
posted by marguerite @ 8:49 PM
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