Sunday, 23 June 2002 | T-shirts

Yesterday morning I caught the end of yard sale, a sidewalk lined with boxes of old-new t-shirts from a local screen printing company. Concert t-shirts mostly, lots of Sonic Youth and Beck and Tenacious D. An old lady walked away with a few unusual items bunched in her arms—an old guitar strap, a red tie, a novelty wig, a knit hat, a suede jacket. A mailman spun his white truck around and excitedly sifted through the remains of what was left. "I like t-shirts! See? I'm wearing three right now," he reportedly said. I came home with a handful of cheap t-shirts myself, most of which I have yet to try on.

Later I drove to a belated wedding shower to see two old friends whom I hadn't seen in years. It's only at these sort of events that I really notice that my fingernails are inconsistent lengths or that I have cat fur on my shirt. It was really nice being there, though, and I experienced that phenomenon that comes with seeing old friends, how all of us simultaneously seem different and exactly the same.

The rest of the day was bloated with one social event after another: I took pictures at a bizarre party where there were clowns dancing to live bluegrass (prior to the band there was an unconventional parade, but I missed that), met some acquaintances/friends for drinks, stories, and bad jokes, and ended up at a tiki party on the southern edge of Raleigh. All of it was fun, but there was too much of it. I probably should've skipped the last event.

Today I caught up with how the rest of the world spent their weekend (dying in earthquakes, being confined to their homes, fighting fires), took a nap, watched a movie, and left the house as little as possible.