My very favorite shirt is about ready for a dignified retirement. I don't have the heart to toss it in the trash or to tear it into rags, for it has always been a comfort to me in this hostile world. I bought it for 25 cents at a thrift store in Albuquerque 12 years ago. The color is pukish, and the pattern is circa Howdy Doody, but I have never had, nor can I find, a shirt to match its softness. It is so soft, it must have been chewed by Eskimo women. Now it is threadbare, missing buttons, frayed and possessed of large holes in the sleeves. The creator of the shirt is Yaga, which sounds like something Pre-Columbian. I don't know if they're still in business. The Lovely One says she'll look into it for me. I have other shirts, but they just don't have the baby-cheek feel that my Yaga has. The Lovely One took some pictures of me, wearing my flashback of fashion. I will miss the classic and distinctive styling, that edgy hobo look I expect in exceptional menswear. Most of all, I regret having to part with something so familiar, something frayed and broken down like me. If my companion will give me a quarter, I'll head back to that thrift store in New Mexico, looking for another Yaga.
