Friday, October 26, 2007

So Long to a Great Shirt

A shirt I purchased from a second hand shop back in '01, known as J.V. Blutiful has finally received its callup to the varsity squad in the the sky (by "sky" I mean "Taiwan" and not so much "shirt heaven," more later-).
The versatile button-up, collared, short sleeved garment was named Junior Varsity because for the duration of its' life with me it was overshadowed by a superior blue tee called Blutiful which I have owned longer. Perhaps it is for this reason that this occasion is such a solemn one. As Sir Elton said, "It seems to me you always lived your life like a candle in the wind, never knowin' who to turn to when the rain set in."
Although an outer article of clothing, it was an underdog. In recent months, I've noticed that the many worn areas and tears as in tares are actually tears as in tiers. "It must have been cold there in my shadow," says Blutiful.
Nevertheless, I realized that I was a hinderment to this upper half of an outfit, and even though the piece brought me joy and accompanied me on superb life experiences, it remained in my backpack while Varsity and I stood below Big Ben in London to ask people for the time. It was in the trunk of my car when we triumphed over Donner Pass in the worst snowstorm in history. When it could have been content with the assigned number two role, it also happened to be in last place, as I only owned two shirts during much of its early life.

I knew for the attires' sake we must part ways, and I could no longer defile it. I considered making some sort of display case or retire it like a sports jersey, but these would further convey my selfishness pertaining to the sewn collaboration. On my way to school a few days ago, I decided to place it atop the plaque below that commemorates my namesake, The Reverend Wade Blank who, in 1978, barricaded the number 15 in protest of the local bus' inaccessibility to disabled riders. His efforts caused Denver's fleet to become completely handicapped friendly by '85. I left it at this bus stop where I hoped someone who could love it more than I would collect it, since the stop is near a popular hang out for down-and-outs. To my surprise, the element of fashion remained when I passed by 13 hours later. I picked it up and again realized these efforts were for me, my name, or other would-be wearers. The only way the item would regain dignity would be to never be worn again.

I packaged J.V. Blutiful and sent it home. Billed to receiver, it is on its way to its' homeland, Taiwan. Not so much to be distributed to some lowly sucker as it was six years ago, but to be one, instead of clothing one. If the curator at the National Taiwan Museum of Fine Arts knows anything about how a stagnant physical item can evoke feelings in its' calloused former owner, he or she will surely take back this native textile-son of Taiwan to encourage that population to see themselves in that shirt and finally break free from Chinese oppression.
My dear Taiwanese brother could never have become my number one, because it was too much like me. What a skank I am for not seeing the inner fashion of that piece of outer vogue. May all seven readers of this post be better. Reach to those who you hate because they are so similar to yourself. Send them to Taiwan.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Go Rockies!

These are our fabulous missionaries. They are doing a great job and for their extra hard work Wade unloaded his extra Rockies polos on them. Go Rockies!

I’m a quilter now. I just got a sewing machine from my momma and this is my first real project. I only have time to work on it little by little so it is coming together quite slowly and I really don’t know what I’m doing so we’ll see if it really comes together at all. It keeps me busy while my Wadey is at school late.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Here's to my Gal

Ahh my girr Misty is top notch! This was a vid shot shortly after my summer return from the middle kingdom. She dons a saffron getup whilst washing our dishes. That's right, I just wrote whilst.

In this frame a tune called "The Disher Kisser" is sung by a cameraman with an unnaturally high voice. It is the sort of substance that the lonely become nauseated with but happens to be the only sappy language my tall, skinny heart knows.

Not many mortals can shine brighter than than their yellow outfits of choice, but this Mistified is magic. What a lady! Although a child of suburbia, she's sharper than the corner-officed dazzling urbanite and deeper than the rural wiseman whose cosmic understanding came from the land he is a steward of.

I would have her speak for me in legislative bodies or have her pitch in Game 7 of the series. If a peculier dealmaker who had some sort of authority to make big deals said to me that I could keep her only if I agreed to wearing an awful toothache in perpetuity, I would gladly offer the dental wellness of its thirty one peers in addition to the one in order to demonsrate to this deal broker and to all that a mouthful of sore teeth holds no sway on this man's perception of romance.

May we all be rather nice to dear Misty that she will teach us the secrets of the universe in a way that we will understand them.