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Dude, I'm desperately digging on these dope One Overshirts (available in dark blue, indigo jeans, and jersey) from Stockholm, Sweden's own Schnayderman's. Given that fall is about to -- hold on for a moment while I tighten my tie -- fall, I am once again allowed to ceaselessly opine upon the sartorial and practical value of shirt-jackets. Do you smell that? There's cotton/wool blend in the air. Indeed, shacket season is nigh. I'm not sure why, but those patch pockets make me want to put kittens in them, Babycakes-style. Not a great impulse, I know. I think part of aging is realizing that your brain is wired in ways you can't actually affect and that consciousness is a shallow dream dressed as reality, undirected fate masquerading as choice. I still remember nightmares from my childhood. Sometimes I read articles in scientific journals about how everyone is just a meat marionette and I get sad. I bet you read the same articles. How do they make you feel? Dance on the end of those strings. Buy a shirt. Buy three. Being alive is like lip-syncing a song you've never heard before, while you're drunk and have the flu and need to pee really badly, but the line for the restroom is super long, because someone's either taking a shit or fucking in there, so you go in the alley behind the bar and spend your whole piss thinking about your many personal failings. When I get a whiff of the uncomfortably existential, I buy a shirt. What do you do? I'm starting to think none of us are going to become astronauts -RB
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