I love cars. Despite my green leanings, I am intoxicated by that feeling of power that (for now) cheap energy brings when you press the gas pedal. I enjoy leaving a trail of rubber granules on the ground when rounding a corner at the limits of adhesion. I love knowing that the composite of friction materials are giving their existence to my braking experience. That the transmission fluid suffers just a bit with every shift so I can grab that next gear. That the coolant breaks down so that my block and pistons can have longer life. That the timing belt or chain dies just a little bit over time so that the raucous symphony of explosions can continue. It's a visceral thrill that is a dirty. When I first buy a car, it seems so clean and wonderful. In several years, the parts on the outside break down, regardless of how much love I show for them with fancy products. The glass becomes pitted. The rubber becomes dry rotted. Let's face it... even a Prius...even an electric car..... even if the car were solar powered, it would still be dirty, somehow.
I love computers and gadgets. I can absorb and transmit information faster than ever before. I can stay connected to people far away and find the answer I need in an instant. I don't have to be stuck at my desk. I don't even have to be in range of a cell phone tower. My latest BlackBerry could even provide me entertainment and help me save and retrieve bits of information in a remote cave for several days. But all of it becomes irrelevant over time. My old iMac, bought in 2000, should probably be recycled. It will do most anything on the internet, but certainly not at 1080p or beyond and certainly not very fast. It won't store much information by today's standards. My BlackBerry has a faster brain and more memory... My new iMac, 24" and so on, seems good for now, but in ten years, tops, it will suffer the same, dirty fate of obsolescence.
I love flavorful consumables. I've developed quite the cultured palate when it comes to tasty espresso and beer. Say what you will about the legal drugs contained within these substances, it's the intoxication of the carefully nuanced flavors of beans that are grown, roasted, ground and extracted with steam just so that is dirty. It's the unique taste of hops and barley that were grown with care, brewed with pride and intelligence to yield the intoxication of beer that is part alcohol and part transcendence, but....dirty.
The above loves which I call "dirty" are not "dirty" to me because they are addictive in the sense of behavior. One could argue that they all are. That one could live without all of them, somehow. That's not my point. One could argue that they have a morally reprehensible quality to them. That each one leads to some form of corruption of purer modes of movement, thought and experience. Also not my point. These loves are "dirty" because they don't allow one to continue to enjoy without input of further money.
I could drive a car carefully, prolonging it's life, until it no longer operates, performing little or no maintenance at all. The potential for physical or financial disaster here is extreme, so there is nothing relaxing about that course of action unless I had little instinct for self preservation. I could own computers and gadgets for an eternity and pretend I wasn't falling behind and wasting my time, but the ever-increasing utility of newer gadgets, within reason, leads me to believe otherwise. I could drink over-roasted, burned swill. I could abstain from tasty brew. Results from tests of doing either have not been positive. I seem locked in to all of these "dirty" habits in one way or another.
My antidote to the "dirty" habits which I enjoy but seem to vacuum money from my checking account? The well-worn house shirt. Whereas fashion is inherently dirty in the manner of the passions listed above, the house shirt is not. The house shirt may as well be the clothing of monks. You see, the house shirt doesn't care about fashion. The house shirt does not care about signs of wear. The house shirt is like Chuck Norris. You cannot kill it easily, and it soldiers on for a long time even with wounds. Is there a hole in the house-shirt? Who cares? If you care, perhaps you are not welcome in said house. Is there a sign of wear at the cuff of the house shirt? Look closer, and discover there is a fist at the opening of said cuff. I write in jest, for the house shirt is a peaceful item.
When I get home, look in my closet, and decide what to wear, I reach for the house shirt when weather is cold. What matters about the house shirt is that it fits, provides above-average warmth and has buttons on it so it can be layered over a t-shirt. Nothing else really matters. I have one house shirt that is about ten years old, and one that is closer to 15. The house shirt does not want you to listen to what it worries about. It doesn't have to go to the vet. It doesn't need you to change the oil, upgrade the software, RAM or buy more because you've run out. The house shirt IS. The house shirt becomes the kind of dirty that needs washing, but not every day. Not the kind of dirty that takes up space on a budget's pie chart. The house shirt is a pure sort of experience. Warm, economical, unbiased, impartial. Joyful, even.
My father had a brown plaid house shirt for many years of my youth. I couldn't understand why he wore the same thing so much when he was at home, or why he held on to it past a point of being publicly fashionable. Now I understand. House shirts are the best shirts of all.
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