today's debate

Okay, before we get into anything too serious here, I want to make one thing perfectly clear in my unusually obtuse manner: I'm not a debater. Don't get me wrong, I have opinions, lots and lots of them, many growing more and more unpopular by the day, but I just don't have it in me to go ten rounds in a knock-down-drag-out verbal sparring match. To do so requires a certain amount of extroverted flair for unwavering self-confidence and a rock hard belief system that would put the limestone monolith of Gibraltar to absolute shame—neither of which happen to reside in my cerebral wheelhouse let alone any of the nucleotide nooks and crannies of my DNA. But this isn't Psychology Today and I'm not Doctor-fucking-Phil. So, let's skip the hors d'oeuvres and get straight to the meat and potatoes of this latest word schmear.

Well, almost. I first need to address the fact that for the past several weeks I've been locked out of my personal Instagram account and, subsequently, the StrangeLove one as well. It's not because I was thrown in Meta-jail for posting anything of an offensive or inflammatory nature (as you would have every right to think), but allegedly for my own good? Or at least that's how Meta is framing it by foisting an "Advanced Protection" security measure upon me. I'm not opposed to this, sounds like a great thing to have, but in order to regain access to my new "secure" account I am asked to do one of two things: I can either download some "recommended" authentication app made by Google or simply get a code sent to my mobile device. I mean, the choice is obvious, right? Since Google is The Devil just send me the fucking code so I can get back down to social business already. However, each and every time I request this option, the code they claim to send never arrives. Ever. Does it get sent to a digital triangle in the vicinity of Bermuda? Maybe. I have no idea. But this only goads the paranoiac in me to suspect this is an underhanded tactic meant to bully me into downloading another stupid app onto my portable black hole device—and that irritates the petulant piss out of me. So much so that I've dug in my heels and refused to submit to their technocratic decree even if it is in my best interest to do so. Besides, it's not like they haven't already shadow-banned me to an upside-down realm of no palpable dopamine return, and I really am sick and tired of swimming against a stacked algorithm.

So fuck 'em. But fuck me, too, I suppose. Am I cutting my nose off to spite my face with this silly stalemate? Perhaps. I mean, yes, absolutely, because if you don't maintain a presence on social media do you even exist in the world today as we know it? I've already had one friend reach out to see if everything was okay with me. Plus, limited reach or not, this platform remains to be one of the only easy places to go on a daily basis to disseminate news, blast releases, and post trivial "mood board" larks in a free and more or less timely manner.

Anyway, if you haven't seen anything from us in a while—maybe Nick has been posting, I have no idea... it's actually been kind of refreshing not knowing what's going on with anyone or anything anywhere—that's the reason. I'll have to succumb and suck it up at some point, I know, but I'm not quite there yet and still ornery as a fucked butthole about it all. Hence my irksome need to debate something, I guess.

So, let's talk about T-shirts. Doesn't sound like a contentious subject, but surprisingly is as I've learned through the years. For myself, I prefer the torso sheath to be as light and comfortable as possible. I've always joked about being a tad on the spectrum with my skin sensitivity issues, but with all this talk of RFK, Jr. and his autism registry, maybe I should just shut my damn mouth as I'm not in the mood to land on yet another list [1]. However, every time we go the "soft style" route with our shirts, we get nothing but complaints. One of the best and most hilarious criticisms I've heard is that these particular tees are "too metrosexual" for modern wear and tear, but even I have to admit that the cuts and sizing on this style can vary wildly at times as manufacturers tend to alter them on a whim from just-about-damn-perfect to what-the-hell-baby-doll-bell-shaped [2]. What I'll never understand, though, is the request from damn near everyone for the big, boxy shirts seemingly spun out of recycled cardboard. I'd sooner go run around naked on the North Pole than wear one of those itchy and scratchy tents, but, as Nick constantly has to remind me, our business is not about satisfying me and my idiosyncratic hangups, it's about catering to the consumer and theirs.

If you thought I wasn't gonna work in something of a promotional tease while rambling on about tees, well, think again, buster. Coming soon to a Bluetile, Skatepark of Tampa, Radio, Mom's, or Atlas skate shop near you!

Just the other week, Don Pendleton and I had a brief exchange about this very quandary as well. Apparently, he's covered in the same delicate epidermal layer as myself, because he was running into the exact same problem with his shirt selections at Darkroom. He preferred tees that were soft and supple to wear, but the customers demanded abrasive refrigerator boxes that could rub the nipples off of a mannequin. So, it was good to know I'm not alone in being too sensitive for this wearing world, and we both went on to wax poetic over the carnival-caliber Screen Stars 50/50 tees of the '80s that were made cheap as fuck and washed up to near paper thin perfection. Powell Peralta once used a similar Stedman tee in the mid-'80s that I'll eternally pine for, pin holes and all, but unfortunately I'm just not financially cut out to pursue such a hardcore vintage wardrobe lifestyle.

Can I even dip my toes into a diatribe about T-shirts without recounting the goofy detour skaters took in the early '90s? In a way, though, life was so much easier not caring if the shirt you bought was going to fit properly, because not fitting was entirely the point. I was maybe 135-pounds soaking wet at the time and had no business wearing anything outside of an adult medium, but there I was, draped in a 2XL and drowning like a Tinker Toy. And then came the absolute zenith (or was it the nadir?) of skate tees: the infamous Bob shirts produced by the El Segundo Hat Factory, aka World Industries, circa 1992–'93. Those were the most magical T-shirts ever considering they didn't shrink when laundered—they actually grew in size like one of those marvelous little dinosaur sponge eggs! What a wonderfully clownish time that was in skateboard history.

I wound up standing behind this meathead on the streets of Washington DC during Police Week. Unfortunately his man purse blocked the majority of the slogan, but I'm sure you can figure it out without having to buy too many other vowels.

But enough about me. Obviously, you have strong thoughts and feelings on this tee topic, too, and I'm genuinely curious to hear them. Especially since I'm clearly in the minority when it comes to making any serious consumer calls about ordering our cotton. So, feel free to air them out in the comment section below. Just know that no one can actually respond to you here, because I'm pretty sure we got the Dollar General of butt plug-ins for Shopify. —Sean Cliver

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1. When Larry Flynt Publications acquired Big Brother skateboard magazine back in 1997, I was told that my name was now added to "a list" because of my employment at a prominent pornography operation. Have to say, I thought that was pretty neat at the time, but as our current regime gets deeper and deeper into the Project 2025 weeds, I'm a little more concerned about maintaining a certain level of personal privacy and staying off any other government-based watchlists.

2. This is one of the primary reasons we haven't been able to supply an accurate sizing chart for our tees… manufacturers just can't seem to stay in one lane for long enough to do so, not to mention that sourcing tees from a single supplier is getting trickier by the tariff day. Actually, I’m not sure that’s even the cause or case. Nick does all the ordering and whenever he starts to drone on about the challenges of doing so, I admittedly tune out and drift into my own private Idaho of happy places.

3. Yes, you're correct, there is no actual third footnote, but I'd like to excuse myself for being such a potty mouth in this particular post. I'm not sure what the final "fuck" tally is, but it must be enough to where even I'm feeling mildly self-conscious about the numerical amount of fucks my fingers gave.