I had an extensive collection of T-shirts featuring the word "fuck" on them-enough shirts to sport a different profane shirt every day for at least three weeks straight. But rarely would I blaze them out in public for fear of…well, I don't know what I was afraid of. Once I got a traffic ticket and when the cop pulled me out of the car I was wearing a "Fucking Fuck" T-shirt. That was pretty hot.

Often, while flying the Fuck flag, I remained shy and bashful and just slunk around my house feeling sublimely cool and clever and subversive in my "Fuck" shirts.

I considered myself practically a funk metal expert back in 1989-1992. I've written extensively in Dirt about my battles of embarrassment dealing with and being a fan and enemy of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. But I also had a sour encounter with Les Claypool that was totally lame. I was wearing this vintage 101'er given to me by Natas at the time.

I sat around my house waiting for the 3:00pm phone interview (in the parlance of publicists, a "phoner"). The man with the golden thumb was supposed to call me. About 40 minutes late, he finally rang and the phone startled me. He was in a car enroute to a sound check and the band was heckling and jeckling in the background. He ended up blowing off every question I asked him and would randomly hand the phone to other people in the vehicle. Les eventually started just pretending he couldn't hear a signal over the phone. It was so lame.

That phone call was the end of my fascination with Claypool's quirky bass lines and trippy lyrics. And maybe one of the last times I wore that 101 shirt, out of shame.

We ended up having to drop the interview with the funk metal legend and replaced his cocky ass with a piece Andy wrote on Pixies bassist Kim Deal (she was about 50 times nicer, too).

The powder blue ink on maroon is a nice color combo though.