“No. I'm not buying a shirt."I could buy you a shirt."I don't need you to buy me a shirt."Mercedes pulled him over to the nice GQ-dude who worked the department. "Tell him he needs a new shirt."I don't need a new shirt."Sir, you need a new shirt.”

“- I like my shirts.- It's plaid.- There are no rules for shirts. Plaid is good.- Plaid is bad. Although, if you went with a Scottish plaid in wool, it might be okay.- I'm not dressing like some damned highlander, Mercedes.- And the lumberjack look is okay?- You don't like my shirt?”

“If I haven't put that on a T-shirt, I'm going to. Actually, I really don't want to write anything that can't be put on a T-shirt. Actually I'd like to write only on T-shirts. Actually, I'd like to write whole novels on T-shirts. So you guys could say, 'I'm wearing chapter 8 of Lestat's new book, that's my favorite; oh I see you're wearing chapter 6-”

“I asked him did he really love New York or was he just wearing the shirt. He smiled, like he was nervous. I could tell he didn't understand, which made me feel guilty for speaking English, for some reason. I pointed at his shirt. "Do? You? Really? Love? New York?" He said, "New York?" I said, "Your. Shirt." He looked at his shirt. I pointed at the N and said "New," and the Y and said "York." He looked confused or embarrassed, or surprised, or maybe even mad. I couldn't tell what he was feeling, because I couldn't speak the language of his feelings. "I not know was New York. In Chinese, ny mean 'you.' Thought was 'I love you.'" It was then that I noticed the "I♥NY" poster on the wall, and the "I♥NY" flag over the door, and the "I♥NY" dishtowels, and the "I♥NY" lunchbox on the kitchen table. I asked him, "Well, then why do you love everybody so much?”

“DON’T GO BUYING TROUBLE.IT’S FREE AND IT KNOWS WHERE YOU LIVE.—T-SHIRT”

“Baby, where we're going, you won't need a shirt.”