Look at all of the places that I've worn this shirt (UPDATING)

For a shirt that I don't especially like wearing, I sure have worn it in a lot of places. Wow. Personally, I think this shirt makes me look a bit skinny, and I think the bottom of it hits my waist a little higher than I generally prefer, but damn, there's no denying that it has been worn all over the place. Let us count those places, and revisit the questionable haircuts of my adult life.

Akumal Beach, Mexico

Oh hey. Check out this shirt I just got to wear while in Mexico for my brother-in-law's wedding and father-in-law's 70th birthday. (I gave them booze and a Mark Twain speech, respectively.) 

Oooh, sweet shirt, bro. That's the type of shirt that would really pop on a road trip across the Yucatan. Maybe even while renting a last-minute Airbnb in historic Merida? Perhaps because you forgot to buy the plane tickets to Cuba in the Cancun airport after running into family friends? Also, get a haircut, hippie. 

Bywater, New Orleans

This is the type of shirt that pairs well with a furrowed brow, and a shirtless husband. Maybe in the creamy, yellow foyer in the apartment above the first restaurant that you opened together? 

French Quarter, New Orleans

Don't let the statement sunglasses or World's Best Dog distract you. I'm also wearing the shirt that I wear in so many places here as well. #lokivi

ON Apartshotel, Nueva Cordoba, Argentina

This is the kind of shirt that looks good buttoned or even unbuttoned. In focus or even out of focus. This is the kind of shirt that looks good sandwiched between two (loud) young ladies, even. #thelaughingfriends

El Arrabal, Guemes, Cordoda, Argentina 

Damn. Stone cold babes. Check out those party dresses. Check out that shirt. Talk about a versatile garment of clothing! You could wear this shirt almost anywhere!

El Arrabal, Guemes, Cordoba, Argentina 

Black and white. Classic. This shirt. Classic. 

Fuerza Bruta, Buenos Aires, Argentina

The great thing about this shirt is that it's such a good shirt for smooching in! The great thing about Fuerza Bruta is that Danielle Pearson had the best night of her entire life there. Enjoying the company of her dearest pals, dancing her brains out, and just feeling all-around really proud and satisfied with herself for being such a punctual human being. 

I don't know how many shirts pair well with an alpaca (Not a llama, guys), but if I were putting a list together, this shirt would be on it for certain.

Accidental mirror shot, three years, one haircut and a continent apart. Sometimes in life, your loudest wife tags in for your husband. Life happens. Things change. Flux. Change is really all you can count on. Change, and this shirt. 

Cropped out of the photo: George and Amal. Very much in the photo, this shirt. Lake Como, place of dreams. 

Fun fact: Lake Como is the Puget Sound of Europe, in that ferries will get you to all of the different little towns freckled around the body of water. Like Como itself. Nice shirt. 

Colonne di San Lorenzo, Milano, Italy

The great thing about a shirt like this is that it commands a certain amount of respect, and imbues quite a bit of confidence in the wearer (me). And I think that comes across, like say, in this shot of me hanging out with a pair of models that I seduced with my roguish charm, raw masculine energy, and well-traveled shirt back in Milano.


Have you seen me wearing this shirt? Can you prove it? Send photos to kevin@kevinfarrell.work. <3

Kevin Farrell is a Dallas-based technology, travel and business journalist, and hospitality consultant. He really ought to buy some new clothes. 

"I'm not here to make friends!"

Three weeks deep into Remote Year, and one classic reality television trope is coming to fruition, even as a second has proven to be completely wrong. First, people have stopped being polite, and have started getting real. 

Which isn't to suggest that we're all squabbling, spitting on one another and ripping each other's hair out like the ladies from Flavor of Love. The change in chemistry is more delicate than that. It's more like we've all stopped presenting ourselves to one another as idealistic Instagram filtered versions of ourselves.

Nobody has pulled off their human costume to reveal a lizard person underneath it all. (At least not that I've seen.) It's more that people have settled into their Argentine lives and turned off their Valencia and Ludwig, and are now just being themselves. The change is significant. 

"Your laughing friends"

"Your laughing friends"

Frankly, it can be terrifying. Imagine being comfortable enough with 75 ridiculously attractive, globetrotting professionals at the height of their life experiences to finally crack a boozy joke, but not truly knowing any of them well enough to predict how it will land. Did I describe myself as "a sexual nexus" to someone in the group after a few glasses of wine and a shot of whiskey while out at a bar on Thursday? Well, yeah. But would I do it again? (Well, I just did. So there.)

Remote Year 3: Week one

Remote Year 3: Week one

I wish I could be indifferent to the delicate differences between each day's group chemistry, and just bumble my way through the week, caveman-style. But I have all these feeeelings, and I can't turn off my reception of everyone else's either. Your hangover is my hangover, even when I stayed in last night to do laundry and reset my internet every 7 minutes while trying to stream House of Cards. #empathlife 

Remote Year 3: Week three

Remote Year 3: Week three

Is it still the best thing ever? Well duh. That's where the inverse of the second trope comes in. These women and men I spend my days with here in South America, well, THEY'RE HERE TO MAKE FRIENDS.

This week: I ate empanadas with my new professional coach. (I honestly am willing to put my trust in the hands of anyone with hair as good as hers.) I threw my second dinner party. I rented a car with two Australians, a Californian and a sassy little minx from Pittsburgh with a Keystone State logo ring. We got pulled over by the policia just outside of the city borders and talked our way out of a ticket IN SPANISH. 

We visited a German pedestrian-only village in the heart of the Argentine sierras, and hiked a mountain to discover a waterfall. When we sat down to snack on salamis in the misty spray of the waterfall, did I sing the theme song to The Hills to the group? Of course I did. Come on now. Feel the rain on your skin, y'all. 

For what it's worth, this song came on at 2am the January night that we packed up our New Orleans life into our tiny car and headed to Texas, where everything but our new apartment would be presumably bigger. With Nick passed out in the passenger seat beside me, and Loki on his lap, I whisper-sang along as the green, pink and purple Dallas skyline came into view on the horizon. I thought I had a year of brisket and whiskey and valet parking ahead of me. It would have been enough. 

But this...THIS? Well, I couldn't have known. I couldn't have known.