Sunday, August 28, 2005
And Flights Of Angels Sing Thee To Thy Rest
Time is a cruel thing. It does very nasty things to otherwise interesting and lovely people. Hot chicks who used to get loaded up on mixed berry-flavored wine coolers and then jump off a roof into a pool completely naked just so they could tell the story later eventually become mommies who only want to talk about their precious little Julian's latest series of distressing bowel movements.
But hot chicks aren't the only things that time ruins, oh no. It comes for everything and everyone eventually, no matter how great or small. All we can hope is that the mark we leave is so indelible, so unmistakable that history will have no choice but to name us legend.
Such, I hope, is the fate of my beloved footwear.
BEHOLD! in wondrous silence the visage of the departed.
You gasp, I know it. You tremble and weep and claw at your faces, trying to dissuade your mind from the horrible truth as beheld by your profane, unbelieving eyes. Calm yourself and look. Is't possible? I say to you at last: You bet your ass it is't. They don't match.
Before you get started with the mocking in earnest, I would ask you to spare me as I'm sure by now, with over a year of wearing these on my feet completely on purpose I'm sure I've heard them all.
Yes, I know they don't match.
No, I didn't get dressed in the dark.
Yes, they really did come that way.
I happen to think they're quite awesome (and yes I totally mean that in the junior-high sense of the word). Not only are they dope-ass kicks in their own right, they're themed. I don't have a good picture (you can find an official one here), but on the back of the white one (left) is a "2" and the back of the black one (right) reads "3". So if I stand with my feet together, my Michael Jordan shoes totally spell out Michael Jordan's number. Like I said: awesome. The only way they could be more awesome would be if they lit up. Or ooh! If they played that song they play when they introduce the team before Chicago Bulls games. That would put them right past awesome and into the untouchable category of Bad-Ass.
I bought them as a statement of rebellion against the unyielding forces of footwear-must-match fascism. In the year since I bought them, I slowly began to realize that statements like that only make a difference (or even, say, any fucking sense) if they are understood as such by the intended audience. From my observations, I would say that the main messages people took away from close social contact with my footwear fell into two broad categories: a) let's help the retarded man cross the street or b) the circus is coming! the circus is coming!
So sorry, folks, I was unable to single-handedly pierce the cultural hegemony of the Shoe Matching Regime. Your shoes are going to have to match... for now. Don't worry, I have a Plan B. I'm totally working on stirring up some subjugated knowledges in order to foment some dissonance in the dominant majority discourse and shit. I can't get into details, but I can tell you the plan involves a heavy dose of Ted McGinley. Talk about your subjugated knowledges.
Since I have just this weekend purchased a new pair of shamefully similar shoes, this old pair is going to be retired. I'm heartbroken to a certain extent, but not completely. They actually weren't particularly well made shoes. I only had them for a little over a year and they were already starting to come apart. And when I walked, they made this horrible crunchy-squeaky noise; it was the type of noise that's difficult to describe but one could only hope to realistically recreate when one might combine three Cambodian hookers, a set of rubber sheets, $80 and only a moderate amount of lube. I'm sure everyone knows what I'm talking about. They were quite a hit at church.
So they were of inestimable social and political quality but of substandard physical quality. Kind of like Larry Flynt.
Yeah, Indonesian sweatshop labor just doesn't mean quality like it used to.
Although my mismatched shoes may be gone, they will never be forgotten. Their reputation will ring down through the ages, each generation calling their name.
Farewell Nike Air Jordan Jumpman Team Deuce-Trey Basketball shoes! We hardly knew ye.
Of course it's possible that all of this is because I couldn't think of anything to write, just happened to be fooling around with my digital camera and randomly decided to take a picture of my shoes. But come on: if I were going to build a post around a totally random picture taken from those stored on my camera, why wouldn't I use this one:
See? You can't argue with me there.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.0