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Wicked Kicks

March 26th, 2014 9 comments

I have a pair of swanky black leather shoes that have been sitting disused in my closet. It’s been two years since I last wore them, which is a shame because, as shoes go, these are some bitchin’ kicks.

I picked them up from a trendy shoe boutique downtown many years ago. Rare are the Euro shoes that fit my wide feet, so you can imagine how happy I was to not only find a cool pair of shoes, but to discover that this store actually had them in my size. I had to contain my excitement when the salesperson brought them out front for me to try on. Normally I hate clothes shopping. I think it’s a genetic “guy” thing for us to loath dwelling amongst mannequins and shoe trees, but when I saw these particular shoes I felt an immediate kinship to them, like we were long lost brothers, or had gone to war together, or fought over the same girl.

“No one muct own these shoes but me,” I told myself using my best Clint Eastwood grimace.

Trying them on they seemed a good fit, and a quick walk up and down the store solidified the fact that I would, indeed, be bring these bad boys home with me.

Shoe

Fast forward to the next day and my first outing with my precious new shoes. I hadn’t gotten more than two blocks from my home when the heels started digging something fierce into my feet. After two more blocks it quickly became apparent that not only had these shoes given me blisters, but that the blisters had popped. Pausing for a quick inspection, I noticed blood seeping through the heels of my socks.

And I was in pain…lots of pain.

Damn it. Time to head home.

And so I drunkenly limped back home, trying my best to walk on the balls of my feet lest these shoes dig ever deeper into my flesh. Let me tell ya, those were probably the most painful four blocks that I’ve ever walked.

Arriving home I peeled off my shoes, inspected the damage, patched myself up, and placed my newly-acquired shoes in the closet. And there they’ve lurked ever since, untouched save for a quick recent dusting off.

For the life of me, I can’t bring myself to throw them away. What the hell is wrong with me? Perhaps I’m hopeful that someday I’ll be able to fix these shoes. Perhaps stretch them out a bit or have a cobbler (are there still cobblers out there?) install some sort of cushioning in the heels. I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve held on to these shoes as a reminder not to be so quick to give my heart away to any product, no matter how cool it looks in the store window…

Categories: Clothes Tags:

Pretend Numbers

August 8th, 2013 7 comments

Q: When is an inch not an inch?
A: When it has to do with pant sizes.

Why does it seem that pant sizes rarely reflect reality?  Not only do different clothing companies have varying opinions on how to interpret, say (in my case) a 34” waist, but often times different pants with the same advertised waist size from the same company could be wildly off.

Do rulers not exist in the dingy dimension occupied by clothing manufacturers, or are pant sizes somehow determined through a delicate blend of ritualistic voodoo, cubic equations, and averaged monsoonal temperatures of remote equatorial locales?

JeanSize

For all the years I’ve spent on this good Earth, I’m find myself constantly amazed at how loose fitting one pair of pants can be, and how constrictive another pair of the same size can feel.  How hard is it to follow a template and a tape measure?

Ah, but perhaps that’s it.  Perhaps, in the downtrodden climes where clothing is produced en mass, quantity is king.  In the far off country where my pants are made for 10 cents an hour, perhaps it’s far too inconvenient to enforce any measure of quality control.  A size 32 is as good as a size 34.  Run out of size 36” labels?  Fuck it, slap on a label that says 38” and let those haughty consumer bastards work it out for themselves.

And so it goes, forcing me, someone who hates shopping, to take the time to try on every single pair of pants I’m eyeballing just to make sure that the number embroidered in the waist of the swanky pair of pants I’m holding is the true measurement, and not a faulty promise.

Categories: Clothes Tags: ,

What Devilry Is This?

July 17th, 2012 10 comments

The good folks at Lifehacker posted this tip recently:

Soak the garment in hot water and hair conditioner for 5 minutes and then stretch it back to size.

I always find it strange that my pre-shrunk t-shirts have a tendency to shrink, even when I’m careful and wash them in cold water and dry on low heat.  But after reading this simple tip I’m going to have to give this a shot.  Who knows?  Perhaps I’ll be able to rescue a cool nerd shirt of mine that shrunk to doll size after one wash.  That was a perfectly good waste of $20…

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We’ve Officially Separated

November 10th, 2011 6 comments

I remember the first time I saw you. It was at that Bauhaus concert in ’98. I fell in love with you at first glance, and I had a feeling that you felt the same about me. That night I held you for the first time, drove you home, and saw you again the very next day. Remember?

We were soon inseparable. Wherever I went you tagged along. And through the years we shared some amazing experiences.

Together we moved out from that small apartment and into a large home. You were with me when I adopted Nemesis from the pound. And it wasn’t soon after that she cuddled up next to us every night as we curled up on the couch.

We went to more than our fair share of concerts, movies, and sporting events. Remember the time when Trent Reznor threw a keyboard key at us? Call me jealous, but I think he was glancing at you throughout the show.

We soon moved again, this time into another home closer to where I worked. It was around that time that you disappeared for a several days.  I had no idea where you had gone. I thought I’d lost you, but one day you magically appeared in my living room. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see you again!

But as the years went by we both started showing our age. We settled down into the habit of laughing at late night talk show hosts together, then sneaking off to bed where you kept me warm on dark, cold nights. Time continued to march on, and it became evident that you were feeling a bit worn out. Threadbare.

I couldn’t help but notice holes in your once flawless veneer.

I find this tough to say, but I fear our relationship has come end. I can no longer stand by and watch you slowly fall apart on me.  It hurts me to see you like this.

I’ll always love you. You know that.  I’d like to tell you that we can still be friends, but you and I know that that would be a lie.

I miss you already.

You were my most favorite t-shirt…ever!

It’s a sad day for me whenever I have to retire a concert tour t-shirt.  I grew up listening to Bauhaus, but they broke up before I started attending concerts.  I thought that I’d never get to see one of my favorite bands of all time play live.  Lucky for me they reunited for their Gotham and Resurrection tours.  In 1998 I saw Bauhaus play live for the first time.

With much regret, my Bauhaus shirt was officially thrown away yesterday evening.

I’m still in mourning…

Categories: Clothes, Music Tags:

How Is This Possible?

May 17th, 2011 4 comments

Things I’ve lost: Car keys, wallet, movie tickets, flip flops, towels, pens, homework, phone numbers, addresses, DVDs, CDs, casette tapes, money, time, jobs, parking spaces, friends, books, rides, bets, socks, nail clippers, my lunch, train of thought, place in line, a pet bird, surf board, my car’s spare tire, passwords, utility bills, hopes and dreams.

One thing I’ve never lost was my pants…until now.

It’s the strangest thing. I ironed my pants one night, woke up the next morning and my pants were gone. Poof. MIA. AWOL. Vamoosed. Auf Wiedersehen. Gone.

I searched all over. My thought was that perhaps they fell off the hanger, were thrown into the hamper, or had somehow found their way back into the washing machine, but no such luck. Neither did the cat purloin my pleated slacks for use as bedding, nor did the wife appropriate them to hem the waist or polish our vast collection of priceless fine dining ware. It’s as if some ancient malicious shadow crept in through the transom late one night, slithered its way up the stairs and through the narrow gap under the closet door, and with a sallow silence that only an ethereal death can provide sequestered my freshly-ironed attire then eeriely, and with a well-practiced flourish, held them close to its inky chest and spirited itself away into that dark Plutonian night.

Socks I can understand losing, but pants? How does one go about losing a pair a of pants?

Categories: Clothes, Work Tags: