Stay Classic Seattle (featuring disfan1)

Whilst taking a power stroll with T-Han and Carly B-Real in the greater Green Lake area,  I beheld a most inquisitive sight.  This inquisitive sight led me to some thinking.  This thinking led me to a 20 minute nap.  The small amount of energy gained from that 20 minute nap led me to writing this post.  Writing this post will lead me to another 20 minute nap.  See?  Naps are cyclical.        

At first, the sight appeared to be a jumbled heap of khaki and mystery.  On closer inspection, the tan-accented streak blurring by wasn't a streak at all. It was a human being.  But not just any human being.  It was an older-gentleman-with-a-thick-white-beard-sporting-a-collage-of-taupe-based-clothing-items (jacket, pants, socks, visor beanie, etc.) while-riding-a-Razor-scooter type human being.  His hood was pitched over his head, clinging on for dear life to an extremely large pair of blue blocker sunglasses.  He jerkily pumped his stout legs, rambling by cyclists and people that were walk-dating.  "That's pretty normal," I thought to myself out loud.  But then I looked closer - at the man's feet, and there they were:

Oh baby.  That's right.  Kirkland Signature Court Classic Sneakers.  You can pick up a pair of these comfort rockets at your local Costco Wholesale for about 15-20 bucks.  

You've seen these shoes countless times in countless places on countless people.  This leads to a vital question:  Have you ever seen someone brandishing these "weapons of fast construction" who ISN'T over/around the age of 50?  My GUESS is that you haven't.  My THEORY is that when you approach the age of 50 and have proven yourself worthy of ultimate economical coziness, you'll simply wake to a pair of K. Sig Court C's gently tied around your feet.  They'll just be there.  And there's nothing you can do to not have them.  You'll try to fight them off, but in time you'll grow to admire their seamless comfort and bland Barbara Bush-like looks.  Resistance is futile.  To help prove my point please enjoy disfan1's earth-shattering review of the K. Sig Court C's:         

 

See all Shoes reviews at Expotv

Divin' In

So last night I was out with the boyz hittin' up some merry hour at the 5 Spot.  I suggested a new game that has since swept kick the nation 'neath the ankles:  developing fictitious names for dive bars.  Here's the shortlist from last night:

The Dirty Scoundral

Grundle's

The Stinky Saddle

Old Friendly's 

Jake the Snake's

The Pumphouse

The Snug Pocket

The Thirsty Turtle

The Sink

The Reservation

Sketchies

Tipsy McDrunks

The Trombone

Key Arena

Updated names from viewers:

Fartbangers

Straddleback's

The John McEnroe

Qwerty's

Sinkin Sally

Sticky Pete's

Derf Langer's

The Screaming Midget

The list is getting more and more amazing.  Thank you Christopher, Les, and Travis.

This game is very rich.  Feel very free to leave your dive bar names in the comment section.  Or don't.  Now that you've had some more time to think about it you probably should.

Hungry like the wolves

You may not believe me, but 5 days out of the week, I do battle.  Public transportation battle.  And believe me, it's one of the most intense types of battling you can do.  You don't believe me, do you?  Well believe what I write next then re-read the first sentence and believe.  Believe me, it's unbelievable.

  

It all starts when I hop on the #13 bus every morn to travel to my respective career.  The ride is always relatively quiet and uneventful.  Passengers get on and take their seats, using every ounce of their social stamina to avoid smiling or making eye contact.  They cough and read, and the bus jerkily rumbles on.  It all works like a clock that is working really well.  That is, until we get to 3rd and Bell.  

As you all know, when a bus reaches a stop, the customary line of action is to allow passengers to get off FIRST, then have waiting passengers get ON.  3rd and Bell, however, does things a little differently.  When the bus driver yells aloud "Next stop, 3rd and Bell!" I make fists with my hands and grit my teeth.  I perch on my tagged bus seat in the same way Michael Johnson did on his starting blocks at the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta, Georgia.  When the bus stops and those side doors slide open, it's battle time.  

I explode out of my chair and hit the top of the steps, only to be greeted by a sea of expressionless faces clawing their way towards the small crevice of hope that just folded open.  They stare up and begin to snarl.  I take a deep  breath and begin to cut a swath through the pack of lumbering souls who thirst only for the inexplicable comfort of a recently vacated tagged bus seat:    

The neatly dressed accountant with fancy gloves and a rolled up New Yorker poses no threat - we exchange small push blows and steely stares before I leave him behind.  

Next up is the pink-haired, Hello Kitty-backpack-wearing, disenchanted teenager who skipped school to go to Hot Topic downtown and smoke a cigarette.  She poses a much more dangerous threat, never looking up from the display screen of her pink 2 GB iPod Nano.  We shoulder tackle each other, but her extremely light weight coupled with the laws of kinetic force shift her to the side. 

Finally, I find myself standing before the final obstacle between myself and the crisp refreshing air of freedom.  This mysterious vagabond is wearing a hooded jacket over several layers of sweat pant material and a heather gray 1996 Seattle Supersonics Western Conference Champions t-shirt.  He's unphased by my quick movements,  choosing to simply stand in the way and stare at me with glossed-over eyes and a slightly opened mouth.  Lucky for me, he's decided to use the hand rails to stabilize himself.  I quickly dart underneath his arm, finding myself immediately surrounded by the Horde.  

They pay no attention to me, their eyes fixated on their final destination.  Their collective shuffling turns my situation into a football push pad drill.  After several shoves and reroutes (and a few expletives), I break free and discover open sidewalk.  I bend over to catch my breath.

This morning, I've won the battle.  But there is no time to celebrate.  Another battle awaits somewhere around 5:00PM.                                           

Cirque du Kinda Juggling

Do you remember where you kinda learned how to juggle?  Because I remember where you kinda learned.  You kinda learned to juggle where everyone kinda learns:  3rd Grade Physical Education class.  

If I remember correctly, you still remember that day as if it were yesterday.  It was the day that your high-wire dreams of circus performance as a lucrative profession came crashing down to the safety net-less ground of reality, shattering both knee caps and a C7 vertebrae.  Let me recount it for you. 1,2,3,4,5.  Now let me retell it for you (I think I can still remember):

  

Your class entered the gym (single file of course).  Normally there was some sort of equipment laid out on the floor that provided an ever-so-subtle hint as to what you were doing that day (basketballs for Basketball, jump ropes for Jumpy Rope, paint rollers for Parking Lot Paint Time, etc.).  But on that day, there were just two large cardboard boxes in the center of the gym.  "Whoa dude," said a classmate, "I wonder what's in those boxes."  

"I dunno," you cooly replied, "but I hope whatever is in them is cowabunga."  

Your gym teacher sat your class down and explained that you would be learning a new game, called "juggling." She enlightened you on the general mechanics, opened the first box, and pulled forth what you would later call the Great Deceiver:  colored handkerchiefs.

She passed out three colored handkerchiefs to each person (You got Magenta, Cyan, and Fatigue).  You tossed up the first handkerchief, then the second, then the third.  Then you caught and threw back up the first handkerchief.  A wry smile came to your face and your eyes widened.  

"OMG," you thought to yourself, "I'm totally JUGGLING."  Suddenly thoughts of big tops and dating a clown person named Borpo began racing through your mind.  But before those thoughts could cross the finish line, the gym teacher opened the second box, and with it, absolute devastation.

Tennis balls.  Fun, innocent looking tennis balls.  3 were issued to each student.  It only took 7.5 seconds with the tennis balls to realize that you'd never be a professional juggler.  Broken-hearted, you threw your tennis balls at the student next to you and walked a walk of sorrow and disappointment.  "Screw this, I'm going to get a square pizza from the cafeteria."

And that's kinda exactly how you kinda learned to juggle.  Kinda. 

Defection

I must sheepishly confess that a few months ago I fell victim to the Trendy Monster and got a euro-mullet-esque haircut.  For the first month or so it was smooth and correct, sipping fine wines and occasionally visiting the discotheque.  It was a shining example of class with a colorful flare of international accouterment.  As it grew, however, I discovered some behavioral changes.  

It started ordering Bud Light rather than vodka tonics.  Instead of frequenting the local pub to watch Liverpool vs. Chelsea games it signed up for a 14-team fantasy football league on Yahoo.com.  It traded in it's super tight capri jeans for some Old Navy carpenters with paint on them.  Nascar-branded hats were the only type of headwear it would accept.  One evening, when it was very late, I woke up to my euro-mullet quietly weeping while watching Glory on TNT.  

That's when I knew the incovenient truth.

My haircut had defected.

No longer was it a swanky, hip and trendy, sophisticated euro-mullet.  No sir.  It had become a gun-totin', Bible-thumpin, right-wing Ameri-mullet.  In a matter of weeks it had managed to brave the waters of the Atlantic Ocean into the open arms of Lady Liberty without my notice.  Just now I went to scratch the back of my head and my hand returned with two wrestling tickets to WWE No Way Out at Key Arena.  I could get used to this.   

This is me.

Not really.  But I do have that tie. 

Not really.

Beavis Shoes

So I was at the gym, doing my normal exercise routine (Mondays are usually neck and right forearm), when a strange and wonderful occurrence graced my presence.  As I performed my last neck push up, I noticed a shadowy figure shift into the room.  It was shrouded in a cloud of heather gray sweat material and grasped an old FILA gym bag closely to its shapeless form with what appeared to be a small bundle of Jimmy Dean sausages (turns out it was just a hand). As it glided to the corner of the gym, it shedded it's cotton exoskeleton, revealing a short, plump man with a mustache that would make a walrus swoon.  I went back to my exercising. As I was looking down during a rather intense single arm military press, the gentleman's feet came into my field of vision.  My eyes widened and my heart skipped two beats.       

Beavis Shoes.  It was Beavis Shoes.  

If you're not privy to this awesome phenomenon, it's ok.  It's pretty rare.  But it DOES happen.   Let's talk about it:

As you all know, Beavis is one half of the comically deranged animated duo Beavis and Butthead (of the MTV fame).  Here's a photo:

Wait, that's a real person.  Ah, here he is:

Anyways, Beavis was animated in a unique way.  Check it out:

  

Do you see it?  Do you?  Look closer:

SWEET BETTY BOOP AND HELLO KITTY...Beavis Shoes.  Essentially Beavis Shoes happens when an individual decides to wear small, nondescript black Reebok shoes (aka leather socks) combined with a comfortable pair of mid-shin white socks.  Beautiful.