heidi wore clogs, and so do you

So last night, Meme, Jess and I went to go see Doves.
I've been really into their latest album Kingdom Of Rust lately, so I had to see this material done live.
The show was fantastic, but this is not what I'm here to talk about.

After moving to the front (which is the best bonus to seeing shows with small, cute girls), we began to get our dance on and the tunes were bumping. All of a sudden, I could feel myself being stepping on, and stepping on someones foot. I didn't care because everyone was having a good time and this is, presumably, what happens at shows. Not to this guy."Hey man, you're stepping on my feet. This is my spot."

"What?"

"I said this is my spot. I've been here for the past ten minutes."

"So?"

It turns out that there was a blubbering vagina standing behind me. Some Dexter-Zero was chewing me out for dancing on his toes.

Oh, I'm sorry hun, I've never slow danced before.

First off, who comes to a rock concert, moves to the very front, and stakes a claim amongst hundreds of people? Your spot? Who the fuck are you?! Yukon Cornelius? Maybe if he had a pick axe, monster beard and a hunger for gold- then I would have taken him seriously

Secondly, how can you come to a show and not expect to get your feet stepped on? I could understand if he wasn't dancing and I was just causing a scene, but he was, as was everyone else. I've gone to shows with perfectly white Stan II's on, moshed for two hours, then proudly gone home with someone elses blood and dirt covering them. A real musical experience should be about passion, love, appreciation, and expression. Don't just stand there like a paper napkin. What a fucking pussy. My buzz was killed by this Joe-PC. Grow some balls for gods sake.


One thing that I know in life is that the world is full of uptight, unenlightened, anxious, high-strung matters of waste that we call "the public". People are no longer passionate about anything, and are so afraid to express themselves that they retain mid-life Osteoporosis just from sucking their boss' dick or from nodding "yes" so much every day.

People like this just make me want to stick fireworks in their pants, just so they'll feel something for once. They have pickles so far up their asses that even their breath smells like dill. I have only one piece of advice for these people: Verbally disagree with someone at least once a day. After a few weeks, you'll sleep sounder. I promise. Why? Because it's one of the many free things in life that are good for you. I'll jump back to that topic at a later date when I have more examples.

Am I out of line? You're damn right I'm not. Let's eat some pickles.

stan's the man

I just simply love these shoes.

In my opinion, the classic Adidas Stan Smith II's are some of the finest shoes ever created. They're sleek, comfortable, stylin, and more importantly, durable. I've dragged these shoes (literally) through the mud, across nearly every terrain imaginable. They've been with me through it all: everyday walking, skateboarding,mountain trails, bars, running, dance parties, on the beach, driving, playing on stage, climbing the cn tower, puddles, and the paint studio. They've seen everything from my own crowning achievements to heartbreak. From summer afternoons to shitty winter mornings.

One thing I've always done with these shoes is paint them. I believe that maintaining the color of these shoes is some sort of a duty that I must uphold, as an owner. So, while sacrificing looking like a douche bag, I paint them. I usually stick with plain gesso paint. Although water-based, I find this paint to be more durable than your standard acrylics. I dabbled for a while with the idea of oil paint, but I simply never had the time to let them dry, as well as the price of the paint itself. You can usually tell how old the pair of shoes are by seeing how thick the paint is getting on the surface, almost as if you were taking a cross-section of a tree and counting the rings to see how old they were.

Then, when the day comes, I'll paint them another color. At this point, the shoe has lost all structural integrity and has fallen towards the shitter. The laces are crusted together with paint, the toe cover lifts open like the hood of a car, and there is virtually no grip whatsoever. At this point in my head I'll say to myself "Fuck this. They look so stupid anyway, I might as well paint them another color." I like to call these ones Limited Edition, when in reality, they are just old-dirty-painted-runners. My favorites have to be the blue pair, only because they've been gesso'd so hard that it looks like a desert floor from all the cracking. To be honest, as stupid as they look, I (think) I get more respect for wearing them. I've even heard some people say they love them (drunk girls).

The only considerable downside to loving these shoes is that, for me, they are nearly impossible to find. With fancy new shoe designs hitting the counters every week (no thanks to kids between the ages of 15-27, who love that ugly America's Dance Crew multicolored shit with laces), the older models get pushed further and further back in the orders. Here in Toronto, I've visited every downtown Adidas location, which is an embarrassment in itself, with no luck. In fact, I've been without a fresh pair of Stans for almost six months now, and it's getting annoying. It's not that they're not in stock, it's just that they usually aren't carrying my gargantuan shoe size of 13.5. Also, because of the hours that I work, I usually don't feel like walking to one of these locations every day, so I'll set aside one day a week to go to these stores to ask if any are available. According to their employees, the shoes are always that "other" location. Nay nay.

So, I've finally decided to throw in the towel and shop for them online.

I really don't have a point, or even a clever line to go out on.
All I have is this amazing picture of a bull eating shit by the hand of a flaming matador, which has probably proved more entertaining than the entire purpose of this blog entry.

Bulls are funny like that.