Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Wack on the Walls but Dope on the Dogs- A Black Friday Fable.

To be clear, this isn't a fable. There really isn't any moral to be learned. Maybe some behavior to avoid. This is more of a story, a tale. I just wanted maximum alliteration.

You know how it goes. A sneaker gets hyped on the internet. The images look pretty good so you consider the cop. Then you see it in person and think damn, that shit is wack. Doesn't happen that often, seldom in fact, however this is precisely what happened with the Eddie Cruz "West" Nike Air Force 1s. Purple and yellow is my thing- Kobe all day, but the red outsole really freaked me out. I know my style isn't considered "progressive", but red? Shit didn't make any sense.

Store after store these shiny purple joints kept bugging. This is a sneaker that historically I should like sans the patent swoosh. My disdain runs deep. It's an air force. It's a premium air force, it has snake skin, it is purple, it has different stitch on the tongue tag and the O.44 sticky rubber logo is embossed on the heel. The little intricacies I gets downs with. But no, not interested. Not even a second chance. Like they did me dirty and were left to rot. Until I peeped them on feet. I was like, Hold Up!! Wait a minute!! My man Wes, being the astute Nike employee that he is, had them joints on for the ultimate sell. On some, "yeah, I thought they were pretty weak sauce too, but peep now." It worked on me. I'm not sure exactly why, maybe the new perspective of looking down as opposed to eye level. My style's over your head, I enjoy the aerial view. The red wasn't as noticeable and the shiny snakeskin wasn't as overwhelming.

So now they're on the radar, but for $135 not a necessity. Plus I have the purple with yellow LA forces so I'm thinking I'll call these skip. But the textures are different so that thought is thrown at the window. My boy tells me he can get them for $81, so that entices me more, but I'm still not fully convinced. Until Black Friday. When all sense and rationale gets thrown out the window and the lunacy ensues. No, there weren't any fly pony hair jumpoffs this year.

I'm in Goliath when I see the purple piff (not really, but again, my alliteration obsession) on the wall with a 40% off sign, thus making them $81. No longer an eyesore, I grab the joints to do some last minute recon. As I'm holding them, I hear 2 dudes ask for an 11 and 11.5, my size. I didn't even get a chance to make a play on them. Uh oh. Call it territorial, call it mania, attack mode is instantaneously triggered. I run to catch Dee, malt liquor extraordinaire, as he returns from the stock room. Stop him and ask on the humble if that's the last 11.5. For those in the know, an 11.5 is pretty rare, and usually only 1 pair per size run. He nods affirmative. Ask if there are more 11s, he throws up the "3" sign. Seeing I want them he says I got you, hitting me with the box just as Jim Kelly used to place the pigskin in Thurman Thomas' bread basket.

Feeling like I just stole the last Linden's cookie from the cookie jar, I quickly sit on the bench in the back sliding the pair underneath, hiding all evidence. I don't turn around, feeling like I just snaked some dude for his kicks. Dudes make their way towards the back, me thinking I'm going to have a problem. Never that, they just want to know about DQM, so I hit them with the bullet points, they say good looks and leave me be. Do the right foot try on. All signals say go and I'm at the register. Rose bags them (What up Rose!!), AMEX debt increases, and I'm out the door. Once that cool November air hits, waking me from my semi-delirious sneaker blindness, I look at the kicks again and realize why I never liked them in the first place.

Fuck it, what's another pair of kicks? Just another albatross around my neck. Another nail in the coffin. But at least my feets will look oh so fresh.

I've been racking my brain to think of other kicks that might have looked wack upon first glance and then flipped the script on me. I'm coming up blank. However what you see below might fit the bill. Shits offended me on the wall, but after trying them on and feeling the rabbit ass on my toes, yo, I might need them in my life. It's a big step for me though. Hold my hand.


Allen said...

It's like hooking up with an ugly chick (no offense if any ugly chicks are reading). It's really only worth it for the story.

The "aerial view" was my highschool yearbook quote.

TM said...

Waddup HL,
The red really ruins the shoe.
I always said that the Lakers needed either Artest or Iverson and we got that blunt smokin' Artest now. Woo Hoo!


HowFresh said...

At least with the fat chick you never have to see her again. Unless she's a talented brainiac or a great chef and you choose to.

These joints are there when I go to bed and wake up. Haunting me.

HowFresh said...

TM, what up Westside. Iverson should have been a Knick but we know the shitty management would never please their fan base.

I thought Artest was better known for drinking that dirty brown yak water.

The red is a problem but we'll make it work. Somehow.

Paul said...

Those sneakers are made for the good life, big entrances, champagne showers for 24 hours. I approve.

YO HL - To make the ciphor complete, add a pic with the kicks on your feet.

Anonymous said...

They wrote a song about those kicks...

Viagra Online said...

What a style I'm gonna say to my girlfriend that she buying those sneakers because I know she'll look so nice and cool.