Review: Geox "Shoes"

Breathing takes time and time costs money. Money costs more money and more money takes credit. Credit demands low-risk behavior and low-risk behavior can be accomplished if and only if one is on bare feet.

But I'm a risk-taker. I take the kinds of risks that no bare-footed person would ever dare. So, I needed some shoes. But, since my shoes were likely to incite me to take bigger risks, I was not likely to have the credit necessary to finance the money to pay for the time that it takes me to breathe.

Fortunately, however, my new Geox shoes do all of the breathing for me. Hence, I don't have to worry about any of these things anymore. I can just be my risky old self, flirting with foot injuries and taunting hippies with sharp surfaces underfoot.

UPDATE:

After approximately six months, my Geox "Shoes" have mostly disintegrated, rendering them laughable as footwear. At this point, they consist mostly of holes rather than shoe. They have, however, become considerably more breathable. I often think about them when I walk down the street in my new Clarks, my feet gasping breathlessly for air.

Review: Addiction

I look around me and there are empty cartons of cigarettes and gallon-jugs of wine: perhaps the gravest testament to my addiction. But it is not the nicotine or the alcohol, as you might have presumed; it's the savings.

It's the savings that led me to drink. Indeed, it's the savings that drove me to beat my wife. One day, I asked the question that should be obvious to any man in my position: "why am I paying someone else to do this?" Perhaps it was vanity or the pressures of fashion. Or perhaps it was the tennis elbow I sustained from the many smackings I'd delivered over the years, with such grace, to the riff-raff.

Ah, how the savings beckon me as I belly-crawl my way out from under the toppled bookcases that are used to make my presence known to the prying staff (not my employees, mind you!). As the weight of a set of encyclopedias threatens to crush into oblivion the last of my many fingers, the savings to be had by purchasing these hefty tomes, which once filled me with a flirtatious giddiness, now reveal their true, duplicitous nature. Ah the treachery of knowing what I might have spent!

I would escape, once and for all, this foul reality, but the savings, unfortunately, are everywhere I intend to be. So, I must go to the uninteded places: high-end perfumeries (are the only ones that come to mind). There are no savings to be had here.

For most addiction, there is a kind of cure in that the sufferers try to find God in a some sense. But here, too, I am bombarded with the savings. "Jesus saves," they say. So, there is no consolation in the divine. It is as frail and vulnerable to the addiction as we. Perhaps this is the allure of the savings. Perhaps we believe that we can approach the divine by appealing to its faults. But fault, even with humans, is precisely what one doesn't want to admit. You may appeal to my faults, but insofar as I deny them, you haven't approached me. In fact, you've put me off. I believe the divine shares my attitude. But this is just an example of what I mean.

Review: This Cup of Coffee

Out of the hellish vortex that is New York and into the purgatorial morass that is New Jersey, I find that life is but an empty cup to me now. I need a refill.

Moments later....

The coffee is pretty strong. Of course, it's not as strong as a bear. I usually just have a bear keep me awake, but under the circumstances, I suppose this coffee will have to do. Although, as a veteran of "Advanced Latte Training," I'll just say that this cup of coffee is clearly the work of an amateur.

Review: The Latest Thing

The latest thing is also the newest thing. The newest things also tend to be fashionable. Perhaps that's why one can be "fashionably late." However, being late is not necessarily a desirable quality in the case where one is not the latest. For example, to be late (in the sense of missing one's period) tends to be regarded negatively. If one were positive about being pregnant, one would simply say "I'm pregnant!" rather than saying "I'm late." Similarly, stating "the late Mr(s). So and So" tends to imply that Mr(s). So and So is dead rather than merely late. Perhaps that's the penalty for failing to be fashionable. Ironically, the things that are described as "late" tend to be the opposite of the "latest" thing. That is to say, death and pregnancy are nothing new. However, lateness tends to defy degree. I.e. one cannot usually be a little bit dead or pregnant. One tends not to be the deadest or most pregnant among others who share the affliction(s).

Being new is the latest thing. Being dead or pregnant therefore cannot be the latest thing, but merely late. They are not very fashionable, but they also defy being unfashionable, by virtue of the fact that so many people are forced into these situations.

Review: Pandora Radio

God! Pandora's kind of needy! Are you still listening? Are you still listening to me? Look at me when I speak to you! 

Review: Smack

I got me some smack the other day. It was vigorous. My face is a sloppy mess now.

Finesse is not one of my children is what I tell myself. Were I not so loud and schizophrenic or quiet and hard to lay, as the case may sometimes be, this conviction would give me no trouble. However, trouble is what I've got. It sits in the tub with a downcast sort of attitude and asks me, with its puppy-like feet for eyes, "why do you despise these feet I have for eyes?"

I cannot bring myself to respond. But, sooner or later, I must respond. Trouble, left alone, will not go away. It will get worse and seek the trouble-maker out. Knowing my penchant for bathing, it knew exactly where to find me. I had made a mess of things. Unbeknownst to me, this mess became the trouble that now kept me from my relaxation. Somewhere, the smack must have been involved.

It displeases my toast to find itself unlubricated by the jam that I now find myself in. Sticky yet sickeningly sweet, the stuff that would have my present condition preserved begins to suffocate me. Though I'm in no position to give a toast, I have all the terrible puns a man could want. That said, I've no trouble meeting my maker, so long as I may believe that I, myself, am not trouble.

It is somewhere at this point in the story that I was smacked. The sobering hand of the humorless is often what saves the reader (you may rest at ease) from the litany of puns and miscarriages--claiming to be smiles--that befoul the air about the speaker stating such lines as these.

Review: A Review

Rather than miring myself in the smotherings of a another clumsy pillowfight with That-Which-Tries-To-Kill-Me-In-My-Sleep, I thought it best to review a review for a change. Meta-commentary is an obnoxious thing, as are things too fashionably post-modern for them to truly be post-modern, so I'll just end this sentence right now.

The post-modern post, modern in its ability to actually be interpretted, is no more post-modern a post th(a/e)n it is modern.

smut.--->> 8-D

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Review: The Empty Promise of Foie Gras

To deepen my understanding of emptiness, I took upon myself the reviewing of this promise.

To say it is being held like a carrot in front of me is to overestimate my enthusiasm for carrots and to insult me in the loins.

I know I'm being manipulated. It is inherent to promises that this must be so. Foie gras... I cannot say. I can't believe it, but even if I could, it wouldn't matter. I would still be speechless.

Smugly, in the corner of my eye, drifting between the shadows as so often these familiar hallucinations daily do, that elusive spectre of gratification beckons me on. What otherwise might have been meaningless and empty flirtations with the confabulatory frame of mind are now focused and clarified, distilled into a concentrated obsession. It is a paranoia brought about by a promise whose emptiness I cannot comprehend but for the fullness of even the slightest drop of its truth.

Was that foie gras scuttling across my desk just now? What about that fatty lump, lurking just outside my window? I hear a sucking sound. Oh foie! Don't be so coy! I feel that I am like the irrelevant leaf of paper that is tossed about on the breezes of the soft, gentle banter between a schoolgirl and her imaginary white elephants.

It is offal.

Review: A Kangaroo

To be frank, a kangaroo is little more than a wallaby wannabe.