My sweet, beloved checkered vans, oh how you've always been there for me, doin the devils work. Perhaps I'm writing this blog in conjunction with Veterans day because my checkered vans are on the brink of retirement, and because they have served their time for myself, and this great country we call America. They possibly deserve a proper burial with the following arrangements wrapped up in one:
a) Bagpipes
b) 21 gun salute
c) Viking burial
d) Fifteen seconds of momentary silence
e) The flag folding stuff with fireworks
(Sidenote) I also kind of want to flush the shoes down the toilet with my dead fishies.
Well, they've been with me, thick and thin, skating well on thin ice. They've seen a convenient store walk out underneath a friends jacket and they make you feel like you can outrun the most agile of cops. They've provided me the proper traction one needs to keep standing after taking one on the chin. They've given me a shameful look and judged harshly the time I woke up next to some random girl in a motel during SXSW (this happened 2 times actually, got lucky 1 time for the record). But on the flipside, they've also helped me hide a myriad of illegal and legal things. The soles are worn out from dancing now, and as a result my pinky toe sticks out. They've carried me atop enchanted rock because they know I like to feel vulnerable to the complexity of stars and our universe. They were with me when I ate too many mushrooms, I thought the Sigur Ros song "Olsen, Olsen" was an angel communicating with a demon - those checkers can swirl given the right lighting and frame of mind. I consulted them when I sold my soul for a can of cheese wiz and now I'm convinced they can liberate Iraq or solve global warming. You can unsuccessfully play chess or checkers on them. They've kicked people in the groin but they also smell like fresh cut flowers. I've thrown them across Guadalupe street (The Drag) to grab the attention of a girl I admired and they've accompanied me when I've been on the giving and receiving end of heart breaks. They were seriously the only shoes I had when I was homeless between Austin and San Antonio. All in all, they've witnessed the advancement and remolding of myself, my former self. But they will not be able to see my passing because checkered vans have shorter life spans than humans, that's just science and the circle of life, rolled into one. It saddens me to think they will not be there when I die tragically slipping on a giant banana peel.
