It finally happened. It snuck up on me with all the cunning and subtlety of a shotgun-toting Dick Cheney, and finally caught me. I am now a bona fide -- wait. I'm not really a sneaker head. I can't claim to have ever had the urge to pay more than $150 for a pair of tennis shoes. I can't say I've ever had the urge to wait more than 15 minutes in line to cop a pair of fresh new kicks. I can't even say I've marked my calendar for a shoe release date, and I've DEFINITELY never nearly gone broke to buy a pair of shoes.
So what am I? Maybe I'm just a sneaker ear. Or a sneaker eye. Not the whole head. I can't be a legit sneaker head. I like my paper too much. I am quite fond of Green Benjamin Franklin and all his presidential buddies. I do love a good pair of fresh new clodhoppers with which to tool around town and garner stares of admiration, hate and consternation, but I am not willing to sacrifice my whole life in order to achieve sneaker head status.
Call me a sneaker h. Maybe if I get my skills up and get a life sponsor I'll add the next three letters.
1 comment:
"feet hangin out the window jock my shoe game, cause all my kicks fly like liu kane!!!"
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