Shots Fired

This is a formal declaration of war against my good buddy Andre "I wish I was 3000" Sherard. Let it be known that this is in no way a war brought forth from malicious intent, just pure, unadultered hate (the good kind).

This war, should Andre choose to accept terms, will be a battle of wits, words and jokes. It begins tomorrow at 10:00 AM. Any submissions before that point will not be considered part of the war. Basically anything goes in this war.

For you Andre: Get it ready, get it ready, get it ready ready.

Warfare cont'd

A few days ago I wrote about toddler warfare. Per the request of my friend Hannah Ferrell, I've decided to extend the challenge to other relatively defenseless beings in this world, making it a full series on Warfare. Today's battle is with cats*. Let's go!

The other day I was walking down the streets of Cologne and a beautiful orange tabby kitten gamboled up to me playfully, seeking a bit of attention and perhaps a meal to boot. Seeing the forlorn look in its eye, I carefully picked it up, cradling it in my arms. It mewed pitifully and licked my hands, asking for a saucer of milk, a warm couch to curl up on and a bit of love. With the utmost care, I held it in front of me, gave it a gentle toss and punted it 30 yards into the air, where it landed with a resounding crash on a nearby Jaguar (ironic?).

With my coffin-corner punt firmly entrenched in the windshield of the luxury vehicle, I gave a resounding scream of triumph and whirled around, looking for my next unwary victim. However, the cats on this particular avenue were a bit more streetwise, and wouldn't be caught as unawares as their young fallen comrade. A small squadron of lean calicos stalked around the corner, quietly padding towards me with a steely resolve. I casually stepped sideways and took out the ball of catnip I always keep in my pocket for situations such as this. I tossed the catnip into the group, and seconds later hurled myself bodily into the group. 3 minutes later I walked away from the fray confidently, the broken bodies of a plethora of felines strewn around the empty street, lives extinguished. Feeling my job to be incomplete, I then went door-to-door, flicking house cats between the eyes then stuffing them into specially prepared cages full of rabid mice.

I continued my assault against the forces of felis catus throughout the day, showing no mercy to any mouser I came across. The visceral thrill of brandishing a literal cat o' nine tails against an elite phalanx of frenzied felines cannot be overstated. As I swung the live, bristling weapon against the bodies of countless pets, I felt that my warlike campaign was near a satisfying end. As an exclamation point, I seized three cats at a time, tying their tails together with a small space in the middle, just large enough for an old-fashioned torch. I set each trio on a purpose-made raft, and pushed them off into the Rhine, basking in the beautiful music of yowls my kitty torch created. My cat persecution was complete.

*Editor's note: The events in the above post are entirely fictional. No cats were harmed in the writing of this blog.

Young Theo

Has little Theo Walcott finally come into his own? For years, he's been hailed as the "New Thierry Henry", a title he's struggled to cope with until very recently. The temptation to compare the mercurial winger turned forward turned winger to his former mentor was at times irresistable given their remarkably similar qualities. Each has a certain turn of pace normally accessible only to those lining up beside Usain Bolt, they both have a tendency to drift out wide when playing centre forward, and are both in possession of the "did that really just happen??" factor.

However, as similar as the two players may appear, they are not the same player, a fact Walcott is especially keen to address. Even after taking on the Arsenal legend's number 14 jersey, scoring an Henry-esque goal, and celebrating in an eerily similar fashion, Walcott stated: "People always say it is like Thierry.. It is nice to be compared to him, of course, but I want to be my own player."

And it seems he now is. While Henry thrives on drifting out wide from a central position, he struggles with playing as a winger from the kick-off. On the other side of the coin, Walcott has shown excellent versatility in playing as an out-and-out right midfielder, as evidenced by yesterday's brilliant performance against a strong Croatia side, where he became England's youngest ever player to score a hat trick in World Cup qualifying. All his goals came as a right midfielder, a feat even Monsieur Thierry Henry would be proud of.

Theo showed glimpses of brilliance early in his career, popping up from time to time with a good performance in his early Arsenal days. However, he was accused of being inconsistent after a series of spotty performances. Recently, his consistency has improved, and he's put in some top quality performances, hinting that he may be close to fulfilling his ultimate potential. It may be that Walcott's time has come.

Toddler Warfare

33. That's the number of 5 year olds I can take in a fight according to a recent survey. If it really came down to it, I think I could take on over 50. I have no problem picking up a doe-eyed, recently weaned adolescent, barely out of diapers, swinging him/her over my head and taking out wave after wave of indefatigable milk-munchers. Imagine the visceral thrill of bowling a whimpering, simpering toddler into 15 other rabid, charging munchkins with only your bodily harm on their pre-pubescent minds. If it came down to it, I believe anyone could take their fair share of 5 year olds. And some of us would enjoy it.

I'm not saying I'm going to walk into the grocery store and uppercut the first small child I see tottering through the cereal aisle. However, if there are 45 of them with gap-toothed snarls brandishing bottles of milk and Batman toys, I have no qualms with seizing the nearest waif I see and hurling him bodily into the group, following it with a Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson-esque leap.

I'm just saying. It could be fun.

Limited Is My Favorite Edition

I've recently begun to stray more and more from traditional shoe stores, opting more for smaller hole-in-the-wall skate shops and non-chain retailers. My preference has shifted from shoes that are widely available to the general public to what those in the know like to call "limited edition" kicks. This highly technical term refers to shoes that are produced in short supply, and only offered for a finite period of time.

I'm a huge fan of unique clothing, especially as it pertains to footwear. I prefer not to wear ridiculous attire, but I do like bold colors and shoes that aren't worn by every other person on the street. That is not to say that if I see a widely worn shoe that strikes my fancy I won't buy it simply because it's a commonplace item, but my preference lies in distinctive vestments if possible.

That being said, recently I've been smitten by Supra Footwear's Skytop shoe. Supra produces their shoe in limited quantities, and they are only available in select skate shops around the country. Their shoes are high quality, comfortable, and most importantly they look good to me. Despite one of my best friends Juan Duque calling the camo Skytops "rain boots", I love them, and I can't wait to snag another pair in a new colorway.

If anyone would like to donate to my shoe cause, I have PayPal and I also take checks. Email me at c.aa.west@gmail.com or just write a comment and I will follow up with you.

Untitled

"It is absolutely silly and unproductive to have a funeral for the word nigger when the actions continue. We need to have a movement to resurrect Brothers and Sisters, not a funeral for niggers. 'Cause niggers don't die."
- "Project Roach"

Recently I've been plagued by, dare I say it, niggerdom. When I say this word, I am not referring to Black people specifically, I'm referring to general ignorance. Whether it be rampant disregard for the rules and general standards of the English language, general inability to behave like civilized humans in public, or simply basic incompetence, I am severely allergic to idiocy. It's not a race thing, it's not a culture thing. It's a people thing.

As much as I am annoyed by incompetence and lack of intelligence, I am conversely buoyed by signs of intelligence I see from time to time. When I am able to hold a good conversation or read something enlightening it lights an internal spark of hope. However, the problem of niggerdom still remains and it's up to those who have the mental acuity and passion for knowledge to carry the torch. I don't mean to insinuate that it's not ok to act foolish from time to time, or have fun all the time, but once the line of coonery is crossed it's time to look around, see if anybody is watching, and quietly jump back into the realm of intelligence without missing a beat.

Without delving too deep in to my feelings, I wanted to give a quick overview on my recent frustrations. If I'm similarly irked, I will share my feelings in more depth.

Sneaker Head

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.

Where's God?

In this blog I've talked a lot about shoes and soccer. Well almost exclusively about shoes and soccer. I tend to talk a lot about these things because they're fun to talk about and they're relatively controversy-free. However, last night, I was thinking about one of my mom's favorite phrases: "Where's God in this?" When I started to write the blog, I intended it just to be an outlet for my extraneous thoughts. It may come across as if all I think about is clothes and sports, but in reality, thats just what I choose to put down on "paper". God is central in my life, and I felt I should address that fact without getting too in depth about my philosophy and views. This blog isn't meant as a serious medium for deep thoughts, just surface ideas.

Anyway, now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'll resume normal shallow content.

Speed Freak

Around 10:30 this morning, out of boredom, I decided to try the infamous coffee bean and see how my body would respond. Around 5 minutes after ingestion of said beverage, my legs --already normally prone to a constant state of movement-- began to go into overdrive as if prepping for the biggest b-boy battle of the year. As I sat at my desk, my fingers twitched at the keyboard, typing explanations to friends on iChat as to why my thoughts were racing faster than the G.W. Bush approval rating rollercoaster (coming this year to Disney). Comically enough, I had no urge to do work at all, the opposite of what coffee drinkers supposedly hope to achieve with their AM consumption of this dangerous liquid.

There's a reason I don't drink caffeinated coffee. I'm already an incredibly hyper person, and the addition of crack (I mean coffee) to that mix just spells nervous energy and crazylegs wrapped into a tightly strung ball of muscles.

As I now begin to come down from my ridiculous coffee "high", I can definitely see why people choose to drink it in the mornings. While I'm quite sure I receive the most extreme effects of coffee --an incredible boost of energy for a much shorter period than normal-- I can understand how coffee's extra push can get many through the day. However, I can also see how people develop a serious addiction to the diabolical little bean. The draw of that additional get-up-and-go with little consequence could be irresistible for many. I just know I won't be in that number. Unless I get really bored.

My New Crush

Alright, I admit it. I've fallen for Supra Skytops. I first saw them around a year ago, and as they were gold (a color I'm not very fond of), I didn't take much notice. However, recently Supras have become my new favorite shoe, followed closely by Nike SB Dunks. Searching the shoe website KicksOnFire.com the past couple weeks, I've run across more and more crazy editions of Supras that caught my fancy, and as it was my birthday a few days ago, I decided to get a pair with some well-earned money I received for staying alive for 22 years.

I walked into the store intending to purchase the white and red Supra Skytop NS (Non Skate) for my closet's benefit, but was immediately greeted with the magic words: "Limited" and "Edition", pertaining to the brand new red patent leather Skytop NSs. Of course, with red being my favorite color, and limited being my favorite edition, I walked out with a brand new pair of Supras and the knowledge that I was only the 2nd person in Charlotte (and possibly the Southeast) to own them.

After I bought the Supras, I had the urge to buy more of the shoe in different colors over the next couple days, but I valiantly fought it off by repeatedly looking at my bank account, gas prices and my phone bill.

More to follow...