Friday, September 17, 2010
The hippies thought the shoes were "mad money". That's a good thing, right?
As my infatuation with bowling grew, I began to feel like I needed an outfit that warned the general public that I had come not only lacking the basic skills to be an average bowler, but that I reveled in and enjoyed my mediocrity. I wanted my friends to pony up the money to get matching bowling shirts but no one felt the same exuberance and affinity that I did for bowling. So I lowered my sights from shirts to pants to simply shoes. I knew what the shoes had to look like. They had to be 2 parts rockabilly flames and 1 part stolen bowling shoes. I did a lot of things the average good Samaritan would frown upon when I was younger, and stealing bowling shoes was certainly one of them. But I needed some bowling shoes, and Sam's Town wanted to loan them to me indefinitely.
After I had procured a well worn, stinky pair of size 11 bowling shoes, I took them to my airbrushing friend to give them the appropriate flames that would shoot their state of existence from aged and stinky to what the equally stinky hippies in Flagstaff that saw my shoes called "mad money". Confusedly, I took that as a good thing. And after Andy worked his voodoo magic on my shoes, they were every part the side arm to my loan ranger, the garish gold jewelry to my Mr. T, the furry thong to my He-Man. I loved those shoes. I still do. Only, now I can merely love one of them. The left one, to be specific.
Awhile ago I was cleaning up the garage and put the other shoe, the right shoe, in a box that i intended to sort through and give the bulk of its contents to the Salvation Army. Somehow the box found its way to the porch where an unaware Salvation Army representative found it unbeknownst to him containing half of the holiest pair of bowling shoes ever worn. They say the pope and many preachers love to wear insanely expensive Italian shoes. I say fuck that! These shoes screamed brimstone and fire. Remember that Ozzy song "Miracle Man"? No? Well i washed plenty of dishes to it, so I do. He mentions brimstone and fire in that song, and you know that he's talking of that deep south, raise the roof off the sucka evangelical madness, and with the right hair, and right suit, these shoes would have completed the preacher ensemble.
Oh right, the Salvation Army....anyways so I immediately notice that the box was gone, along with my shoe. I called the Salvation Army and proceeded to have the following conversation with operator, who may have had the best intentions but did little more than mock my anguishing over my lost right shoe.
Salvation Army Operator: Salvation Army
Luke: Yes, I'm calling about a box that was accidentally picked up, that contained a shoe of mine.
Salvation Army Operator: A single shoe sir? Why do you want a single shoe back?
Luke: Well, it's a bowling shoe that I have certain connections to. I feel very strongly about that shoe.
Salvation Army Operator;: What does the shoe look like? Can you describe it for me?
At this point I realized she was fucking with me, and had no intention of helping me find my shoe. She just wanted me to pour out my heart about the shoes flames and yellow laces, which I did. She also started laughing, not out right belly laughing, but subdued laughing not unlike the sort that goes on at funerals or weddings when you shouldn't be laughing. I made a mental note of this as to remember what charity should and shouldn't get my old Motley Crue shirts and corduroy pants when the appropriate time arrives.
Salvation Army Operator: Flames? Wow, that sounds like a fancy shoe. Thing is, we gets thousands of items everyday and to search through dozens of trucks to find a single shoe is probably not something any of our workers would want to do.
Luke: Well can't you put out an A.P.B., you know, to really get the word out?
Salvation Army Operator: Sir, we're not the police, that's not what we do. I can ask around and maybe one of the truckers might have seen the shoe, but I'd say your chances of getting the shoe back are probably very slim. I'm sorry darlin'.
Needless to say, when it came time to part with my Motley Crue tour shirts and extensive collection of corduroy pants, the Salvation Army was not notified. It's hard to keep an eternal middle fingered extended in the general direction of a charitable organization, but I try my best. Oh lord do I try.
My beloved right, flame covered bowling shoe, RIP