neocon fashion show part 2

The One Less Traveled By, At Least in Velcro Shoes

So, I've been measuring the value of my life by how bloggy it's been lately. Even when I was studying for the dread pirate Bar Exam, I had stuff to say, but this long spiral into gainfully employed machinehood hasn't quite had the same effect. At one point last week, I even typed a dramatic screed against the Oakland Public Works Agency for their preoposterous, pro-environmental policies: if your grabage doesn't fit entirely within the miniature garbage cans they've issued you, they don't take it; if your broken mop handle protrudes from the top, they take it out and leave it on the sidewalk--then challenge you to schedule an additional pick-up with them at the rate of $6 per item/bag. Can you imagine this happening in New York? One Friday night, this tyranny led me to the ignominy of having to pile trash into my car and unload it into a dumpster in an abandoned part of town. Sorry, that was screed redux.

Anyway, I haven't had a whole lot to say. Job's been okay; not much to report. I did call my boss Matt the other day, though his name's Mike. That wasn't smooth, but one of my colleagues set me at ease: "90% of the people here mispronounce your name. What's the big deal?" During my BART commute in the morning, I've been reading Revolutionary Road and trying to tell myself that the protagonist--a 29-year-old corporate commuter with vanquished hopes and dreams--is not the cause for the clanging in my soul.

Alas, in the absence of any other fascinating bits to share, I share yet another sartorial question: Can I bring back velcro? Or would doing so be a gross mismeasure of footwear irony? See above.

Kicks?

I'm thinking about getting these shoes. Are Campers lame? What do you think? What do you think Tim Gunn would think?