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Hang ten, surfers of the information superhighway! Today we’re taking a break from our regularly scheduled programming of hyper expensive workwear and jackets that resemble kimonos to drool over these Puma RS-X FDs (available in the extravagantly named Fair Aqua/Ponderosa Pine colorway). Admittedly, I’m not much of a sneaker head, so I don’t really know what to look for in a pair of modern tennis shoes. That I still think of them as “tennis shoes” is likely a dead giveaway that I don’t spend much time skimming sneaker blogs or waiting in line outside of Undefeated for the latest drops. My last sneaker purchase was a pair of Vans SK8-HIs , because I like to dress as though, at the tender age of thirty-one, I might just up and learn kickflips, despite the fact that I haven’t successfully landed a trick (aside from the odd, poorly popped ollie) in upwards of a decade. Although the gentlemen over at Braille Skateboarding might disagree, I think I’m just too old for that shit. Every time I envision myself getting back on a board, in my mind’s ear, I hear the sound of all the tendons in my ankle ripping free from the bone and subsequently conclude that the entire notion is pure folly. When people say “That guy shreds!” I don’t want them to be referring to my ligaments. Indeed, I should probably just cop a pair of these Pumas that look like the floor of an expressionist painter’s studio and cease my fantasies of carving up the streets, before I endure some sort of life-changing injury. I’m sure there’s a joke juxtaposing the paint splatter effect with the urban colloquialism “drip” to be found somewhere in there, but I’m too lazy to go spelunking for that kind of humor today. As much as I strive to be au courant and conversant in the parlance of our times, I’m often overwhelmed by the misanthropic whims of the bitter curmudgeon that dwells in the depths of my brain like a crotchety old homunculus. His real name is Myron Curtis Bailey, but he goes by Jack for reasons I'll never understand. I fully acknowledge that this blog could be used as evidence to have me committed to a psychiatric ward against my will and yet I persist in publishing it. Or maybe Jack’s been publishing it all along. What a fucking plot twist. Take that M. Night -RB
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