There’s a natural order to shoes. Well-heeled shoes stay useful and youthful into the ages with light duty; they enjoy pampering and sometimes a bit of a nip ‘n tuck to an entire undercarriage overhaul. Athletic shoes live only for their sport. Specialty athletic shoes are rendered useless in as little as one season or until they are retired as new agents are brought into the club.

It’s a quirky topic that can hook any straight man who mows their own lawn, “lawn-mowing shoes”.  There’s no such thing as new shoes for mowing lawns.  One starts with a pair of casual shoes - with use, the passage of time, and the purchase of new shoes there comes a point where these shoes are still viable albeit not presentable.

My trusty shoes that walked the halls of the Vatican, skipped along the canals of Amsterdam, and walked up an off-ramp on the Philippine National Highway after being dropped off by a PARTAS bus… now bear the green hue of lawn care. Though hardly the vision of the designer who labeled and marketed the shoes, it’s a testament to how versatile a fashion shoe can be. Though I doubt that the Milanese style houses realize where casual shoes go to die; I’m sure that there will come a time where a roughed canvas, grass stained rubber, worn-soled shoe will grace the glossy pages of magazines.

I am a trusting person and I hold a lot of faith in the good of mankind.  I trust that nobody wants to enslave or be enslaved, I trust that we all have it in us to resolve conflicts through compromise, I believe that there’s a surplus of kindness and love in the world that can be sourced to resolve all of our problems.  On the micro-level… I don’t trust anyone.  I was taught not to assume that help will come to me and the world is what I make of it.  Naturally, I have cultivated this into a careful blend of congeniality and sociophobia.

This afternoon, as I stood in front of the microwave waiting for my food, a woman walked in and retrieved her lunch from the refrigerator.  She produced a container of curried rice out of her lunch carrier then lined up the rest of her items on the table, I guessed to pass the time.  Visibly hurried she looked at me, looked at the countdown on the microwave, looked at her food, then back at the jicama salad I had in my hands.  She asked if I had to warm up the container that I was holding.  I shook my head, but before I could verbalize ‘no, this is just a salad’ she cut me off with both hands out like a mime feeling a wall.

Curtly, the woman said “Can you put this in the microwave for me?  Two minutes, I’ll be right back.” and hustled out of the room.

I wondered to myself, what is stopping me from messing with this woman’s food?  What is perfect revenge to being casually rude and assuming my benevolence?  Unfortunately, it’s not farting into the container or leaving any trace of vileness that could be submitted later for dna analysis. No the clear solution was blogging about the situation, learning to trust in people as much as they trust in me…  and putting bhut jolokia [link] extract on my shopping list.

I cannot attest to the Butter Nut Bakery in Metro-Detroit, but according to this sign they are worth risking their shelf-life. I have decided that today, is not the day to find out.

I was warned about leaky valve cover gaskets.  I should have known, oil leaks off of the valves and onto the top hose of the radiator.  Oil causes the organic compounds in rubber to break down, leaving it brittle and prone to cracks.  I was driving home and heard a loud pop which I mistook as a rock hitting the undercarriage.

I managed to park near the house and thought nothing of it.  My neighbor, a line-worker by trade, walked over to me.  He’s knew what happened from the sound of the car, and I knew by my temperature gauge and the plumes of smoke pouring out of the hood - it was something to do with the radiator.

We chatted there - talking about the noise, the leak, the heat, the manifold, and how I was lucky not have blown the head gasket.  I normally don’t have bonding moments with straight men, but this was a real rarity.  We talked about the mechanics of cars, the placement of parts to making it difficult to fix things yourself, and the high cost of labor… all while he held his baby.   The only thing that could have made this a more masculine site is if a child of my own came running asking what the spectacle was all about as I sparked a cigar and explained in kid-terms what a radiator does.

Butchness left at the side-street, I went into the house and dropped off my groceries.  After a quick nelly passive-aggressive phone call to snuff about having the car fixed months ago when he had the time to take into a shop, I cowboyed-up was on my way to the corner gas.  Never above second gear and with the heater and fan cranked all the way so as not to use what coolant was left in the system. 

Maybe it’s because I grew up in the motor city, maybe it’s because I have so many people around me that know about cars, or maybe… I can be butch too.