Goodbye to that one pair of shoes and that shirt (Eulogy part 1 of 3)

I was out at a bar with some friends about two weeks ago when someone asked me about my shoes, and whatever happened to the Onitsuka Tigers I used to wear (I write slow). As you can probably guess, I don't own a lot of clothes so to have something go missing from my normal rotation stands out. I'd actually gotten rid of them awhile back, but never got around to giving them the proper send-off they deserve. I wrote them a eulogy of sorts at the time, though never got around to typing it out, but better late than never I guess:

Onitsuka Tiger shoes

These shoes I got as a gift from Michelle for my 21st birthday. Actually, as she explained, it was a requirement for getting into Tsukiji's back when it used to not only be around, but also turned into a club on Saturday nights. This was especially true because, and I'm not joking, up until my 21st birthday, I bought ALL of my shoes from Sports Authority (except for the shoes I wore for school). And most of those were running shoes, all of which would eventually become farm shoes once they were beaten up enough to be replaced. However, after putting these shoes on for the first time that night, I knew that they would never meet the same fate. They were too light, too thin, too nice to use for anything but wearing. And, for several years, they served their purpose gallantly, accompanying me many, many nights out and about. They fit great, in a way that said "I work best when just standing in the moment, the one article of clothing that does it's job of making you appear as a reasonably passable male of adult age, but if shit goes down, I'm light-weight and athletic enough to get you the fuck out of here... and to keep my form when we stride into the next bar." (At least, I think that's what they would've said, I'm not good at writing dialogue). That night I first got them we wandered back and forth from Tsukijis and Mai Tais and the parking lot smoking area, they crushed several chain-smoked cigarettes, and half-walked, half-dragged (okay, mostly dragged) my useless body back to Michelle's couch. My most memorable event involving these shoes, though, is the night I threw up on them after karaoke at Blue Ribbon. It was one of those nights that I didn't drive, so at the end of the night we all piled into a friend's minivan. I forgot that I get carsick relatively easily, especially after drinking what apparently qualified as "too much", so when we stopped I just jumped out, not caring if it was my stop or not, and started puking up everything. Apparently, it wasn't my stop, nor was I completely off the road, but rather in the thin strip of road marked as a "bike lane." I remember hearing someone say, "Alan, there's a car coming," before I saw the headlights right on me. What happened next is still a mystery. Everyone confirms there was a sound as the car passed by, a "Thwok" if I had to figure out a word for it. Now I can't say if it was car mirror whacking my arm and I was too drunk to feel it, or (more likely) if it caught part of my too-large t-shirt, or something to do with the wind as the car sped passed. The only thing I do know is that I threw up all over my shoes, which I washed the next evening as I ended up getting dragged to the farm the next day and didn't get around to the shoes until later, just in time to scrub the caked vomit, dried from spending all day in the sun, off of them. Before letting them go, it was kind of like I was just walking on the cement barefoot, with maybe an inch of cardboard between my feet and the ground.


Also, while I'm doing this, I'd actually written one for that one polo shirt I wore everywhere:

I'm still not sure where or when I even got this shirt, it just feels like one of those things that I've always had. For all I know, I could've had it since high school (it's not as if I've bought a different size of clothing since I turned 16). I do know that I didn't buy it, I assume it was probably a Christmas gift from a relative who wanted me to start dressing nicer (which honestly, may not narrow it down too much). In the beginning I hated it, which was basically my attitude toward anything that wasn't a t-shirt. It was just something I kept around in case I needed it/because it still fit. I'm still not sure how it got into my suitcase to Japan. But that's where I found it's purpose: as the one thing that I owned nicer than a t-shirt, but more comfortable than the one button-down shirt I owned. Because when you're nervous about going to someplace you've never been before, it's best to have something comfortable to wear ... so it's easier to run away in case the need presents itself. And that night it got me through, completely sober, for my first-time in a nightclub (drunken Alan wouldn't awaken until a couple months later). Since I'm not good at taking pictures, I needed to skim through Facebook to find a picture of me in this shirt (also because I dumped it before I remembered to take a picture of it for this piece) and, in my search I also managed to find an image from that night

And that reminded me of this story: We were hanging out at a bar before heading to the club. I was wearing that shirt. Everyone left the bar to go... someplace (I don't really remember) and so I started talking with two of our dormmates that had come with us that I didn't really know. Then they started talking to each other in Korean and I was effectively out of the conversation. Bored, I started watching the bar TV. A drunk, Japanese guy started talking to me. Honestly, at first I really thought he wanted to talk about the soccer game on the TV (it was a sports bar, sort of). Then he started leaning closer, which I thought was because it was loud at the bar and he couldn't hear me talking about the game. His friend managed to pull him away before he got his hand going any further down my back. Besides the shirt's role as Alan's one slightly nicer shirt, it also made it's way into the rotation of polo-shirts I wear for work (I was told the dress code was long pants and a collared shirt, and I've followed it to the minimum for the past 6 years). With it's weekly use though, I'm certain that's how those two holes started forming in the back of the shirt. Worst part, since I dress in the dark and typically wear a jacket all day because the office is freezing, I didn't actually notice the holes until I was turning it inside-out when my finger got caught in one of the holes (not the bigger of the two). Then I realized it was time to retire the shirt. Since then, I've yet to find a shirt to replace it. Sure, I've got a bunch of other polo shirts, but none like that one. It was oddly soft and comfortable (all the other ones I've got are heavier in material), and it fit exactly how I wanted it to fit, which is probably not how a shirt should fit, but I still liked it. You will be are missed.