"It's... I'm gonna do all the grocery shopping for the White House myself."

I remember the first time I met Kyle Taylor. As I arrived to a meeting of fellow college students with the intention of eating some free food and throwing a smattering of game at assorted comely lasses, a scruffy yet handsome sasquatch of a man approached me from the guacamole bowl. "What's up dude, I'm Kyle," he said with a toothy grin and a hint of mischief in his voice. As I shook his meaty man-hand, he proceeded to thwack me in the 'nads with his left hand, never breaking eye contact. "Welcome!" he said as I so rudely coughed up one of my boys on his shoes... Those shoes. I was transfixed by this perplexing Picasso-esque set of footwear. They closely resembled the type of kicks I could imagine a young Jesus Christ sporting... a sandal that securely wrapped the entire foot with a strap material that looked like it was stolen from a passed out wookie's t-shirt after a long night at Bonnaroo. I chuckled a bit in the midst of the pain. "What the crap are those?", I asked. "These are Chacos, boss", he replied whilst double-dipping a chip in the guac, "God's gift to feet."

Chicks diggit.

Thus began an awkward love affair... not with Kyle (I'm married... to a girl), but to this particular brand of sandal. I was hesitant at first. My traditionally punk rock roots forbade such an eccentric footwear. The webbing and black rubber sole would have clashed tragically with my torn jeans and black t-shirts. As my college years progressed, however, I found that I could no longer resist the call of the Jerusalem cruisers. So, with fear and trembling, I bought my first pair of Chacos on sale for $50.

Immediately I was thrust into a world of magic and adventure. Within the first two weeks of donning these kicks I grew a patchy granola beard, much to the dismay of everyone around me. Showering became optional, as did laundering my haggard Dickies and homemade flannel shirts. I habitually completed my sentences with the word "bro" or some mutation of the word "dude" (i.e. duder, dudestein, duuoouude, dudeness, or dud) and started sizing up buildings, bridges, and road signs by their climbability. Despite my minimal experience in rock climbing, I would pause during my daily stroll to class in front of the art building on the Penn State campus, size up the assortment of pillars and seams between the bricks, spit into a nearby bush and mutter, "I'd handle that dude".

I've since toned down my pursuit of the backcountry granola brah stereotype. But still, every time I strap up those webbing and rubber monsters, my 3 chest hairs grow an extra millimeter, my voice deepens an octave, my hair tangles into a bed-headed train wreck, and I glare at the nearest stone structure... spit... and mutter, "I could send that brah".





Big Ups To:
NYC. Nice 'burgh. Props to Steve, Bjorn, Blake, Eric, Mandy, Derek, that dude who showed me a picture of his Ducati for no reason, assorted cab drivers, the subway system, street meat, schmearing, and all the good folks at Sacred Tattoo.

Listen To Some:
Northstar, "For Members Only Acoustic"

Still Awesome:
Puppies.