Endtyme is Finished! Wow, That's a Weird Thing to Say . . .

So, what have I been up to?  Oh, not much, dear reader, but thanks for asking.  Mostly the usual: spider attacks, river bank beers, educating the masses, trying and failing to watch wrestling on Youtube.  Same old same old, as they say.  Well, except for one thing.


. . .


At this point I would assume an awkward silence has descended over the area around your computer.  Pretty much like the last third of every M Night Shyamalan movie ever.


So, anyway . . .


My new book is out!  It's called Endtyme: My Apocalypse and Me, and is my second full length novel (no big deal). It took me three years and three countries to write.  Started in Taiwan, made awesome whilst cavorting in Mallorca, and finished in Congo.  It was released on May 1st and is available to buy here.  There will be a Kindle version along shortly for you cheap sumbitches.  Check out the sexy cover art:

My brother can really rock the track pants.

It's a (hopefully) humorous story about the end of the world and one man's quest to crawl out of the wretched cycle of sweatpants and the kind of vodka that comes in plastic bottles.  Endtyme has already sold a whopping ten copies so you know there is some quality stuff there.  In addition, every purchase entitles the buyer to a free beer of their choice at some nebulously defined point in the future.


So yeah, I know this has been a pretty plug heavy edition of the rage cage, but I can make it up to you, dear reader.  I have at least two good stories to tell about events of the past week and shall pass them on to you in due course.  In the meantime, if you're cast adrift without my soothing words and witty insights to chart your path (sort of like Tom Hanks in Joe Vs the Volcano, after he is stranded on the luggage . . . man, what a great movie), then I know the perfect fix:  buy my book, you bastards.  If you don't like it I will give you three fist bumps and a Sam Adams.


Tune in next week when I will reveal the best line that should be in a romantic comedy starring Drew Barrymore ever!

The Long Goodbye

Living overseas is a wonderful experience, dear reader.  You get the privilege of seeing amazing things, meeting wonderful people, having your worldview challenged on a daily basis, and going through the kind of life altering changes that, were they to happen on prime time TV, would be accompanied by a Tori Amos song and some sort of smoke effects.  Maybe even a wind machine, if it’s classy.

In my seven years abroad I think my life has been changed forever at least 47 times, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse, but always for the interesting.  I truly feel like it has made me a stronger person and allowed me to come to grips with much of the emotional baggage I had been carrying around, like my childhood traumas and relative lack of calf muscles. 

And now, after living in Myanmar, Taiwan, and Congo, I am getting ready to move to a new country, a new job, and a new world.  I will meet new friends, have new experiences, and hopefully not end up breaking up a fight between an undead robot and a mummy with acidic flesh melting powers.

Greatest movie about a mummy and an undead robot fighting Mexican grave robbers ever made?  Probably.  At least top 5.

So, reader, life is good. 

Wait- what?  Catch, you say?

What catch?

Oh, THAT catch.

For every new world, for every new friend, there is a long goodbye.  Now that I am moving on to my fourth country I have been tallying up a long list of farewells and departure high fives, and it is getting to the point where I am afraid to look at it.  At each place I have left behind friends- friends that I would consider family if I could know them for longer.  I remember the last nights watching Fawlty Towers in Myanmar with Big Dan Bones, the final karaoke sessions with Ben, Pete and Luc (Highway Star!), and those embraces/goodbyes with Rayna, Bauman, Courtney, and like fifty other people.  Some of them I still talk with regularly, some I hear from on Facebook, and some have drifted away into the void like that one kick ass Twilight Zone episode.

In Taiwan I spent one of my last nights with Allison and Jeremiah, a great couple who arrived in the country on the same day as me, helped me through some difficult times (mostly involving my boss trying to replace me with his wife), and always, ALWAYS, made me feel welcome in their home.  That last night Jeremiah went to like three different restaurants to find my favorite foods and beers, and it was a sad ride down in the elevator afterwards.  They are in Nepal now and have a baby I have never met (oh god cheap plug for their blog here).   Hopefully one day soon our paths will cross.

Last Friday I threw my last TASOK rager.  It was a fantastic time but also very bittersweet.  I know, realistically, I will never see most of these people again, and over the years that knowledge gets harder and harder to take.  I have had some great times with people and made some good friends.  I would like to think I have carved out some kind of greasy legacy here, and over the next 10 years I hope at least one of the four kids I hung out with regularly develops an unexplainable urge to listen to Fear Factory and/or GWAR, but who knows?

Sometimes teaching overseas is like that parable that is in every grandparent’s bathroom ever- the one with Jesus on the beach with that lazy dude, except when you look back the tide has come in so your footprints have been washed away.  And Jesus is playing Angry Birds on his iPod.  And there is probably a bonfire somewhere.  It’s the kind of deal where you can be surrounded by people doing the same thing but still feel super alone, like watching The Lorax with a room full of Tea Party activists.

You damned socialist.

So it’s hard- you have to balance the lust for adventure, the craving for the unknown, with knowledge that, at some point, if you keep saying goodbye to everyone you’ll end up dying alone somewhere while watching an incomprehensible South American game show.   

Or something.

You get the idea.  Hey, I always get morbid towards the end of the year, so don’t mind me.

What’s my point?  Well, I dunno, I kind of lose track of things sometimes, but I guess that in a few weeks I’ll be saying goodbye to a great group of friends again.  To all those people, thank you for letting me into your life, in whatever capacity.  If I sweated or bled on any of you I apologize, but only a little, because one can’t fight nature. 

I hope we will get a chance to meet again.  

Especially if we could do it like an old western:

I am sitting at a bar in some god forsaken corner of the world, nursing a gritty beer, and a shadow crosses over the table.  I look up, squinting at the sun which for some reason is indoors, and you are staring down at me, your eyes red with . . . something.  Anger?  Sadness?   Allergies?  You scratch the long scar running down the left side of your face, spit on the dirt floor and speak with a voice made of broken glass.  “Lippart, you son of a bitch”.

Man, that’d be sweet.

Lemme Tell You Something Brother . . .

So in a few months I will be leaving behind the jungle of Kinshasa for the urban jungle of Cairo (as announced here!).  I am currently deciding what I will bring with me to my new home and what will stay behind, either given to people or planted in their house when they're not looking, Cloak and Dagger style.

One thing that is interesting about being an international gadabout, other than miles of visa paperwork and being on a first name basis with flight attendants from Belgium, is the issue of luggage.  You spend a few years making a home, getting things the way you like it, and covering the scary mold patches.  Once it's all set up it's usually time to move so you have to dump most of your stuff and start all over again somewhere else, minus a few bits and pieces.  Thankfully I only own about three things, including my teacher pants, so it usually isn't a big issue with me, but nonetheless  you always have to decide: what stays and what goes?

Over the years I have given away or sold various paintings, cars, jackets, video games, comics, weird nobbly bits, and assorted musical instruments.  I have probably divested myself of more things since moving out of Santa Fe than I have owned at any point prior to that.  

One thing I have always kept with me, though.

One companion who has been all over the world.

Like me he has survived cyclones, riots, earthquakes, and really creepy centipedes.

He has been a source of wisdom.  Of strength.  Of constancy in uncertain times.

I am speaking, of course, of my vintage Hulk Hogan Pillow Buddy.

Here is the first picture I took upon my arrival in Kinshasa almost two years ago:

Hulk is a fighter, but also a lounger.

I've always loved the Hulkster.  I mean, how can you not?  Look at that mustache.  He should get a lifetime Movember championship belt.  

And how many men could rock the boas?

He also has had a profound influence on my approach to laundry:

Let's be honest: who hasn't wanted to do this at least once?  Or dozens and dozens of times?

Some of my earliest memories involve Hulk Hogan, either telling me to say my prayers and take my vitamins, or watching him drop the big leg on such monsters as King Kong Bundy, Big Boss Man, Earthquake, and, of course, OF COURSE, Andre the Giant.

Andre the Giant was, in the world of wrestling, Hogan's best, most loyal friend.  They had been together as allies  for years.

True confession time:  I remember watching on TV the night Andre betrayed Hogan during Piper's Pit.  I was nine years old, and got so mad, so upset at what happened, that I was sent to my room for a "Time Out".  I recall going into the bedroom I shared with my brothers (we were living with my grandma at the time) and, wiping tears and little boy snot from my face, writing Hogan an earnest letter to tell him that no matter what, I was still his friend, and Andre was being mean.

"Hulk, Hulk . . . you're bleeding.  Come on."  Chills, chills, I tell you.

Oh man, to this day, when I watch that, I wanna punch Bobby Heenan in his damn face.  What a manipulator.  What a scheming, soulless, unfeeling monster of a man.

He should have been a senator.

Or school administrator.  

I also remember driving from New Jersey to New Mexico after the summer of my freshman year in college.  My friend Giovanna was with me and, for the entire 28 + hour road trip, we played one cd on the stereo.  The entire time.  Which one, you ask, you beautiful, inquisitive bastards?

Hulk Rules, by Hulk Hogan and the Wrestling Boot Band, of course.  

Say what you will about his musical abilities (although he is a pretty good bass player), but there is no way that anyone will listen to the awesome balladry of "Hulkster in Heaven" and not want to immediately run out to a Karaoke bar, rock that song, rip off your shirt, and drop a big leg through a table:

I bet you're humming the chorus right now.  Well, at least I am.

By the end of the trip we had every word of every song memorized.  We would even sing it when the cd wasn't playing.  We had entered into a divine rapture, some kind of Dionysian madness where a strange tripartite was formed: me, her, and the lurking, shadowy Hulkster.  For a period of nine hours  we only spoke to each other using lyrics from the CD.  It was beautiful.  

The best part?  I don't think she'd ever seen him wrestle before.

Such is the appeal of Hulk Hogan.  The good news is that the legacy of Hulkamania will live on through the younger generation, as the following story will prove. 

When Lulu (read about our encounters here) and Eli came over for a play date a few weeks ago she grabbed the Hulkster, as she is wont to do, and came over to me.  She held him up for my inspection and said "he is so tall and handsome!"  I nodded my approval and went over to play Wii Tennis with Eli.  

When my back was turned, however, the true, undying power of Hulkamania burst forth like the tearing of a hundred shirts.

Behold: caught in the act.

Like a leg drop to the heart.

Rise of the Phoenix

It's all symbolic and junk.

Oh god, dear readers, I apologize.  I have left you all in the lurch, like an abominably cute feline hanging on a clothesline or jet fuselage, minus the pithy words and rushed lamination.

I am sure you have been on the edge of your seats, enduring sleepless nights and haunted days, wondering what is going on with little old me. 

Here is what I assume has been happening the past month, for at least five of you- the five who are classy enough to actually talk like this. 

And are living in 1912.

“No, I am sorry, my husband”, you probably purred sexily, “I cannot engage in relations with you tonight, for I am troubled.”

“Why fore, my wife?  Surely not the malady of the stomach, which has kept you confined as of late?”  He flicked off the phonograph and stood at attention, his hands firmly ensconced in the pockets of his waistcoat.

“Because, love, the proprietor of The Rage Cage has not found a situation yet.”

“Oh, posh.”  He took off his monocle, held  it up against the light, and wiped it slowly upon your bustle.  This was a gesture you had grown to resent.  You would surely bring it up at the next woman’s suffrage meeting.  “For gainful employment, he should attend upon an apprenticeship, perhaps down at Brown’s haberdashery.  Why, in this day and age, a man could be whatever he would like.  He could buy a motorcar.  He could take a train.  He could be an honest man . . . provided he isn't Irish, of course.”

Is that cholera in your pocket, or are you just . . . oh dear god, it is cholera.

“Well, of course, love.  Oh, perish the thought- an Irishman.”  You shudder and worry you might be coming down with consumption.  Whatever that is.  “But, at the employment fair, he did not find much success, and returned without a placement-”

“-Nothing to be found at the employment fair?  Shocking, my dear!” 

You nod while biting your tongue, fighting the urge to ask him not to repeat everything you've just said in the form of a question.

“Yes, dear.  He turned down gainful employment to pursue his dream of-”

“Turned down gainful employment?  Dreams?  What is this nonsense?  Is he a man, or an addict, sucking on the juice of the poppy like the  . . . like the dregs of the fifth quarter?”

“I know, dear.  But, forsooth!  Or something!  He has updated his blog.”  You begin feeding ticker tape into the large calculating machine which neither of you has noticed before.  You make a note to stop adding that elixir to the meeting for the Temperance Society.

“Updating?  Blog?  What is a blog?”  He examined his wife for signs of jaundice, surely caused by her temperance meeting.  Or gypsies.

“Like a newspaper, but on the internet.  Where you post pictures, videos, links, all of that.”

He clutched his hand to his heart and thought of England.

“Well, what does it say?”

Momentarily united in purpose, he looked over her shoulder to peer into the murky screen in front of them.  Your last thought before the author pulled the plug on this dubious literary experiment was that your husband’s breath smelled of shoe polish.  You make a mental note to hide the shoes in a more circumspect location.

Okay, so, what happened with me?

I have big news, dear, supportive, patient reader.

Bigger than that.

But not that.  Somewhere in the middle, I'd say.

Wait for it . . .

 . . . 

I have a job!

As discussed last time, I had turned down several teaching jobs in an attempt to get a chance at an admin position.  This was risky, for reasons outlined before.  Many well-meaning friends alternated between telling me to take whatever I could get or offering to get me work at their various places of employment.  While these kindnesses warmed my cynical heart, that wasn't the direction I wanted to go in, so I held out.

And kept holding.

Thankfully the world spun my way and I had the chance to do a series of interviews with a particular school.  They seemed very supportive and welcoming; for my part I think I came across pretty well.   Towards the end of February they offered me a position as a Middle School Assistant Principal, which was exactly what I wanted in the first place.

Ironically enough (maybe- irony is so tricky) one of the reasons given for my hiring was due to my experience teaching during “difficult” times (as explained in great detail here!).  They thought my positive attitude could help bring a sense of safety and support to the teachers, students, and parents at the school.  I am not inclined to disagree, so hopefully we are both right.  It will be a big adjustment for me, moving from the ranks of teaching to a more formalized leadership position.  There are moments when I worry I will make mistakes, when I worry I will lose the friendships I have made so easily with teachers over the years, and when I am afraid that, at crucial moments, I will make the wrong choices.  But I am eager for the opportunity and I think I have many good qualities to offer as a leader, not even including my one or two abs.

There is much rejoicing in The Rage Cage.

I spent a month stricken with doubt, not sure if, in turning down other positions, I had made a huge mistake (but not the funny Arrested Development kind).  In the end, however, it was worth it.  Since making the announcement I have gotten many words of congratulations, advice, and people who have never taught before asking me to get them teaching jobs for next year.  I am sincerely grateful for two out of those three things, but will allow you to pick which two.

So after two wonderful years in Congo, I am moving on.  To Cairo!  Land of pyramids, sand, hopefully beer, and definitely good times.   I have already been researching Egyptian heavy metal bands and have found some solid ones. 

All is well.

What is the lesson here?  What can you, enlightened reader, take away from this story?  Well, first of all, people should always listen to Hellhammer, because he has not, as of yet, steered me wrong.  And two, or three, or whatever number we’re on, it’s okay to hold out for what you want sometimes.  Even when it gets scary and you have multiple people telling you to settle.

Last time we ended with a quote from Hellhammer.  I thought it only fitting to present wise words from another great, unsung philosopher:

Fair Enough.

So I have arrived safely back in Congo after an eventful ten day sojourn in the good ol’ US of A.  For all three of you that were worried for me rest assured that I am alive and relatively well, and this time I did not contract Jersey eye.  It is, of course, par for the course that the day I reach Boston is the day of their biggest storm in more than thirty years, but that is how life works here in the Rage Cage (oh god, someone make me a T Shirt!).

What was I doing in Boston, you may ask?  Well, I had gone to find a new job.  As the five regular readers of my blog know I am an international educator and part time raconteur.  While the former occupation has allowed me to travel all over the world, see crazy things, and have some of the most powerful, life changing, “movie will be made about it starring (probably) Naomi Watts and Mark Wahlberg (but only if he brings back the shirts from Boogie Nights)” experiences of my young life, the last few years I have been actively striving to make a change for myself.  I have been feeling for a while that I ready to branch out from teaching and toss my hat into a new arena.

This past summer I finally completed my admin certification coursework and walked away with a shiny new MA in Educational Leadership (listen to my graduation speech here for the fifth time!  It only gets better.  Play the diligence drinking game!) This is my second Masters, but unlike my first (Eastern Philosophy/Classical Chinese) this degree can probably be used for more than trying to make awkward conversation with the Korean lady at the bowling alley.

This Herculean task completed I made the decision that I would actively seek an administration position, come whatever may.  This is what has compelled me to leave my current job in sunny, spider filled Congo, and this is also why I was in Boston last week, as a job candidate at the big Cambridge Search Associates fair.

Now, for those who don’t know, these international job fairs are a way to bring schools and teachers together in such a way that face to face interviews are possible for people living on opposite sides of the globe.  Of course this is set up in one of the most stressful ways possible, and over these weekends there are always plenty of tears, anger, elbow drops, and drunken vomiting inside of potted plants in the lobby at 3 am.  That being said, however, for certain positions (like admin) it is thus far the best way to go, projectile bodily fluids and maddening rage aside. 

I came prepared.  I borrowed ties from people classier than me, did practice interviews, researched schools, shaved my killer mountain man beard and felt generally ready to bring the thunder upon arrival.  I was articulate, well groomed, and able to spout off the kind of teacher lingo that would make a curriculum coordinator at a New England charter school reach for her smelling salts.

When I say pedagogy, it has nine syllables.

Did I get a job?

Nope. 

Got some good stories, though.  I was told by one school that I wasn't tall enough to be a principal (should have worn the goldfish pimp shoes),  had another school ask about my eyes (which is always fun, as explained here), and was offered a “leadership position” as a pool maintenance manager.

It wasn't all bad though.  Even though I spent thousands of dollars and traveled thousands of miles to get told that I was essentially Bill Murray from Caddyshack, there were some positives.  I got a chance to see some of my oldest, bestest friends in Jersey City, along with my big brother.  Also, I got to be there when a few of my TCNJ friends joyfully received their first overseas contracts.  To see their eyes light up and the excitement bloom on the faces reminded me of myself, back when I had less randomly sprouting shoulder and ear hair.  I knew going in that I would have a hard time finding anything, given my lack of “on paper” experience, so things went reasonably like I had expected. 

Oh, and the storm happened.  There was some snow involved, which didn't help.

That'll buff right out.

So now what?  Is this the end of the line for gorgeous, sweaty me?

“But hold on!” you might be saying.  

Hopefully you are also in chaps.  

If not, I can wait.  

“Don’t you have a job now?”  

Why yes, you quick chapper you, I totally do, but I told them in October I wouldn't be returning next year.  

“Huh.  Well, did you get any teaching offers at the fair?”

Oh, I totally did.  I had some before the fair, as well.

“Oh, sweet.  So at least you-”

But I turned them down.

“You jackass.  And I wore these chaps for you.”

I know, I know.  I love the look, by the way. 

Maybe I am making a huge mistake, dear reader.  Perhaps I’m setting myself up for a colossal failure.  I might end up like that dude in Dead Presidents without the killer soundtrack.  It wouldn't be the first time I have gone out on a limb and failed miserably at something (read here for an example!).  On the other hand, I figured I would give it a shot.  I have been teaching now for twelve years and I think it’s time I try to move up the leadership ladder, as they say.  It’s a scary thing, sometimes, to take such a big chance.  There is a big, sexy part of me that is worried, for sure, about my future.  Maybe, at this time next year, this blog will recount my tales of working as the creepy guy who sits too close to everyone on subways.  

Who dares, wins.

There is another part of me that will always remember, in moments of uncertainty and doubt, the words of that wisest of sages, Hellhammer:  "Sometimes you have to jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down."

And if we can’t trust Hellhammer, who can we trust?

May your light forever burn.  Also, (Censored- gotta keep it PG, haha) is a killer song.

From The Mouths of Babes Part III: Awakenings

Wow, it’s been almost a month since I last reported in, dear neglected reader.  Sorry for the delay.  So, what’s new with me?  Well, not much.  In a few days I am off to Boston for a big job fair in an attempt to bring my newly acquired MA in Educational Leadership to the fore.   I have a few interesting leads but it has been a stressful, busy, and reasonably soul crushing time thus far so hopefully I will return a new man next week, self esteem back on top, pants firmly off, and the japery returned to its usual ridiculousness.   You may either wish me luck from afar or wish me beer from three feet away, depending on your circumstances and arm length.

Oh, and I also got this kick ass Star Trek book, complete with a light up stand and the soothing voice of George Takei, that magnificent bastard. 

That's right, ladies.  And there's more where that came from.

It has inspired me to go back and watch all of Star Trek, from the beginning.  I am currently on The City On The Edge Of Forever.  

Oh, how I love crazy McCoy.

Quite possibly the worst "O" face in recorded history.

But enough about me- I can feel your mind wandering away from my delicious abs and wondering where the action is.

Hopefully that isn't true.

Lacking any particular muse on this balmy Saturday afternoon I turn to my usual wellspring of inspiration, the delightful children of Mama Congo (check out their blog here!  It's just like mine, except it's topical and much, much less self absorbed).  As you may recall from past entries I have had many illuminating encounters with these kiddos (as recounted here, here, and dear God here!).  Last week was no exception. 

This is a story about a plastic purse and a little girl.  

About the power of the human mind to categorize, plan, and anticipate.

 About the funniness that usually ensues while watching a living thing begin to develop into something more than a ball of giggles, jimmy legs,  and awkward vomit trajectories.

It takes place during Festivus.

What, they don’t celebrate Festivus where you come from?  Well, it was a good time and did indeed devolve quickly, as such affairs tend to do.  It ended with people leaping off the top of the soccer goal posts onto a wretchedly foul “safety mat”.   Everyone kept their pants on this time, however, so good, completely non pseudo erotic times were had by all, complete with no inner thigh on inner thigh man touching.

This time, at least.

So anyway I was lounging poolside during the Airing of Grievances when young Lulu came and sat down next to me rather primly.  She waved and joined me in looking out over the pool where a few kiddos were being towed around by what looked like either random adults or the greatest, most advanced pool toys I have ever seen.  I sipped my beer while Lulu took a pull from whatever was in her glass.  I assume it was some type of Mimosa because she’s classy like that.

One of the kids saw her, got out of the pool, and came up to our chairs, sharing greetings and drops of water.  As she went back into the water without jumping on anyone's head (a Festivus miracle!) Lulu looked none too pleased.

She gazed up at me , her brow furrowing itself into that introspective mask which she wears about 85% of the time.  I assume that somewhere in the depths of her young mind she is composing one hell of a list.

“She got my purse wet.”

She held up this small plastic purse, pink of course- more like a clutch actually (yeah I know what a clutch is- don't judge me) for my perusal.  A few stray drops adorned the surface, glistening under the stars in a way I completely just made up.

“It’s okay, Lulu.  It’s plastic, it won’t get messed up.  Unless you keep your Ipad in there.”

She nodded and wiped it off with her tiny 3 year old (or two, or five- it's not like I can count the rings) hand and held it back up to me for inspection.

“Look, it’s dry now.”

“Awesome.  Well done, you."

We resumed our comfortable silence as the bodies swam back and forth.  The breeze picked up as Bob Marley wafted through speakers, punctuated by people laughing, talking, and trying not to get consumed by the small black flies which had gathered for the occasion.

Lulu had an expression on her face that was either one of extreme thoughtfulness or abdominal distress.  She looked at me, at the pool, then back at me.

“It might get wet again.”

“Aye,” I said in my best Scotty voice, “That it might.”

She scratched her head.

“If I put it behind my back, it won’t get wet.”

She leaned forward, placed the purse between the small of her back and the chair, and then sat back with a satisfied smile on her face.

“Now it 'll be dry.”

I looked at her and realized something which struck me to the core of my being: she had become self aware!  

I don’t know very much about parenting, other than the fact that Steve Martin movies are funny, but I know what the inevitable next step is:

Get to the chopper!  Or something.  

Goodnight, Sweet Prints.

 2013 is already one for the record books, sweet readers.  It shall go down in history as a year marked by change, tattooed with a maelstromic fluidity of deviations from the norm, and as the year that the world turned itself upside down then drifted a bit to the side.


Why, you ask?


Simple.  This is the year that I bought new shoes.


What?  Disappointed?  Maybe you think I oversold the event, much like Star Wars Episode 1 and Romney Episode 2.  You are entitled to your opinions, of course, you free thinking bastards, but let me explain.


Let me tell you a story.


The story of my shoes.


These sexy bastards were purchased while visiting a market in Yangon one year into my sojourn in that storied country (read a great story about it here!  Hehehe, first cheap plug of 2013).  While wearing these shoes I trekked throughout the country, taught Algebra and Intro Thuganomics to eighth graders, went on many adventures, had my heart broken, mended, and broken again, and lived through the protests and the cyclones that wracked that country during my second year there.  I used these shoes to run from violent protests in Bangkok and to visit some of the most beautiful beaches in the world.  I wore them when I lived in Taiwan for two years and was wearing them while receiving my admin degree last summer in Mallorca (listen to my speech here!).  They supported me at Wacken where I fulfilled a life long dream.  They were on my feet whilst I drank beer and guarded the walls in Kinshasa during the election related violence (here!) and most recently I used them to explore the streets and byways of Seattle and Vancouver (no worries, stories on that coming soon).  They have seen the world as much as I have, maybe even more.


Not bad for a four dollar purchase seven years ago.


Sadly enough, all good things must end, and after two repairs (the last one done with tire treads), it was time to move on.  It was a difficult decision for both of us but, in the end, we knew it was the right choice to make.   It was hard, though, as these shoes have (literally) carried me through some of the greatest and most difficult times in my life.  You will be missed, you sexy fake leather bastards.


Rather than go through the details I will do a pictorial entry, in what I hope will be a welcome change of pace in the Rage Cage.  I think this series of photographs sums up my emotions better than mere words could.  Also, the captions are sweet.  Thanks to Eartha-Ann for her awesome photo help :)


So, goodbye, old friend.  You were a generous sole.

The world moves on, because that is what the world does, but you have made your mark.  It's like that story about Jesus on the beach except with more beer, and when there were one set of footprints, it was because I pulled off the Dirty Dancing move.