Lost Soles: Gabe's Vs. Citi Trends

Have you ever noticed how certain shoes sit idly on shelves for many months at a time? Even the enticement of deep discounts is often not enough to make consumers jump for joy in a ripe pair of $30 orange Puma Baskets. Recently, one mammoth specimen of size-18 Ugg chukka boots with the trademarked fur lining was reduced to a near-gratis $3.99 at Ross Dress For Less. Sure, the uncommon length and fruity colorway could've been primary reasons why an otherwise pricey item remained in captivity. What about traditional hues from formerly wild beasts like Diadora and British Knights? By and large, millennials strolling crowded hallways in $500 yellow McYeezys and jacked-up Jordan Shattered Backboards haven't readily adopted brands popular amongst their mall-walking uncles back in the day. For those 46-year-old sneaker aficionados who wish to revisit styles worn in algebra classes, two local spots offer low-cost solutions for the complex equation of not coming across as a try-hard in a dad hat.

Taking over the structure that had once housed a lifeless Kmart, Gabe's powered an immediate resuscitation of the shopping center adjacent to Chesapeake Square Mall. Much akin to its brethren at the nearby Burlington, notable clothing and accessory labels can be acquired for a fraction of the original cost. Naturally, my first order of business on this Thursday evening concerned a perusal in the shoe department. The chunky Skechers Shape-Ups tagged at $15.00 could've become my newest apparatus for laps around Lake Meade Park, but mismatched sizes forced a friendly employee to decommission the vessels. A $17.00 pair of black Puma Suedes with welcoming gumsoles stretched like a canoe in a kayak race. Constricted quarters in $14.00 Nautica casuals kept the clipper from greeting favorable winds.

Smoother sailing came in the form of $15.00 black K-Swiss Classics supported by translucent bottoms. Having competed in multiple tennis tournaments while sporting the original white model during my teenage years, I was very acquainted with the maker's blend of fine taste and ample functionality. Another serve-and-volley recollection was brought upon via $9.00 blue K-Swiss canvas casuals. Shortly before graduating from Salem High School in 1990, I engaged in a three-setter with my friend Rommel. As I launched into a completely unorthodox serving motion, the left sneaker was instantly torn asunder. Following several fits of hardy laughter from us both, I headed home to switch into appropriate leather Classics and proceeded to lose a tight match. Thanks to the black and blue pairs of Lugz respectively slashed to $10.00 and $9.00, boots are in my shoe collection for the first time in nearly 40 years. Until I find some Timberlands or Dr. Marten's priced right, these shifty cousins of the more esteemed makes will adequately complement jeans and buttoned-down shirts. Grand total with tax: $44.52. The supposed savings amounted to $249.00. I earned 42 points on the newly issued Gabe's rewards card. Quoting the store's tagline: "Unbelievable!"

Wedged between a 24-hour Laundromat and Papa John's Pizza on Main Street in Suffolk, Citi Trends is a low-key source for colorful denim, relaxed-fit polo shirts and unique kicks. The first time I peered into the establishment's window several years ago, about a dozen PONY low-tops in the classic Spud Webb design drew me inside for a closer examination. Though I'd been immersed in rocking Pumas at the time, I should've copped some size-10s for my not-as-stringent brother.

With a more relaxed attitude towards other labels, I gladly forfeited $12.00 for white-and-green PONY Quads last Friday. Reminiscent of the classic adidas Stan Smiths, they will be court-tested at Howard Mast Tennis Center as soon as my left shoulder completely heals. (Fun fact: Did you know PONY is an acronym for Product Of New York?) Another Mr. Smith-inspired sneaker gathered in the haul had no identification of any sort. An attached sticker referred to the mystery item as "Canvas Lace-To-Toe White." For $7.00, I shall wear the no-names during inclement weather and tell friends they are "imported." "You can't buy me. I ain't no Stepford athlete." Such was the initial statement printed on thin paper covering black-and-orange Starbury Highsteppers. For those unfamiliar with the story, Stephon Marbury parlayed a modest NBA career into god-like status in the Chinese Basketball Association. His huge success overseas led to the formation of a budget-minded footwear company which never gained serious traction in the United States. The Starburys at Citi Trends had sat on the bench for at least a year, but I decided to negotiate a trade in exchange for an eight-dollar cash consideration. Arguably, the best deal of this entire challenge was attained with a purchase of Reebok Royal CL Jogger 2s marked to move at $22.00. The red-dominant shading with white and blue hits truly stood at attention, while the Ortholite insole was more comfortable than Bruce Jenner's decathlon point margin in 1976's Summer Olympics. One site I would later research on Google still had the CL Joggers badged at almost $90. That's far greater than the $51.94 I dropped at Citi Trends and nearly matched the grand total for the entire contest.

If this battle had been a reality TV show taped in a manufactured jungle, the black K-Swiss Classics would've emerged as Sole Survivor. Due to the greater variety of Citi Trends' offerings, however, I'll swing my vote in their favor.

$40 Outfit Challenge: Chesapeake Square Mall

How far can one stretch two 20-spots to create a fresh fit that will impress at any price? My friend Brandon and I had often discussed shoe acquisitions from the likes of Ross Dress For Less and related outlet chains, so our meeting in the favorite department at Burlington last Friday afternoon (3/16/2018) was an inevitability. Sneaker heads and fashion plates I follow on YouTube had undertaken similar quests at various merchants with mixed results. Would we pass on preferred kicks and tees in order to maintain our budget? Feel free to comb the racks with us in search of sweet steals and delectable deals!

As you might've guessed, Brandon and I began the revery by examining the footwear on display. Burlington had treated me well in the past with scores such as Merrell hikers for $21.99 and Simple mid-tops marked down to $17.99. Combining a vintage look with modern technology, a black pair of Nike Air Maxes was easily the most comfortable shoe I tested all day. The gel sole would've provided much cushion during my frequent five-mile power walks, but the $59.99 tag made me stick a safety pin in that inflated balloon. Until the discovery of a missing yellow-tipped lace, I almost sank my teeth into the $19.99 Sperry Top Sider casuals with a Jaws theme. The Levi's blue denim chukka boots were an obvious complement with their namesake jeans and could've been an easy cop at $24.99. However, I decided to cross Finish Line for the green Etonic Trans Am Trainers that had been sitting on shelves for months. At $19.99, the reissued classics from my scholastic days were certainly a sensible option. When the FL rep returned with a box, she informed me that size 9.5 was the last pair in the store. Even with my thick socks, the TATs flopped like a feisty footballer in the Champions League. Disappointingly, I double-backed to Burlington and attempted to purchase the beige Robert Wayne deck shoes that I'd seen in clearance for $10.49. Low and behold, the sticker shocked me via an adjusted $18.99 cost. Had Kanye West worn 'em to Family Dollar on a diaper run or what? Finally, I chose the blue Polo Ralph Lauren Vaughns adorned with a green pony and handed over $18.01 to the cashier. Did I receive a discount for returning an employee card that'd been left in the restroom? DENIED!

Remaining inside Burlington, finding suitable pants quickly became a trouble source for Brandon and me. An overflow of distressed denim would've looked rather repulsive on a 46-year-old dude, and locating a traditional pair of Levi's in the perfect size proved to be an immense trial. As I lifted some light-blue Dockers khakis for $12.99, my fellow shopper thought they resembled the scrubs often worn by staffers at Sentara Obici Hospital. The black NBA draw shorts were a potential slam-dunk for $6.99, but the pairing with blue Polo kicks would've warranted a flagrant technical foul. Without taking 'em back to the fitting room, I grabbed some $9.99 Stanley five-pocket stretch jeans and opened my wallet once again. Too bad there wasn't a seamstress on-site, because the length extended at least an inch too much and the boot cut-like width prevented the legs from being tightly rolled. In any measure, we aimed for Target to gather the final links of the sartorial scramble.

Before striking the bullseye, I wanted to browse JCPenney's latest styles from their St. John's Bay label. My nephew had generously gifted me with fifteen or so unworn long- and short-sleeved collared shirts in 2016, so I could vouch for its quality. While several SJB items were clearance-badged, colorful selections from the Ralph Lauren-inspired USPA maker beamed on the hangers. The $9.99 yellow-and-blue polo would've splendidly meshed with the jeans, but I decided to leave that horse in JCP's stable. Since there were no more rolling pandas for rent at Zoo Riderz' vacated kiosk, Brandon and I trekked like turtles toward our intended Target. A dark, denim jacket-esque top from their own Goodfellow & Co. imprint seemed like a terrific layering piece for a graphic tee, thus I surrendered $9.52 to the checkout lady. Back at Burlington, a light-green Aeropostale shirt slashed to $5.99 was grudgingly thrown in the bag. Sure, I could've chosen a $1.99 black Washington Nationals top instead, but I desired to similarly shade the Polo pony on my shoes. Five hours and 50,000 steps later, our challenge was officially in the books.

That layering mistake cost me dearly, for the figure on a Texas Instruments adding machine tallied $44.47. "When it comes to fashion, less is more." Such was the comment from my friend Kimistry upon learning of our endeavor. The Aeropostale shirt will be returned on Thursday.

PiL -"Bags" (1986)

Black rubber over black plastic.

The Bags - "Survive" (1978)

Paper over plastic.

Life In A BeLo Bag

Photo by Mike Smith

During the early 1980s, no other grocery store was more identified with a particular pocket of Portsmouth, VA, than BeLo Markets. Displaying slimy meat cases, dented peach cans and expired snack cakes, the place gave resigned shoppers a rudimentary hub to redeem colorful food stamps. Accompanied by my mother and four siblings, we would often stock up on sodium nitrite-laden Carl Buddig lunch meats, extra crumbly Wonder bread and various brands of barbecue potato chips. On our 10,000-pound Zenith behemoth of a TV set, the "C'mon, step right into Belo!/It's a fact our prices bring you in!/Our people bring you back!" jingle regularly interrupted important viewings of C-grade animated fare like "Inspector Gadget" and "He-Man and the Masters of the Universe." The low-cost representation carried over into the hallways of Churchland Academy Elementary. Impoverished students sporting Bobos like Pro Champs and Trax on unfortunate feet were invariably serenaded by "You got your shoes at the BeLo!"- like disses from Nike and adidas owners.

In spite of such negative connotations, I always had a soft spot for the budget mart. Many years later, a shirt kiosk inside Greenbrier Mall created what would become one of my favorite tees to that point. Fashioned after a professional-quality photograph of the BeLo sign on Indian River Road in Virginia Beach, its red, white, and yellow hues drew numerous compliments throughout its four-year stint in my wardrobe. There were even several offers from friends and strangers who wanted to purchase the shirt off my back. Either they shared in the childhood nostalgia of a more carefree era or wanted to exact sartorial revenge on their chests. "Did you get your shirt at BeLo?" many asked. "Why, yes! Yes, I did!"

About seven years ago, my friend Danielle offered a relatively simple gift that still keeps on giving to this day. The BeLo Foods cloth bag was embossed with a familiar-yet-alternate logo on the front and an environmentally themed world map on its reverse side. Not long after being ripped from a Florida-sourced bubble envelope, the tote became popular enough to modestly trend on Facebook. At the Hardcore Norfolk movie première in August 2011, it captured the fawning attentions of several nearby acquaintances before and after the showing. Enjoying a cookout hosted by the Thornton family circa 2012, I wanted local legend Vic Demise to place his hard-earned Portsmouth City Jail ball cap alongside the former food receptacle for a unique photo opportunity that somehow failed to knock.

Retiring from the local music scene and refocusing on haunts in Western Tidewater, the BeLo Bag wisely transitioned into an everyday travel accessory. Eleven Starbucks napkins, two old cups, five straws and four sleeves revealed a strong coffee jones exhibited by its handler. Eight packets of Sugar In The Raw were combined with other ingredients to soothe the soft skin of a pretty princess. Three containers of Chick-fil-A Polynesian Sauce never made it onto a nugget-covered tray, for one carelessly coated plastic bags of Halls Cough Drops and Jolly Rancher candies with sweet stickiness. Two metal spoons were extracted from the same wreckage before the soiled star was gently placed in a Samsung washing machine.

Hygiene reared its closely cropped head per second inspection. A can of Barbasol Thick & Rich shaving cream and eight BIC disposable razors sliced stubborn hairs inside the restrooms of Starbucks locations in Downtown Suffolk and Harbour View. Liberal douses of Polo Ralph Lauren Red cologne were also applied in said lavatories' confines. Two tubes of Gold Bond Ultimate Hydrating Cream remained sealed like an unwanted compact disc from a "Crazy" musician. One yellow Pledge can and two green microfiber towels wiped away recurring smudges on Belk-bought Clarks leather shoes with height-boosting soles.

One final examination indicated a strong fondness for crossword puzzles. An issue of Suffolk News-Herald flashed a filled grid and a condemning notation by the "In spite of" clue that seemed to appear in the city paper every day. (Solution: NOTWITHSTANDING) Two clippings from Sunday's The Virginian-Pilot proved to be far more challenging avocations. Syndicated layouts from The New York Times and The Los Angeles Times conformed to particular themes with selected clues and pitched a fair level of difficulty. Eight ink pens furnished by library systems in Suffolk and Portsmouth provided tools that shaded empty squares. However, an uncapped instrument leaked important source material which soiled nineteen CDs and four peg sports games. The victims were treated for their injuries and released near Sentara Obici Hospital.

Although the music formats and wooden blocks decided not to press charges against the rogue writing utensil, both have since left the area. The BeLo Bag now makes its home inside the trunk of a 1999 Buick Century.

The Specials - "Ghost Town" (1981)

Franklin, VA, on a Saturday afternoon would qualify as one.

Carl Lewis - "Break It Up" (1987)

I wonder if his one-time rival Ben Johnson cut a reggae record...

Stupid Bet

On March 21, 2016, Suffolk Public Library sponsored a trivia competition at Derl'z Restaurant & Pub. Our starting squad, Paul D. Camp (Community College) Dropouts, consisted of Hoyt, Beverley, David and myself. Hoyt and I had previously been teammates on TCC (Tidewater Community College) Dropouts during Applebee's-hosted Q & A contests held throughout the prior two years. Powered by multiple platters of half-priced appetizers, our side furnished full-fledged answers and captured four redeemable $25 gift cards. Enjoying a pre-game cheeseburger and fries at Derl'z, I was confident of our chances to triumph once again. In spite of a point system which required more than one explanation to fully comprehend, we quickly adjusted and skillfully placed no lower than second after each of the six frames. Then came the "Final Jeopardy" wager. I believe the category involved naming ten presidential candidates from the past 40 years who had failed to win seats in the big chair. Because the bet was an all-or-nothing proposition, the omissions cost us silver medals that were practically around our upturned necks. Disappointingly, I explained a strategy we'd neglected to undertake. If the risk had been for zero, our sixth-round total would've sewn up second prize. The difference in the amount of "Derl'z Dollars" between silver and bronze was significant enough to shed a tear in the mug of beer. Grudgingly accepting our spot on the podium, we learned a valuable lesson and resolved to alter the attack in hopes of not repeating history.

If there were ever a night for Paul D. Camp Dropouts to tear open Reese's Pieces packets of redemption, an "80s Reload" theme on July 18, 2016, seemed like the sweet actualization of a "Weird Science" hypothesis. Hosted by The Baron's Pub and again backed by Suffolk Public Library, the Reagan/Bush-era topics would tilt heavily toward the "right" platforms of gaming consoles, athletic endeavors and eccentric entertainers. As children of the ColecoVision who were fascinated by a near-exact translation of Donkey Kong, awed by Walter Payton's eventual shuffle to a Super Bowl ring and amused at Rockwell's phony British accent, Hoyt and I would be main handlers of the pop culture-laced pigskin. Two hours before kickoff, a serious injury report was sent via modern telegram. Our dependable running back would be sidelined by an unexpected workload. This gave me a small window to find a replacement for the deeply apologetic Hoyt on the waiver wire. Desperation forced negotiations with a millennial employee of Starbucks and a baby boomer funeral director. When contract details stalled during the 11th hour, I had to assume full captaincy and break the news to Beverley and Dave. The two 1960s graduates, while not necessarily lead foots, would not be scoring many touchdowns with post-AFL rules in place. A Chuck E. Cheese's ceremonial token flip turned up rat tails and commenced game play.

First music video aired on MTV? Rap song by the Chicago Bears? LL Cool J, Beastie Boys and Public Enemy's record label? Arcade game inspired by M.C. Escher? Those were the soft triggers from emcee Angela Martin in the A-block. Most of the nine teams absorbed Nerf bullets and prepped themselves for harder shots. First guard in 23 years to be named NBA MVP in 1987? Electronic board game targeted to teenage girls that included paper money, credit cards and an ATM? Hank Williams, Jr. anthem which pined, "Nobody wants to get drunk and get loud/Everybody just wants to go home"? We sustained direct hits to our score sheet with erroneous replies. Board game that promised: "You do not have to be Rembrandt ... stick figures and squiggly lines will do just fine"? Beverley drew a lovely check mark with her submission. What nation boycotted the 1980 Winter Olympics after they were told to change its flag and anthem to accommodate China? David exuberantly torched the cauldron and maintained our lead. SEC running back who was MVP of the 1983 Sugar Bowl, 1984 Liberty Bowl and 1986 Cotton Bowl? British band who sang "Ghost Town" and appeared on the soundtrack of 1984's "Sixteen Candles"? Gunther knew the footballer and thought he was special by being the only contestant to blow out the fiery cake in one puff. Going into the betting phase, Paul D. Camp Dropouts and Thundercats Are Go! stood apart from the other seven rosters. Would our minimal edge in regulation be enough to bite into a Baron Burger-shaped award?

With the song "Break It Up" in 1987, what Olympic track star leaped into the world of music videos wearing only a very tight spandex workout suit? Hint: In the 1990s, he butchered "The Star-Spangled Banner" at an NBA game. I'll never forget Charley Steiner's fit of uncontrollable laughter when reacting to the interpretation on ESPN. ("Written by Francis Scott Off-Key," indeed!) Both major contenders passed their batons to Angela and awaited the final tallies. Because of an inexplicable blunder where I risked only 18 or so chips, we pulled up lame just before being the first team to break the tape. Thundercats Are Go! doubled their dowry and captured the championship in come-from-behind fashion. "YOU SHOULD HAVE BET IT ALL!" Angela bellowed at me. I'm almost certain Hoyt would've joined her in the coarse chorus. This choke job gripped far tighter than the earlier mishap at Derl'z. I should've never assumed that our primary challenger's sports knowledge wasn't up to snuff. The John McEnroe in me wanted to rip our $10 runner-up certificate in 10,000 pieces and scatter the shavings across Howard Mast Tennis Center's weather-beaten courts. However, a Stefan Edberg-esque transformation took hold and I calmly exchanged warm thoughts with organizers and opponents alike. Carelessness aside, the "80s Reload" was yet another tremendous happening from the Suffolk Public Library's out-and-about itinerary.

Beverley and I finished in fifth-place at the Pub Trivia Night's Horror Edition on October 24, 2016. The Droogs dominated the proceedings and collected $25 from Derl'z. After the slaughter, Brandon and Henry offered us their meal ticket. Were we stupid enough to kindly decline the undeserved prize? Don't bet on it.

Jake Trout And The Flounders - "I'm On 18" (1998)

Where in the world is Peter Jacobsen?

John Daly - "I Hit It Hard" (2010)

The ball or the bottle?

Reading The Greens

Photo by Charles PTown

After many unsuccessful attempts at breaking the under-30 barrier, I finally posted a magic number at the Putt-Putt Golf & Games location adjacent to Military Circle Mall in Norfolk. The 7-under-par round of 29 was achieved on a moistened track caused by the previous night's steady rainfall. Leafy debris and strong winds measuring 25-30 mph on the Don Slater Scale also contributed to the difficulty. Regaining composure, I registered only two bogeys in follow-up scores of 34 and 33. The 54-hole total of 96 (12-under par) also set a career mark on that historic afternoon in early 2000.

Six weeks later, I bettered the initial record by one stroke on the same course facing Virginia Beach Blvd. The 28 was made possible with a lucky bank off the back rail that cupped for an 18th-hole ace. I exchanged numerous high-fives with the family of five who had kindly let me play ahead of them. Never again would I match these accomplishments, for the Putt-Putt franchise decided to abandon its three Tidewater Virginia spots without so much as a thunderstorm warning from its famed Buster Ball mascot. Since I only adhered to the standards set by the Professional Putters of America (PPA) on official layouts, my miniature golf era came to an abrupt end. No more conversations with fellow enthusiast Keith while he refreshed his Thermos with vodka and Diet Dr. Pepper. No more dreams of moving into a house directly across the street from Aragona Village's convenient setup. No more losing ten-shot leads via one-hole playoffs in tourneys. No more challenging employees to try their hands at impossible-to-ace maze holes within striking distance from the VB Oceanfront. No more penciling the alter-ego John Daly, Jr. on countless scorecards. Like a dusty relic in a forgotten museum, my once-trusty putter sat untouched in a dark closet corner for nearly fifteen years.

While checking out yet another 30-count CD stack from Chesapeake Central Library's phenomenal music inventory, I took note of a curious flyer for the Chesapeake Masters event that would be held on said premises come March 12, 2016. Quoting the leaflet: "A challenging 18-hole indoor golf tournament benefiting the Smart Start Chesapeake Early Literacy Project ... which funds 2,500 literacy programs for 50,000 kids in Chesapeake." Rather than participating in the main fundraiser replete with an impressive cast of Chesapeake-linked celebrities, I opted for an earlier open-play exhibition amongst unknown duffers accompanied by their guardian caddies. Despite terminal delays brought upon by dozens of dipsticks lacking proper etiquette and forbidding smaller groups to skip ahead in line, I managed to squeeze four competitive rounds and one practice session in the allotted frame. Did I retain enough course knowledge from my stint at the Military Circle complex to make a serious run at a green book jacket and raise my arms in a 21-putt salute? Was my bad judgment and worse behavior more embarrassing than John Daly's freakish trousers? Did I go AWOL in Aragona Village courtesy of a "rented" bookmobile? It's time to tee off.

The opening chapter's front nine stained its pages with four unforgivable bogeys amid routine pars. A deceptively benign butterfly-and-flower arrangement should've attracted sweet chirps from beautiful birdies, but the trash created by repeated misreads made unexpected meals for hungry vultures. The surveyor loop measured its gimme putt several inches too far. Bowling pins strewn about the surface yielded multiple open frames. Owls on logs disturbed the calmness by wildly hooting during ball strikes. Holes 10-18 were far more forgiving. An upstairs-to-downstairs lane gifted aces to all contestants. Green shamrocks and wrapped candies treated would-be Rory McIlroys to red figures. Creepy zombies greeted Arnold Palmer's ghost after a Pennzoil-embossed orb quickly went into hiding. The ace down an oval stretch rounded out a respectable two-over score of 64.

Taking a break at the water fountain, I envisioned going lower in the final 54 holes. The double-bogey on #9 had been the only instance close to a disastrous blowup. If I could somehow tame the owls, perhaps I'd have a decent chance to fire an under-60 round. Withdrawing immediately from the Chesapeake Masters would've been the wisest move. Respective marks of 74, 70 and 67 translated into the salty tongue of 25-over par. Those damn hooters were solely responsible for an out-of-bounds stroke that shoved an egregious eight into the narrow potty mouth. An unsecured railing on the rubber-duck perch sent two balls off the grid for terrible triples. The four-aisle hole with a (Great) bridge lift stalled traffic for inches and nixed every attempted crossing. Once-friendly glamour bears morphed into Jack Nicklaus looking for golden hash browns at an empty buffet table. Among the few highlights in the latter stages were "sparing" the bowling section, tucking tough pars into the T-shirt area and breaking into the gated community through the unlocked slither.

My results in Chesapeake might've mirrored the Mark Twain rub about golf being "a good walk spoiled," but I'm already awaiting the announcement for next year's gathering. Should I erupt into a series of John Daly-esque tirades, it won't necessarily be to my detriment. Bad sports are often the stuff of great literature.

The Dead Weather - "I Can't Hear You" (2010)

"Gossip Girl" didn't bring me here.

Russ Ballard - "I Can't Hear You No More" (1984)

 A favorite from one of Don Johnson's mixed tapes.

Hear And Now

When my brother Mike and I were on the Applebee's extended jaunt earlier this year, we would often stop into the Main Street eatery for heated trivia competitions, lively conversations with engaging barkeeps, sports coverage on multiple TV screens and half-priced appetizers. One particular date on our May schedule concerned the 2015 NFL Draft. As we piloted Mike's 1997 Honda Civic tour vehicle towards the Suffolk-based venue, a drummer friend contacted me on a recently acquired cellphone in hopes of sharing the stage with us. We agreed to meet Hoyt at the nearby Starbucks for a pre-gig jolt of iced coffee. Minutes after ending the brief call, my left ear became painfully clogged. This uncomfortable situation had been the result of foolishly jamming an index finger deeply into the already-obstructed canal. Upon exiting the Civic, both my hearing and equilibrium were seriously affected to the point of considering a double-back to Sentara Obici Hospital. Strangely, I still wanted to partner with Mike and Hoyt for trivia night and see early stages of the draft's first round. After several steps in the parking lot, however, any chance of another $25 gift-card trophy was suddenly squashed. Apologizing to Hoyt for stunting his beat, I proceeded to strike the snare for an answer to my real-life quandary.

Rather than needlessly spending hundreds of dollars on a medical bill, Mike suggested that I purchase a Walgreens Ear Wax Removal Kit for $6.99 plus tax. He had suffered from the same buildup several years ago and had used the treatment to swiftly eradicate the irritation. Since repeated yawning and excessive pounding on my right temple failed to remove any gunk, I grabbed the green box and proceeded to the cash register. As I swiped the debit card through the machine, doubts of the product's effectiveness began occupying my thoughts. Was my problem more severe than simple congestion? Did the makeshift Q-tip instantly trigger permanent loss? Would I have to undergo surgery from the professionals at Obici? Why wasn't I able to get free coffee refills in the café of said hospital? "Do you have a Rewards Card?" posed the pale redhead behind the counter. "Yes, I am a member, but I don't have physical representation of it," was my slightly haughty retort. Entering ten digits into the keypad revealed a code for an ineligible discount. "Be well," wished the drugstore darling with an Equal packet-like earnestness. Bag in hand, I prepped myself for a home-based procedure that would commence around the same time as Tampa Bay's choice of their franchise quarterback.

Under center, Mike directed me to sit down on a shoddy chair and tilt my head sideways. Gently squeezing the bottle, he placed roughly ten drops of liquid into the damaged ear. Per directions on the box, cotton was listed as an alternative to keep peroxide from seeping out of the canal. I readily nixed that idea and kept my noggin in the awkward position. As I barely heard Roger Goodell mention Jameis Winston's name at the lectern, the "It gets worse before it gets better" rub became fully realized. "THANK YOU, MIKE, FOR DUMPING THE ENTIRE NANSEMOND RIVER INTO MY LEFT EAR!!!" was what I screamed while silently playing the role of an agreeable patient. Sure, I had experienced water-related issues brought upon by showering and swimming in the past, but having an ear purposely irrigated was a different deal altogether. Once the tidal movement ceased, I was led to a bathroom sink where Mike filled the provided washer bulb with warm H2O. Flushing out the waxy contents sparked a magic "POP!" My hearing was completely restored, and I couldn't thank Mike enough for his skillful syringing. The celebration was curbed, though, when he recommended that I treat my right ear with the kit. Grudgingly, I gave Mike the go-ahead to start another round of therapy. There was less of a wall to shatter this time, so the canal accepted more peroxide into its depths. Any future benefits of preventive maintenance were temporarily nullified by my current squeamishness. Post-extraction, however, I felt more refreshed than a wireless mouse perpetually clicking on the appropriate icon. Walgreens Ear Wax Removal Kit is suitable software for an auditory reboot.

It's December 28, 2015, and an index finger is retrieving wax from my left ear. You can scold me for doing so, but I've heard it all before.

Airport '75 - "Ceiling Mirrors" (2015)

ORF, man!

Fujiwara - "Gimme A Shot" (2015)

Fire away!

The Thirty-Sixth Step

Just when you thought it was safe to climb a higher floor, here's another "Step" article from an increasingly occasional blogger...

For having a pair of maroon Puma Romas in the correct size priced at $29.99 plus tax, DTLR at Chesapeake Square Mall continues to be my favorite shoe store. Both cups of the three-hour-old, hazelnut-flavored coffee at Panera Bread last night put me in a surprisingly good mood. If you'd like to hear perhaps the best Adolescents- esque punk blast released in 2015, load Fujiwara's "Gimme A Shot" into your chamber. A possible birthday present for my brother Mike might be a T-shirt from the Virginia Lottery. One highlight from my recent visit to a barn in Pungo was the consumption of several lumpia rolls made by Glory's Bakery. I view most memes submitted to Facebook as a reactionary attempt to justify insecurities of the poster in question. If you will excuse me for a second, it is time to save this lukewarm draft beer of a story. During the restroom break, I came up with an idea for a Starbucks-brand toilet-bowl cleaner. Shortly before the band Ride pumps their brakes somewhere in the Greater Cincinnati area, a clever sort of lady or gent should make a "NEED A RIDE TO RIDE!" plea on Craigslist. A magazine called "Southern Grit" ought to contain at least a few examples of local, messy-haired teenagers with large Iron Maiden and Metallica patches on the backs of their worn denim jackets. The potential "Amos For Prez" shirt cited in the last update will now be amended to read "Amos For President In 2016." Because Mike's French fries cast an unwelcome line of a fishy aftertaste, we have put The Plaid Turnip on indefinite probation. "So, is this a thing now?" and "This is why we can't have nice things" need to become things of the past. The garage-grunge shine on "Ceiling Mirrors" by Airport '75 just might turn vocalist/guitarist Paul Unger into Tidewater's most unlikely "alt-rock" god. I support straight divorce. Our local paper, who had earlier extended the heave-ho to an inimitable Mal Vincent, ran a half-star review of "Vacation" from another publication in its supplemental section. Due to hiccups with this $99 tablet from Office Max, I almost lost the last few sentences of my questionably pointless scribbling. Steve Harvey is the best host of "Family Feud" since the O.G. (Richard Dawson, for those born in the 2000s) himself. One answer on the board: Name something that erupts. I hereby retract the negative statement made about Cook Out earlier this year, for that was based on a single onion ring eaten in a car at the cramped restaurant in Norfolk. Some girls are bigger than Struthers. Galaxie 500's On Fire was the first album played on my television after inserting a Roku stick into the Vizio's HDMI port. Arachnophobia has prevented me from looking into "The Deep Web." I just threw a 30-year-old dictionary in the garbage, because it no longer meant anything to me. The only Orioles game I've seen this year in its entirety was when they played inside of an empty Camden Yards. Words With Friends is SCRABBLE with dyslexia. I sneezed and missed Ronda Rousey's last fight against a Brazilian nut whose name I won't attempt to spell. BA-BA-BA, BA-BAR-BARA CIARA!!! Everybody in the whole cellblock were dancing to the Western Tidewater Regional Jailhouse Rock! No matter what, this ends before 5 a.m. Someone is in the kitchen, for I smell toasted English muffins. The "Short Circuit"- meets-"Robocop" failed experiment known as "Chappie" was a pretty crappy movie, but most of the stench can be blamed on human actors. "Butthurt" is a term that needs its ass wiped with a 200-ply roll of Charmin. "Best of all, you could win a shipload of money!" probably wasn't immediately cleared by the censors. The antics of YouTube sensation Angry Grandpa are every bit as staged as those from Vince McMahon's charges in the WWE. "Hulk Hogan Never Happened" written in red letters on a yellow shirt (or vice versa) could be a future possibility at the nearby sporting goods store. The Dictators and Billy Joel have terrific tunes about sleeping with the television on.

Wow, Chris Davis hit a walk-off grand slam yesterday! Thank you, ESPN, for the report. It's time for me to doze off. 5:03 on the nose! Good night and good morning!

Freedom Hawk - "Land Of The Lost" (2008)

Ozzy has been lost for over 20 years.

The Hives - "Hate To Say I Told You So" (2002)

I don't hate it at all.

The Thirty-Fifth Step

Because I didn't get high enough the last time...

Though the Damn Yankees were tagged as a supergroup, most people wouldn't regard them as a "super" group. It's a good idea to check for the "Made in Japan" quality stamp on vintage electronics. The hazelnut coffee at Panera Bread tastes freshest at 4:01 p.m. There is something very "private women's college" about Edie Brickell & New Bohemians' "What I Am." I would pay good money to watch Stephen Curry launch three-pointers in practice. John Belushi, Eddie Murphy, Phil Hartman and Chris Farley are the funny faces on my Mount Rushmore of "Saturday Night Live." "Like Vin Diesel, I'm back with a quick sequel" was the original introduction to this piece. Boxing would greatly benefit if the guy from Philly were to defeat the fighter from Ukraine in Saturday's championship bout. If you have to create an introduction to a YouTube video admonishing people who pointed out the filthiness of your kitchen, it might be time to invest in scouring powder and a sponge. Once again, I'm viewing a late-night replay of the Cleveland Cavaliers and Boston Celtics playoff matchup. My brother can now boast about how his just-acquired Samsung Galaxy 4 tablet is better than my humble HP Stream 4 one. This article amounts to nothing more than one of my earlier "German" submissions sans the foreign language translations. "Sans" might be a word used by pretentious sorts. Because I forgot to buy an extension cord earlier today, I'm perched at the nearest wall outlet whilst pounding the keys. "Whilst" might be another word used by pretentious sorts. I hope that Walgreens will have nary a problem with putting an "Amos For Prez" designation on a shirt for me. "Nary" might be yet another word used by pretentious sorts. I should probably start walking to tomorrow night's Freedom Hawk/Wet Boys/Real Tears show at Pancho N Luigi's in Norfolk. Being a teetotaler notwithstanding, I found the contents of Mindy's glass of sangria to be sensuously appealing. "Teetotaler," "notwithstanding" and "sensuously" might be additional examples of words used by pretentious sorts. The Hives' "Hate To Say I Told You So" is my runner- up choice for a song to best represent the 2000s. Would you care to join me in "Liking" the Golden Corral Rolls page on Facebook? Other than selected knowledge in the areas of music, sports and food, my mind is mostly a hollow container. If I had received a scholarship to study at Oxford, I would not have majored in commas. Low and behold, there is now a corrected polarity version of XTC's Skylarking available at finer record shoppes! "Polarity" and "shoppes" might be the final citations of words possibly used by pretentious sorts. "I know that's right!" is the more demonstrative daughter of "I know, right?" and the equally excitable grandchild of "Right on!" The time at present is 3:14 a.m. I've never picked up an issue of SPLASH magazine and thought, "Wow, what a great article on that band!" I'm not above using past status updates on Facebook for filler sentences in blog posts. My aunt was a Miller & Rhoads Scholar. Hey, there's another one! Linda Cohn is the Kim Gordon of ESPN. Yet again! When I'm finished here, the empty squares of Suffolk News Herald's crossword puzzle will receive ink stains from a leaky State Farm pen. No hall of fame is complete without Pete Rose. The last one from Facebook, I promise. Don't think you can watch Golden State Warriors games incognito with that head of hair, Cornel West! Has anyone seen Richie around?

 If I can find the proper pair of Pumas, The Rung will return to the original style and regain its footing.