An other evening of empty thoughts. There is a damn good reason to not blog every day. Hell we don't even have to go to work every single day, and Connor is out of school the entire week. Yet I am trying to come up with fanciful thoughts and recreations and proverbial verbiage (I wrote that only because it sounded good in my head. 

And all I can think about is bowling shoes. I don't know why or what for, but I am trying to create a story about bowling shoes in my head for some reason. And if we continue with the idea of this being a hidden fourth step, I am thrown for an even farther loop, as I have no idea at all what they are supposed to represent.

If I saw bowling shoes as part of a writing prompt, I don't know. I would wonder who left them behind, in a gutter outside of a New York city loft. I would have some homeless dude pick them up and wear them, then set them aside that night while he sleeps in Central Park only to be chased out by Murphy, the balding overweight beat cop from all those Early silent Charlie Chaplin films. The shoes would end up in a goodwill store and picked up by some Argentine immigrant who is reminded of the tango he used to dance before leaving for America. He would ship them home to his children as proof of the opportunities here in the new world, dancing shoes for practically nothing in this land of plenty. His oldest son, Enrique, would wear them to school that next day, a Tuesday, the same unfortunate day that the Colombian cartels invaded their country and indentured all the male children aged twelve to seventeen. Enrique would go off wearing those shoes, trading them with a Panamanian hooker for a pair of combat boots, two sizes too small for his feet. The Panamanian street walker, Rosalita, would then trade those shoes to a Moroccan  gentleman in exchange for a young Thai boy she could send out to work for her. The Moroccan, a secret British spy working undercover as an arms dealer would wear them on his next purchase, which happens aboard a Concorde SST, it's last flight for Virgin Airway, as the Queen decreed that all spies were to be brought in for debriefing immediately and when his buyer, an American doing business as a Russian double agent, got word about the Queen's declaration, took it upon himself to hijack the Moroccan British agent and jumped out of the emergency exit, two individuals with one parachute. When the men were found, floating in the middle of the Black Sea, barely alive after a week of being stranded they were stripped down and sent to Guantanamo Bay to be processed as terrorists until the upcoming American elections were decided by a flip of a coin and the rioting prisoners were all executed and all their shoes were sent back to China where they were manufactured and on this day, every year for the twenty five years since it happened, they still celebrate when Xian Cho bowled four perfect games in a row at Hong Kong Super Lanes wearing that same pair of bowling shoes.

Other than that though, I have no idea what to think about with bowling shoes.