My Critique Remains Private

It should be said I was tired.  I’d just bought a number of new shoes with laces, which I figured would anchor in my arches and give me a lased-up, strong feeling, as opposed to a loafer-like ouch that was my default urban ambling. 

I bought three pairs of shoes when I was home this summer.  I chose things that seemed like they’d suit me; with spongy inner soles and laces I could tighten up.  I’ve walked over to my Shanghai campus now with one and then another and finally the third.  I’ve trod over once and then twice.  They all suck.  My left foot doesn’t like any of them. 

I’ve taken a page from female commuters.  I just wear sneakers and have the shoes up in my bag.  Tonight though, I’m out in these reasonably cool looking Timberland oxfords and the sole feels as if it is magnifying concrete jabs on each step.  I suggest a restaurant to a friend this is only three blocks down but within seconds of suggesting I dread the progression. 

It was just about worth the walk.  I directed us towards a reasonable Dong Bei restaurant.  They have a big heaping plate of lamb you can order and never finish.  “One of those.”  I want the peanuts and dried fish.  The spinach is fine but the dumplings shame this restaurant.  These things can’t be handmade.  No.  There’s a chemical taste.  Fortunately, my friend and I are not fixated on the subtleties of the dumpling tastes.  My critique remains private.  We eat and talk about many things including Anarcho-Libertarian economists whom I’ve never considered.

Later, I’m home and I look up the name of this economist.  I find many of the things he advocates abhorrent.  But one thing is endearing.  It mentions that he began every day on a call with his friend and I believe mentor and they laughed together for a good half hour before he started his day.  I’d subscribe to that.   Indeed, I’d prescribe it.  



Tuesday, 08/01/17