Andy Laub

The Matrix is a great movie. Somehow, in an age where we thought we’d seen everything, it managed to bring something completely new and innovative to the action/sci-fi genre in terms of both plot and filmography. It’s a film that is wonderful all on its own, which is why there were tremors of confusion when the Wachowskis announced it would be a trilogy.

Similarly, Bioshock is a great game. If you wanted, you could call it innovative simply because it was a first person shooter in 2007 that didn’t have you fighting aliens or Nazis. But beyond that, Bioshock furthered gamers’ assertions that games could indeed be art. The plot, while still dependent on you fighting your way through… things… was refreshing in the context of this beautifully creepy underwater world. And, like The Matrix, Bioshock has that single moment of clarity in which the jarring reality of things completely blows your mind.

Of course, it could also be argued that Bioshock didn’t need a sequel. And I agree; the game is a work of art that begins and resolves an interesting story, and I would’ve been content with that. But 2K didn’t agree, and so Bioshock 2 is upon us. Like many jaded gamers, years of Tony Hawks and Call of Dutys have made it clear that not all sequels are good sequels. And when I first sat down to play this new installment, it was with much skepticism.

(I could go on an entirely different rant here about how reading reviews and previews of games can drastically and irreversibly alter someone’s opinion of them for better or worse, but I will save that. For now.)

Suffice it to say, I had been reading a lot of reviews of Bioshock 2 because I was genuinely looking for an excuse to skip it. Reading reviews is not something I do for games that I know I want to play, for reasons stated above. But the reviews all played the same tune: yes, Bioshock didn’t need a sequel, but here is one, and it’s pretty good, so get over it.

And they’re right. Unlike the rest of The Matrix trilogy, this new Bioshock turns out to be a lot of fun for those of us who enjoyed Rapture the first go-round. While it would’ve been impossible to do anything but put you in the (very heavy) shoes of a new protagonist, the strategy works. You get to experience some things that are only made possible by who you are in this game, and another layer of the Rapture saga is revealed as well.

All in all, it comes down to this: the original game is so highly-regarded partially because there was a certain novelty about it. That the second installment is enjoyable and interesting even now that that novelty has worn off speaks volumes about how ripe the setting and gameplay are for further exploration.

I have a lot of shoes. Many of them were acquired during my years of work for a place that may be described as a “foot locker” of sorts, but even after my departure for greener pastures, I still find footwear (of the sneaker-ish variety) relatively enthralling.

As a result, I don’t tend to wear any given pair a lot, and so they all reach a point of looking somewhat worn but not completely broken before I move on to the next thing that catches my interest. And that’s why I’m confounded by a pair of Vans I bought 5 years ago.

When I first started wearing the Slip-Ons, I was somewhat skeptical. It’s not that they were uncomfortable by any means; more that I wasn’t sure if I liked how they looked on my feet. But I quickly acclimated to the sight of that solid white strip of sole, and the Vans became my go-to shoes. They’ve been with me to Chicago and Vegas (among other more local places), rehearsals and performances, work and play, and they’re one of the few pairs of shoes I have that remains consistently stylish (I believe the word is “classic”) regardless of what they’re paired with.

It soon became clear that I had found a staple to my wardrobe; I wore the Vans more frequently than any other shoes. Like a great pair of jeans, they got more comfortable and better-looking with age, each little rub and tear adding to a perfect patina. But, paranoid as I am, I knew they wouldn’t last forever, and I knew that I’d want to have a replacement on hand for when that time came. My first second pair of Slip-Ons were the vaunted checkerboard colorway, which were soon joined by a cappuccino pair (both on sale, so why not?).

The thing about Slip-Ons is that they get better with age – the blackened sole, worn down logo on the heel, the weathering of the seams. So when presented with a choice between unbroken new shoes or perfectly-worn not-new shoes, I almost inevitably choose the latter, which is why both of the other pairs are still relatively new-looking. I’ll be honest: I think brand new Vans look a little goofy; it’s only after they start to wear that they look like they should. The problem is convincing myself to push through that goofy phase (it’s kind of like when your hair is too long to be short but too short to be long) instead of just wearing the other pair of shoes that I already like.

But I’ve been feeling for awhile that my favorite pair has been close to critical mass. They’re not as bad as they could be, but it’s time to transition them to semi-retirement status. Fortunately, I think I’ve lined up a suitable replacement (for real this time), and so the cycle begins again.