Out of the Slot: Dear Chuck…I’m Not Growing Up, and You’re Not Going Anywhere!

“Health and knowledge and wealth and power
Passion and poems and sex
I wear a smile like a leather glove
Won’t shut my mouth for less

Belts and buckles and zips and chains
My sign, my style, my dress
My heart was made to steal
It’s heaven, more or less”

~ Shriekback

For this weekday post I’m going to stray far afield from our usual topics here @ thunderjetheaven.com and for the first-and likely the last-time ever, I’m going to expound on a topic never touched upon here before: clothing! Sounds strange for a blog about slot cars? Well, I’m strange! This will be a brief detour folks, bear with me…

There are two kinds of people in this world:

1. People who “grow out of things.”
2. People like me, who simply refine their tastes until they look respectable.

Now, I’m not really into“fashion.” Like, at all. I don’t care about “outfits.” I don’t care about “seasonal looks.” I don’t care what the current trend forecast is. For the most part, clothing is just a thing I wear to stay warm or to avoid arrest. And yet, there is one clothing experience that never ceases to satisfy me: the experience of getting a fresh pair of Converse Chuck Taylor All Stars! Opening the box, catching that strong waft of fresh industrial rubber that immediately takes me back to being 12 years old again, then lacing them up for the first time. Its taken on the feel of a ritual, one that gives me immense comfort and always brings a smile to my face. I just took delivery of my newest pair of Chucks in a recent color I’ve never owned, a green tinted gray called “True Nature.”

This isn’t fashion in the commonly understood sense: Converse Chucks are different, because Converse isn’t selling shoes; Converse is selling heritage; they’re selling history; they’re selling attitude. And also, they’re selling variants. And if you’ve ever collected anything — slot cars, die-cast cars, records, baseball cards, action figures, whatever — you already know exactly what happens next:

“I already have that casting… but I’ve never seen it in THAT color before.”

That’s the Converse hook. That’s the moment my collector brain sits bolt upright and starts muttering: “Okay but… what if this one is the best shade of gray-green ever invented?”

It’s embarrassing how effective it is! I’ve bought colors I didn’t need. I’ve chased weird seasonal releases. I’ve talked myself into purchasing shoes the way a Hot Wheels guy talks himself into buying his 17th copy of the same car because “this one’s got a different tamposet.”

Yes. I know. This is not the behavior of a stable adult, right? Well, give me credit where it’s due: I never claimed to be a “stable adult!”

The Chuck Taylor Brain: Variant Collecting in Shoe Form

I have been wearing Converse All Stars for so long that I don’t even remember what it felt like to not be wearing them. They’re not a “style choice” anymore — they’re an extension of my nervous system. They’re the default. The baseline. The control sample. If I’m wearing anything else, it’s because I had to, and frankly I’m probably irritated about it.

I’ve worn them in every era of my life, across every version of myself: the pre-teen version, the teenage version, the nerd version, the punk version, the broke version, the overconfident version, the “I’m gonna be mysterious today” version, the “I’m gonna pretend I’m responsible” version… and now the aging adult version, the one who writes this blog, who still has the same core truth humming under the hood:

I am never giving them up. Not now. Not later. Not ever.

There’s a level of gratification in that kind of loyalty that feels almost religious. The world changes. Trends mutate. Everyone around you starts dressing like they’re either auditioning for a tech conference or modeling for a “clean minimalist lifestyle” brand that sells $86 soap. But the Chucks stay. And I stay with them. Because I’m a complicated man with simple taste. And if you want to understand my “arrested development complex,” you can do it by looking directly at my feet!

Back In My Day, Your Sneakers Had the Courage of Their Colors

When I was a teenager in the mid-80s, I had some truly deranged pairs:

• bright turquoise, purple, orange, yellow
• At least 4 different shades of red
• metallic blue
• …and these absolutely ridiculous metallic multi-colored striped ones that I’m sure I thought were the coolest thing ever at the time.

Would I wear those now? Probably not. But I respect the spirit of it. Because back then, color wasn’t a marketing mood board — it was just… a color.

Anymore I prefer subtle, more muted shades. Gray, in all its variations; browns and tans; subdued greens and blues. That’s not to say I’ve totally turned my back on the more “vibrant” hues! One of my more recent buys was a shade called “Snorkel Blue” which is about vibrant enough to hurt your eyes! And in the past I’ve had some limited and “seasonal” shades with some great monikers attached to them, with “Jester Red,” “Oil Green” and “Road Trip Blue” being some of the more memorable ones from the last decade or so! And then, of course, there is the most important “base” color, the one I can never be without: Basic Black! The black Converse high-top is, to use a trite phrase, as American as apple-pie: it’s a symbol of rebellion, a statement of personality, the one article of clothing that, more than any other, communicates something subtle but important to the world about who you are. Hey, you always go back to the basics!

And that brings me to the thing that has been irritating me more and more:

Converse color names have gotten… soft. Weirdly soft. Not “soft” like cozy. Soft like limp-wristed. Soft like “I just got back from my morning affirmation walk.” The names they’re giving colors today sound like the names of scented candles or essential oils. “Unearthed?” “Darkly Jaded?” “Very Peri?” “New Found Bloom??” Are you kidding me??
I’m sorry, but if the color is basically an industrial-looking gray-green, then don’t tell me the name is “True Nature.” True nature of what? A throw pillow?

You know what this color actually looks like?

It looks like industrial concrete after a rainstorm.
It looks like a foggy service road at 6:45AM.
It looks like the side of an airfield hangar.
It looks like the kind of paint they used on machinery in the 1950s when nobody cared about “branding” and everything was built to survive a war.

That’s not “True Nature.” That’s Industrial Fog.

And if Converse isn’t bold enough to say it, I will.

Hey Converse: Let Me Rename Your Colors Like You Have a Spine!

So here’s my humble proposal:
Converse should stop naming colors like they’re selling yoga mats. If your color is gray-green, here are names that actually belong on a sneaker worn by someone who uses tools to earn a living and listens to loud music:

• Industrial Fog
• Concrete Camo
• Deserted Overpass
• Machine Shop Smoke
• Hangar Haze
• Worn Primer
• Airfield Ash
• Cold Rebar
• Service Road Gray

Tell me those don’t instantly sound cooler. Tell me those don’t sound like the title of a lost 1981 post-punk single. Tell me those don’t sound like the paint code on a ’55 Chevy 2-door sedan with a 2-inch top chop that looks stock until you do a double take and realize something about this one is different.

Because that’s what these subtle colors are, at their best: micro-modifications you feel more than you see. The kind of detail that makes someone glance twice and think: “Damn. That one looks good.”

Your Humble Blogger’s Confession

I’ve always loved All Stars. I’ll always love All Stars. And no, I’m not “aging out of them.” That’s not how it works, not with me. Some people get older and start dressing like their personality has been sanded down for maximum market compatibility.

I’m going the other direction. I’m staying exactly who I am — just with more money, better restraint, and a few more gray-green “industrial fog” colorways in the rotation.

Now, Bring It On Home!

And truth be told, this whole “Chuck Taylor forever” thing has always belonged to Drag City anyway. It’s baked into the dust out there, into the hard-packed dirt of the paddock and the scorched asphalt that loops around Wardglenn like a bad habit you can’t quit. The track has its own uniform — not the kind you buy on purpose, but the kind you evolve into: sun-faded shirts, cuffed Levi’s, greasy hands, old tattoos, and sneakers that have been through it. In that world, you don’t wear Chucks because you’re trying to look cool. You wear Chucks because this is who you are, and because every time your foot hits the ground you’re grounding yourself back into a version of America that still made sense: cheap gas, loud engines, and a little rebellious danger that didn’t need to be posted online to be real.

And that’s why “True Nature” is the wrong name. Out there at the track, the real name for that gray-green isn’t something delicate. It’s the color of a morning haze hanging over Bear Valley Road, the color of a steel gantry and tired concrete barriers, the color of shop air and old paint and the shadows under the grandstands when the sun finally drops behind the hills. It’s the shade of a place that’s half machinery and half memory; a place where everything important is slightly worn-in, slightly scuffed, but still standing — still ready to run another lap, still ready to light another cigarette, still ready to laugh at anyone who mistakes “clean” for “better.”

So no — I’m not giving them up. I’m not “moving on” from this particular piece of arrested development, because it isn’t arrested at all. It’s anchored. It’s the same reason I keep building the track, keep chasing the variants, keep photographing tiny cars like they’re holy artifacts: because the mythology matters. Drag City isn’t just a place where cars race — it’s a place where time gets weird and the past stays reachable, and having the right shoes on your feet helps you get there! If anyone wants to call that “arrested development”…then cuff me. I’m guilty!!