I do love me my shoes. When I was a little kid we went to a shoe store that featured an x-ray machine that you could stick your feet inside and radiate the hell out of them. It made your bones glow. Scary, how little they knew about radiation back then. Despite my fascination with glowing bones, I still have all my toes. Just lucky, I guess.
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As an adolescent, I got into bitter conflicts with my mother about sensible shoes. Dang. I got so frustrated, I went out and bought me a used pair of motorcycle boots, AKA engineer boots, at the Goodwill. They didn’t fit but they suite-ed up perfectly with the wide leather belt I wore to hold up my dungarees — yeah, that’s what we called them, dungarees, not jeans — with the buckle slung to the side.
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There was a long period as student and actor where I wore cuban heels, probably because I liked the noise they made. You know actors; they always have to make some kind of noise. Cuban heels worked really well.
As a musician, I was wearing either jeans or hip stuff — and one horrible band with matching fuschia bell-bottom suits — or tuxedos. With tuxedos, I wore men’s jazz dance shoes, which I love. I went through several pairs. They’re lightweight, they quickly move, fit your feet like gloves, are comfortable to stand — and yes, groove — in.
I went through a series of lace up work boots the were de rigeur and necessary for country living. I’ve always loved the invulnerability afforded by boots that are waterproof, warm, and non-skid.
I’ve been through dozens of pairs of topsiders and other preppy East Coast footwear that I wouldn’t wear in New England but that lent a certain peculiarity to my presence n Los Angeles. I liked to buy shoes in New York that were strange, comfortable, and beautiful and wore them during my office work days in the publishing department of a civic education outfit. I even have a pair of fancy Italian wing tips that cost me $600 bucks. I’ve never worn them; they’re stiff and heavy, and now I have no use for them. I don’t know what I was thinking.
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These days, in quarantine mode, I often go barefoot, or slip into a pair of Tom’s loafers; I’ve bought dozens of those because Tom’s gives away a pair of shoes for every pair they make and because they aren’t leather, which I love, because it reduces my creature-murder footprint.
I also like women’s high-heeled shoes, the real crazy creative ones like Jimmy Choos despite (a) my lack of interest in cramming my fat feet into a pair and (b) a critical awareness that high heels offer the most efficient manner of foot-binding invented by the patriarchy since the Ming Dynasty. Watching women walk in stilettos makes me wince with sympathetic pain.
But more significant than all the above, my love for shoes probably comes from my great grandfather, who ran a boot shop in Placerville, California. You can read more about John Degelman’s boot shop in an earlier Retrospect piece called “Placerville, 1888: Galoots in Mud Boots.”
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