Lately, I've been noticing people's shoes. (And not just because blog-based acronymity has officially gone off the rails.) Shoes are something we rarely look at (or men rarely look at, anyway), yet they say so much about the wearer. A man can wear the crispest tux on the rack, but a pair of scuffed Doc Martens totally changes the vibe. Shoes can suggest individuality (hubba-hubba!), or herd mentality. I've noticed, for example, that many people who perform improv comedy wear low-cut black Chucks. As if to say, Look at us, in our pugnacious, social defiance! Our methods are arch, but our footwear is archless!
Until last week, someone looking at my shoes would think, "That dude needs a new pair of shoes." I would have soldiered on, oblivious, except that the other day my heel wore down enough to blow a hole in the sole, and it started squeaking whenever I put weight on it. So, as I was in the mood for a change, I ducked into one of the 2oo or so shoe stores in my neighborhood, my gaze seldom leaving ground level.
I was in the market for casual black leather, something that looked sharp yet was comfortable, as I spend a lot of time at work on my feet. I found a pair I liked, and within 48 hours they'd given me a spectacular blister on each inner heel. Yet another new leather product in my life that needs to be broken in.
And thus, the theme of my last three posts has emerged. The cows, they are angry. We take their milk, we grind their flesh to make sliders (um ... baby food?), and when we buy stuff made from their skin, the first order of business is to beat the shit out of it until it's pliable enough to suit us. Which is why they're interrupting us so much.
The Leather Trilogy is ended. I hope you liked it.