Monday, February 03, 2003

Minding my own business, sinking into filthy coffee shop cushions permeated with the curious scent of men's cheap cologne, I was visited by a singer-songwriter from Boston who, I believe, sensed a like-minded shoe soul.
Rose Polenzani, of pal Blair's rock & roll management stable, was in the Middling City after several ragingly successful college gigs in other places. She was in the coffeeshop, as was Blair, other caffeine tipplers and a warbling Dylan knockoff. The warbler was really trying my patience but, believing he was another of Blair's 'artists' I stayed and suffered, helplessly breathing in the Hai Karate, Ol' Stinker or Old Spice or whatever the fuck it was.
So Rose P. tells me a happy shoe story and it went something like this.
Note: this after we mutually admired one another's shoes.
One day, out on the road, Rose Polenzani, folk artist, decided that she needed hiking boots.
She does not hike.
Note: when you love shoes you need all types of them. I have vintage black little boy cowboy boots. Have I ever roped a calf? I rest my case. Oh and - I own vintage Budweiser sneakers that leave BUD impressions in the dirt. Have I ever had a Bud without severe prompting or peer pressure? I rest my case yet again.
So she selects three pairs to try on. The shoeman returns with four boxes, three pairs of hiking boots and one pair of slammin' black leather boots, the pair she's wearing.
The shoeguy said You didn't ask for these but I thought you'd like them.
The end.
Moral: when one walks about with a rockstar energy, that of vivacious je ne sais quoi, the sky and great shoes are the limit.

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