Pertinent shoe information, lite enough for a Monday:
Despite the swearing that I'd never own a pair of trashy Candie's after the rather unfortunate ownership of a certain pair of 80s-era Candie's (tan "suede" mules with the plastic or whatever the fuck that material was) worn on the nightmarish date with John Meegan, bro of Amy Meegan, a high school pal, to the now defunct Aud Club of Memorial Auditorium. Somewhere in the family archives is horrid, hard photographic evidence:
Me: taller than John Meegan, winged hair, some sort of polyester separates including a-line skirt, Candie's.
Him: tan (not khaki, khaki was not invented yet) suit, no tie, openwide collar and brown clogs on his feet.
Background: a trellis festooned with fake flowers.
So, minding my own business, I'm shoe shopping accidentally when I spot some four inchers of wood, top stitched black leather and so I gave them the clomp test, clomping about the store in them before shouting out to nobody especially YES.
Candie's. Slutty Candie's. Candie's that have you strutting Candie's. Candie's reclaiming your unfortunate shoe past back in the dark ages of high school Candie's.
Shoe love. Ah yes, shoe love.