Skip to content

Back to the salt mines suckas

October 7, 2013

HOLY SHIT PEOPLE!!! I just realized its almost been two years since I’ve posted. I’ve had to retrain myself how to use this cockamamie thang. I can’t spell and my grammar’s shot. This bodes well for my re-entry back into the work force.

Oh ho you say – what have I been doing? Springing a sprog yo! That’s right. Me and le husband procreated, and unfortunately the idyll that is maternity leave is almost over. And as the end looms, I’m forced to confront some VERY harshy mc-harsh realities. Namely, what in god’s green acre is happening in the world of shoes?

Honestly, I seriously peaced out and am feeling very confused and ill at ease. The only shoes I’ve bought in the past year are a weird pair of Clarks I don’t want to talk about. And baby Vans for le bambeen.

clarks

There was a deep confusion.

vans

Your cockles will be warmed.

Oh AND, I just re-read my last entry. And GUESS WHAT? Am still sans Ferragamos. Some debbie downer pissed all over my dreams saying my feet were going to get fat from pregnancy and they wouldn’t fit.

Speaking of fat, the one thing I can speak to with great confidence – thank christ a shmear of it remains – is that, again, Air Max rule. I mean when you take a shoe that can support your carcass at 2-hunny pounds and then as you march relentlessly all over hell’s half acre (pretty sure I’m dog’s breakfasting some sayings here) with a stroller – that is a shoe worth knowing. But my position on the Air Max is clear. And I have bigger issues.

So I start back to work in a months time, and I’ve heads upped my hubs that I shall be taking his hard earned money and my not so hard earned EI and shall be BLOWING MY WAD so to speak on a single pair of shoes. Said wad has since been upgraded to encompass two pairs. Said upgrade has not at time of publication been approved.

Regardless, am in the throes of my research. Because once the purchase is made, that’s it people! Baby needs a pony, and I can’t be higgidy piggildy purchasing with impunity! The stakes be high. I’ve never operated under such a heightened sense of awareness. What if I miss-step and saddle myself with something deeply horrend? Je waffle.

Do I stick safely to classics? A la Frye Chelsea boot – with its soft, slightly pebbled leather and waspily arch elegance – or do I MOUNT the trend train with something like the Dieppa Restrepo Ostrich platforms?

frye-nordstrom-boots-jillian-chelsea-boot

I have a horse. Bring it to me.

Platforms

This picture is awful.

Dunno man. Feeling tentative. PLUS PS – the rest of my wardrobe is in veritable tatters – mere scraps – the barest of rags! The only shmatte I bought this whole entire year is a Hawaiian shirt. And so while I inch deliciously closer towards truly being Thomas Magnum – by most people’s standards I’m nowheresville.

These shoes are going to have to do some serious heavy lifting. I’ve done Atlas analogies before – oh and I’ll do it again. The weight of the world y’all! Teetering, tremulously on strong yet supple shoe leather! It’s a big ol’ oy. Well. Hey. We all have our challenges. I’ll keep you apprised.

Advertisements

Feverish Fervour for Ferragamos

November 14, 2011

Where have I been? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?? Exactly. Listen I had shit going on – important shit. Not important enough that I didn’t have time to snap up a few tasty treats while I was incommunicado. But before we get into that – can I just say – for the record – that I might not buy any boots this winter? By boots I mean tall boots – because I bought two pairs of boots this fall – and I don’t want anyone getting confused and thinking that that counts.

Because – I actually don’t think that there any tall boots that interest me right now. Like I have all the tall boots that I ever could possibly want. Is that  arrogant? I mean – I feel like Frye hasn’t shown me anything lately – and I find it hard to name another boot brand that I would pin my hopes and dreams on. Plus, and I realize this is sacrilege – but aren’t boots played out yet? I mean HOW MUCH LONGER are they going tyrannically terrorize the aesthetic landscape. And I mean – this from a person who loves boots –  but enough already. And sure we have booties, and flats and oxfords and all that shizzz – but here’s the thing – I think tall boots are only going to truly fade ONCE the shift from skinny jean back to wide leg has fully taken affect. Discuss.

I mean – I personally am not ready to fully embrace the wide leg again. I see girls wearing them – and I’m like oh that’s cute – cute! But I’m not ready – psychologically. But eventually sure – skinnies will eventually be regarded how boot cuts are today –   with faint distaste. So once that transition is made – where is that going to leave us with all our boots? With no skinnies to tuck them into? I mean – I actually almost never wear my boots with jeans – not a good look on me – but honestly – I think tall boots will have to loosen their death grip. I’m kinda into it! To see what moves into the vacuum.

But this really isn’t what I’m here to talk about. Lets dispense with house keeping first: I GOT A PAIR OF RED WINGS. Now that the cheveux  is sorta grown out – I was like man – I’m just gonna try them on and see how they fit and feel. Oh and I loved them – oh how I loved them.

Mine. And also - mine.

Then by mistake I went into Chasse Gardee and got these fantastic dessert boots:

Take me to the Gobi!

See – they’re just little guys? What harm could they do?

So it was a bit of an orgy. THEN I got it into my head that I needed a pair of Ferragamos. I needed them, they were classics, they would be like a good blow out from my hair dresser- packed full of transformative properties – me perpetually disheveled and dilapidated – now a groomed paragon of polish. So I went to David’s on Bloor. I find that place intimidating. Which irritates me. Because I’m like yes I’m a slob – but you don’t know – I could be a gazzilionnaire. At the very least I can go into debt to do some serious damage in your store – DON’T MAKE ME SHOW YOU MY CREDIT CARD.  So I tried on a pair of the Ferragamo vara pumps. And I mean – they are truly gorgeous – I slide them on, and it’s pure heaven. Pure, pure, heaven. But – I’d like more of a colour selection because I want to live a little! And when I ask if they’re getting more in – the sales dude basically tells me to go fuck myself. Ha. No he didn’t. But imagine? I sorta have a grudge against David’s now. But anyways – no no – they’re not getting anymore in.

So then do you kn0w what i find out? David’s is the only store in the entire city of Toronto that sells Ferragamo. I mean people – fine we’re not in New York – but JESUS CHRIST can it get any more desperate???? ECHHHH and PEHHHH.

So I go back to work – and as I’m obsessing, about how Toronto is DENYING ME and IGNORING  my needs – I suddenly feel marginally chagrined at the thought that I’m so willing to drop large on a pair of totally superfluous and wholly undeserved shoes. So I instant message my signif other (lets call him MY HUSBAND) and confess to my nefarious and budget-busting plan. He’s like my priest – I confess all my pervy, unwholesome thoughts – and he’s like whatever – absolved, absolved, get back out there.

Oh ho – but this time, there’s no Hail Marys to be had. Instead, husband is not only all like “how much? what? why? you crazy!” – he also says something much more damaging, to me, my psyche,  to the sanctity of our relationship – to the trust we’ve spent years building and nurturing – to the goodwill born by longs walks on the beach and me folding his underwear:  “You don’t have the wardrobe to go with those shoes.”

Judas.

He looks harmless - but is NAT a good guy.

I mean – I’ve written before how I’ve been concerned that my shoes far outdistance my clothes in both interest and quality – and like – fine – that’s always a concern – but to have it thrown in my face by the person I look to for support and blind validation? It’s too much.

So like – what am I suppose to do? I confer with my mother – whose always trying to get me to buy fewer clothes of better quality – but I just can’t summon the interest to drop mad cash on a black wool skirt that will last me 2o years. OYYYYYY. And also kill me dead. And also – I feel like I’ll lose a little bit of my soul  if I swap one of my true loves in life – and like we’re down to 1 now that my husband has betrayed me so foully – for the more prosaic concerns of textiles and tailoring. RAGS – I’d rather wear RAGS then turn my face from all that shines brightly ie. the little Ferragamo-inscribed plate on the vara bow – can you see it? It’s like God’s eyeball:

Ferragorgeous.

So. This is where you find me. All these issues left unresolved. Ferragamo-less. Confused. Alone. But one thing remains: My faith. Unshakeable. Slightly irrational. Deeply satisfying and completely self-serving. And with this new found martyr complex – comes the absolute knowledge that all will turn out right in the end. By which I mean – my closet will be packed full of Ferragamos! YEAH! And also – Amen.

Almost dead to me: Adidas

July 11, 2011

So hey, I could pretend that I haven’t written in months because I realized that to wax on existentially about shoes is  faintly self-indulgent, sniff, but in reality, the pause was a due to much baser reasons. Such as sloth.

Anyways – I just re-read my last entry to remind myself where I was EMOTIONALLY and SPIRITUALLY last winter – and good lord – get thee to a sanitarium. Winter does wear on one. As you can imagine I managed to muddle through – and have ended up on the other side into a more palatable season – ie. summer.

So like here’s the thing – there’s only so many twee flats and gladiator sandals a girl can get excited about. I dunno – summers have  always been a bit tough for me – because I don’t like wedges and espadrilles and shit – and I feel this PRESSURE to have cute heels that I can march about in all day so that I can wear skirts and dresses and like – I’ll admit it – a romper or playsuit (oy the shame of it).

However the deep unease towards summer shoe goes deeper. Remember that one summer I lived in New York?  You’ve heard tell of it before.  It was so humid and revolting and my feet got so totally shredded, that I was a hobbling wretch confined to flip flops. Anyhoo – this unease was FURTHER compounded earlier this summer – because boyf and I were getting hitched and I was searching for wedding shoe and like – I was ready to throw down exorbitantly on something entirely ridiculous. And nada. There was as a lot of strange patent leather with very stacked platforms that were not in keeping with the more textured, romantic look I was after. I felt very bewildered and then generally hostile and then I ordered shoes online. THESE!

Kate Spade Dreamer. Love bombs.

Kate Spade – which for purses was always a big ol’ blerg in my book – but I loved these suckers – classic pump lines in fuchsia with a heart decal on the front. They SCREAM romance. And to my groom – YOU WILL LOVE ME.

Anyways the point of this post isn’t to descend into ranting and railing against the dearth of shoe stores in Toronto – one of my favourite  soap boxes – but instead it’s to revisit one of my other favourite topics: The Summer Sneaker.

So this is an interesting one – because last year I got another fresh pair of Rod Lavers – oft heralded here as the over-arching perfect sneaker – and a pair of white high top chucks. These are the cornerstones of summer sneakerdom – classics that fill voids – physical, emotional – with their simplicity and timelessness. So I thought I was set this summer.

But then I started having weird, uncomfortable thoughts. Like, oh god, maybe I need a svelte little, canvas sneaker. ie. Maybe I need a Ked.

Ked. So jaunty. So malevolent.

Echhh Keds. Keds were for the girls who didn’t wear chucks – and what kind of girl was that? She was the same girl who also wore Treatorns. Poor creatures. And last summer I had this whole thing about BOYS suddenly wearing Keds – intrinsically and intractably wrong. All of it was contrary to my sense of self – but at the same time I felt perversely drawn to the Ked.

I tried to distract myself with Vans or even those pervy, skinny, Euro low-top converse? It was all getting exceeding dire and looking likely to develop into a classic scoff’n want (see birks, clogs, jazz shoes) – when I was rescued by one of my once go-to – but recently dormant in my mind – brands.

I’ve always been a Nike person – except when I was an Adidas person. And I was an Adidas person for a longggggg time. Aforementioned Rod Lavers had always been a staple – and sure,  I’d also gone off the reservation with some hideous Adidas like the Good Year quilted, green Formula 1 driving shoes – anyone? There was velcro involved.

But for the past couple years – I’ve been bored to tears with one Gazelle and Campus and Forest Hill after the next – not to mention the reissues of vintage Rods and Stan Smiths. I mean snooze-festival. Conversely, I was buying Air Max and Jordans and Blazers and Trainers at a rapid rate. And sure I made some mistakes with Nikes too – Air Raids anyone? (velcro was involved),  but at least Nike was keeping it interesting.

So long story short – now much, much too late for that – I’m into Adidas again!  The Adidas store in Toronto sorta blows, because I find the staff aloof and wall whut whut? – but it has some solid merch. I got these and these.

Easy Five. Suspiciously Ked-like.

Azzie Mid. Axel would have totally worn these.

And I mean this shit isn’t even canvas or plain old cotton – IT’S TWILL PEOPLE.  Twill. Woven in some pre-industrial mill by half blind widows!

Also, if you can’t hack Queen St. – there’s also Live Stock which has some lovely Adidas and the dudes are very nice there.

Sigh. So what does it all mean? I was close to casting off Adidas into the bin of second class citizens like Puma and Asics and horror-of-horrors Reebok. But this renaissance is making me question how quick I am to reject and rebuke. Has this whole better or worse rhetoric around marriage infected my brain and made me a sap who gives second and third chances?  I’ll be rediscovering the glories of  Campers next. And then what for me?

Winter Wonder Whatever

February 7, 2011

Okay people it’s time for this weather to wrap it up. And it’s not because of the shoveling or the shlepping or the constant cold and damp. It’s because I’m like some faintly pathetic, quasi ugly duckling in my third floor garret desperately trying on outfits to feel cute in this dank and dreary season! But all I have to work with are the same 2 pairs of boots that can handle this weather and not disintegrate amongst the salt and slush. It’s driving me fucking crazy!!!

Let me start my Cinderella story from the beginning. Hey listen, despite tomboy tendencies – I’m like any other girl – sometimes I want to look nice and groomed and pulled together. I realized I’d reached a nadir when on Friday I went up to my parents place for dinner in an outfit where I looked like a 15 year old on HIS way to band practice.

So this weekend I decided to do my nails. I haven’t done them. And generally TRY to get it together a bit.  So while the rest of the world is hunkered down watching that molester Roethlisberger (Jewish?) toss around the pigskin, I confined myself like tubercular patient in my enclave and created this seriously marvelous outfit.

Problem was it’s wholly dependent on these pair of boots – ones I bought during my manic episode from last post – which I can’t remotely wear in this weather. And like – is this outfit even going to be hip once this weather clears? It could be MONTHS that I’m sitting on this outfit.  Because I’m telling you right now – if this outfit doesn’t get aired – it’s going to be like a major opus never published, or Beethoven’s lost symphony never played, or whatever – we’re talking MASTERPIECE PEOPLE.

So anyways – as I stewed in frustration I had a marginal epiphany – and since all my epiphanies are self-serving – I was QUITE pleased.

Sometimes, especially after I’ve essentially GORGED myself on shoes in an orgy or purchasing, I think how nice it would be to return to a time of minimalism. Instead of a glut of shoes – I’d just have like – I dunno what’s reasonable? 10 pairs? All so pitch perfect that I wouldn’t need anything else.

They’d never go out of style. One of them would always go absolutely dead-on with whatever I was wearing – I would never need any others. And I would have this sense of space and serenity without the clutter – a kind of streamlined efficiency that was beautiful unto itself. Minimalism yo. And  I’d rock the moral superiority that went  with it – arching an eyebrow in the face of everyone else’s BASE materialism.

Back to the epiphany. It was: Yeah,  I can’t hack this minimalism shit.  I mean – winter throws it all into such  sharp relief – because unless you want to ruin most of your shoes – you have to stick to the ones that can survive the wretched elements. And don’t get me wrong I like my boots that I can and do wear – but honestly – quelle boredom.

Day after day. The monotony. The epic sameness. It’s a real reminder of why I have so many FUCKING shoes in the first place. Because in the carousel that is my shoe collection is the promise of every day being a new day. Of choice. Of freedom. Of the pursuit of being satisfied every single moment about what’s on my feet. About not having to settle or compromise – whether it’s my oldest, rattiest sneakers or my swankiest new boots – what I see when I look down – is always what I want to see. It’s about the basic principles of life,  liberty, and the rights of the individual.

But then we still have the weather – and there’s nothing to be done for it but grind it out. And because I’m  a Canadian and natural crank, I love complaining about the snow and cold and the depth of my misery in said conditions. But I’m telling you this right now – when the thaw comes and the ice age is over – I’ll fulfil my civic duty and perpetuate the democratic tenets through my credit card. God save the Queen.

Foot in the door fail.

January 12, 2011

Uh, yeah I’ve been on a bit of a tear. But that’s not what’s interesting. What’s interesting is that I was planning what to write in this post a week ago – it’s true, I procrastinate – and now the tables have suddenly turned. What once was – is no more. What I believed in – has been run aground on the rocks of reality! This is personal shit.

Lets start at the beginning. So sometimes, the shoe offerings of a certain season, or even entire year hold no allure – it’s a drought of the driest kind – a deep unrelenting parchment of pastiness that seems as if it can never been quenched. Then, someone does a rain dance to the shoe gods and it’s like a deluge. Feast or famine baby! And let me tell you – the feast is just as much curse  as caper.

So I wasn’t expecting to buy anything this winter, and oops in October or whatever I bought those Dieppa Restrepo loafers – but that was going to be it. Then long story short I went to NYC and got a ridiculous deal on a pair of Frye motorcycle boots (not my fault), then I was back in TO and was sick of buying Christmas presents for EVERYONE else, so got myself a pair of clogs (small, little clogs, half a shoe! not even a whole shoe!) and after that my New Years resolution was like, really, enough already, and then I promptly bought these crazed Spanish riding boot type things that were ESSENTIAL because I didn’t have any brown boots. Of that particular ilk. And these had buckles. See?

Palanco. For the noted horeswoman.

So fine, lost the plot a wee bit, but refused to collapse in a heap of shame. Instead I roiled joyfully in a heap of  fresh leather! Yes! And to boot (ha), I had a new topic for my blog – because it’s all fodder baby! I was going to write about how my winter shoe collection has this sort of true harmony as a whole –  while my wardrobe is a discordant mishmash of pilling cardigans  and awkward-lengthed skirts. The clothes now the poor cousin, almost desperate, faintly grasping – sad, dejected, depleted and given only a solitary potato for supper. Forced to sleep in the woodshed around back, a cold, hard, palette of straw for a bed.

BUT I didn’t get to write this post of genius DID I?? Because I was waylaid by a much more DEVASTATING turn of events that of COURSE has to be recorded here – if not for posterity – then for pure cathartic purposes. Le sigh.

So I have this boyfriend.  And I have lots of shoes. And he has none. In the face of such challenges – we refuse to  give up our love. We’re basically like Romeo & Juliet.   How do we make it work?. Well, boyf has always been supportive of me doing what I’ve had to do – though he did raise an eyebrow marginally during this latest escapade. And I in turn NEVER harass him about his shoes – which considering my bent – makes me SALT OF THE EARTH and also THE BEST GIRLFRIEND ALIVE.

However, this past weekend I finally got him to consent and go with me to Get Outside to look at some boots. I thought maybe a Blundstone?

Blundstone. Speak of salt of the earth.

So reasonably priced? Goes with everything, all season, wear well? Anyone? Or maybe we could dream bigger – a Frye, a Red Wing?

Red Wing. Are we not to dream then?

Here’s the thing, he never goes into stores, he never tries anything on, he never buys anything! So this was a bit of coup – but I was playing it cool, because we’d been building up to this, me almost undetectably programming him over the past month to accept my suggestion of a boot purchase, softly steering him towards my own ends.

So we get in there – he does the briefest of tours. And then is like “I’m not going to try anything on.” There is one word – and that word is crushing. I LITERALLY was close to tears, I almost stamped by foot in frustration- except I felt so deflated and couldn’t summon the energy. Plus, we were about to have a full on domestic at one of my favourite shoe stores – and even in my borderline hysterical state – I wouldn’t sully that relationship for all the world.

And so to summarize, the lesson here is you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. And then when he doesn’t drink you can’t have full mental shutdown and take it personally and then execute a stone cold freeze out that lasts the time it takes to chug a beer – in an effort to revive one’s spirits – at the Horseshoe Tavern across the street.

If  one was self aware – which one wishes one wasn’t because it’s a pain in the ass – I think I got so carried away with the shoe buying this past month – that I thought I could continue the seamless accrual of footwear with my boyf as proxy. But he stymied me. And isn’t’ that what all healthy relationships are about? Being stymied? Achem.

So the epilogue reads,  my boyf remains unshod, my tear is officially over, and now I have to connive of another plan to get that man in some boots.

Not Around to Quell the Tide of Terrible.

November 9, 2010

Oh me oh my I’ve committed the cardinal sin of blog writing and spaced for the past two months. And I was sort of chagrined to realize I ended on a post about kids shoes – not weighty and worthy subject matter for a blog that tackles such hard hitting issues. I’m the 60 minutes of shoe blogs yo!

Anyways – what can I say – I would prefer if I was predisposed to write out of happiness, joy and enthusiasm, but like most modern-day cranks it’s the opposite that truly inspires. In the past couple of months I haven’t seen much that’s peaked my pejoratives.

In fact – much like the newly in love, I’ve been sort of awash in the bliss of my own shoes, oblivious to the pain and misery of others. Fall arrived, and I threw down ecstatically and sociopathically (in the sense I felt no guilt that I didn’t QUITE have the cash) on a pair of pure goregeousity at Chassee Gardee – Dieppa Restrepo loafters.

Black, simple, sumptuous – I pranced around in those bad boys on the first day of wear – and extorted to god that I had found my perfect shoe and needed to search no longer. Born again loafer lover! No but seriously. They are perfection. Dieppa makes many a perfect shoe. I sort of pined for these – left – as well  But was thinking that there was currently too much overlap with my Bass loafers.

Anyhooo – so was living in the haze of self-satisfaction that comes from feeling chuffed about all my footwear for Fall – and as such was lulled into an apathetic lethargy about the shoe tragedies of others. It’s shameful to admit – but it’s like how sometimes you opt to watch 5 consecutive seasons of 24 on DVD, diligently avoiding  actual TV with its commercials and threat of newscasts about real things – cocooned instead elsewhere, blind eye turned to the broad assortment of global crises.

So I mean – listen, just as I know that some seriously rough shit went down over the past couple months (uhh, Chilean miners)I also know that there was probably a fresh shoe horror unveiling itself on the streets every day.

But again – sometimes it takes a micro tragedy to propel us from our torpor. Something to truly outrage, something so abnormal, abhorrent and against all laws of nature that you can’t just walk by and pretend it’s not happening.

You have to stop and take a stand – give CPR to that homeless person, help that woman with her double stroller, pick up that clump of besmeared detritus that’s been sitting on your lawn all summer- take action people! STAND UP FOR SOMETHING. It’s like in Norma Rae when Sally Field finally  gets up with her homemade placard – and is like STRIKE yo.

I’m finally breaking my SILENCE – with this:

Javier it hurts.

I mean – can you even SEE what’s happening here? And I’m not talking about Penelope’s Uggs. Javier Bardem – who I find quite a biscuit – is wearing THESE –

New Balance. Words escape.

So. I don’t really understand. What is the allure of these shoes (I shall not sully the sneaker by calling them such) for someone like Javier Bardem? I mean I get that celebs are people just like us – because US Weekly tells me-  but why would he feel compelled to find the ugliest, most pedestrian ‘athletic’ shoe on the market, pass over the pesos and then wear them in public? The things is – this isn’t the first time Javier’s shoes have caught my eye and had me perplexed. He seems to have a predilection for jogging shoes – which I’ve never been a fan of except for the always and forever classic Air Max.

Javier. Not jogging, and yet wearing jogging shoes.

Ew. Listen. I’m happy him and Penny are seemingly nice, down to earth people who just want to procreate in Spanish splendor – but I find it an intrinsic shame that people – cough – I find attractive insist on wearing terrible things. Right? It’s like a MAJOR disappointment. Not that I’m taking it personally. And then:

Looking verrryy closely . .

I mean – he’s very clearly  wearing Crocs. Strange – and Sean Penn looks so happy to meet him regardless.

Needles to say I’ve been jostled from the reverie that was September and October. It’s obvious I must remain vigilant. Now that we’re entering winter – undoubtedly there will be host of hideous faux fur trims to take to task. And so I begin November – eyes agog and ablaze.

Sigh. Velcro.

August 31, 2010

Okay – I’m going lean and mean with this one. Can we stop wearing velcro shoes? Sure – if you’re wearing them for medical reasons – I get it – big fat hairy pass.

But to that lay-about 3 year old with the princess shoes? Why don’t you just bare down, focus, learn to hold those those laces and tell momz and pops to invest in some adorable baby Vans, or even some Samabas. Show some discipline.  Plus do you know how cheap kids’ Jordan’s are? Oh to be a size 6yr – Jordans left and right yo!

Vans. Wee.

Adidas. Awwwwww.

Jordans. Bunny kitten cute!

And I mean, the desecration of classic sneakers with velcro? We’re talking sacrilege,  like someone peeing all over the Acropolis. It’s not right and in poor taste.

Adidas butchery.

Blazers. Velcro version.

Velcro as flourish – fine. But full blown swap of laces for velcro? To what end?

Trainer. Velcro in appropriate situ.

And hipsters – I have a bit of a hard on for you. I can get behind the whole fashion foibles as irony shtick – don’t you TELL ME ABOUT IRONY –  but I came across this picture of a New York Times photographer’s assistant wearing like New Balance velcros – and it’s just full-stop ugly.  Sometimes revolting is simply that – unsalvageable and seriously suckballs. Oh but go ahead – trust this guy.

This guy.