This blog post is brought to you by two brass necks @gilfer’s and mine respectfully and respectively.
Normally I have to beg and genuflect and cajole and flatter for weeks to get a gentleman to blog for me about his shoes.
It took me three tweets to finagle one out of @gilfer. If only all contract negotiations were this easy.
What is not so easy was writing an introduction to this Guest Blog post.
Other than his slightly Dada-esque tweets:
@gilfer is as much as a mystery to me as rune ciphers.
So I did what any self-respecting lawyer would do – I went behind his back and asked one of his good friends to tell me a bit more about him. This is what she said:
“For a boy who has a lot to say about headwear, I am not surprised that he has something to say about shoes. Oh how I fondly remember the time I was ranting to him about people wearing Havaianas to the workplace – only for my rant to be met with a nervous giggle which, indeed, confirmed the fact that he was guilty of such an obscene pleasure. No, really, the kid’s alright and he has one of the keenest eyes for photography that I have seen.”
Now I owe them both one of these:
It began with my fairly run-of-the-mill boast about the superiority of my legs over other legs in general (and over the pair attached to @emlykd specifically). It has ended with me sitting at my dining table on a Sunday evening hammering out a blog entry about, of all things, shoes, while taking photographs of my tastefully bared calves.
This is why I shouldn’t get drawn into one-upmanship contests on Twitter.
Blogging about shoes is something of a challenge, considering that everything I know about the subject could be penned in large type onto the pointy-heeled tip of a prostitute’s stiletto. As an unfashionable geeky man, any interest I have in footwear is less to do with style or comfort, and more concerned with its potential for gadgetry. Maxwell Smart’s shoe phone, for example. Now there’s something I can get excited about cramming my foot into. And those shoes with the wheels that pop out? Awesome. Shoestring fries: delicious. But a nice pair of tan loafers or the latest sportswank from Nike? I could care less.
There is one pair which are the exception to prove the rule. A pair of shoes which stand so fine and singular against the rest of my wardrobe that i need only refer to them as ‘The Shoes‘ and have my meaning known. They are as starkly black and white as Pauline Hanson’s world view. As glossy as a holiday photograph. As cool as Elvis before he got fat and weird and starting doing karate. When I go to my happy place, these are the shoes I wear.
I bought them for my wedding. They were then, and still remain, the single most expensive piece of clothing I have ever purchased. I’ve worn them on only five occasions, ever fearful that with each outing their mojo may in some indefinable way be lessened. The simple act of lacing them up makes me tingle. Stepping out of the house, strapped into these babies, I don’t walk. I strut.
In short, there is magic in them.
It’s the kind of magic that allows me to forget my utter lack of coordination and, for a fleeting moment, feel like a guy who can cut some serious dance moves. I can’t, of course — even in the magic shoes I’m still dancing like a retarded chicken. But if you saw me wearing them at at the bar, you’d think: Fuck, i bet that guy can dance.
They are the confidence bringers. The cool-makers. They are, in every way, the business. Would they be better if they had a phone built into them, or some pop-out wheels, or even a spring-loaded prison-style shiv poking out a jaunty angle from the heel? Hell yes. Of course they would. But even without such fantastical contraptionary, they please me more than mere footwear should.
So anyway, here’s the photo.
Pretty good legs, hey?