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Archive for the ‘feet’ Category


In feet, Fran Lebowitz on August 12, 2017 at 8:15am08


1. If you could choose your accoutrements what would they be?

A Bailey Western Cowboy hat, a vintage jeweled bolero, a Cynthia Rowley wetsuit and Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax.





2. Is there a film you dream of appearing in?

“Do the Right Thing,” on Rosie as Tina.



3. What is your favorite Janus word?




4. If you could choose any artist to reimagine you, who would it be?



Antworks in Progress – Pink Leaf, 2012, from “The Leafcutters” series


5. Do you have a favorite malapropism?

Having one wife is called monotony.


6. If you could appear in any photograph what would it be?

On Deneuve by Newton.

Screen Shot 2017-01-06 at 9.39.50 AM.png


7.  If I were not in the picture what other person’s questions would you choose to answer?

Fran Lebowitz’s.



8. Aaaaand here we go… I do not, for the life of me, understand it. What is it with this-

Take a breath. You didn’t let me finish. Fran as Judge Janice Goldberg on “Law and Order.” See there? Technically, not the same person. And that’s because Judge Janice is a character. Because Lady Lebowitz is also an actress.  A woman who wears many hats. Multifaceted



9. Are you done?

Never.  She knows her way around the spoken word – Fran I’m referring to – although I’m sure Judge Janice knows how to string a few beautiful sentences together too. And – Fran – she doesn’t care who she’s speaking to. We should all heed what’s coming out of her mouth is all I’m saying. Especially in today’s world. Her words will set you free, bring you face to face with your core self. But then again, I’m just a bootie and so what do I know? A lot! Because I. Listen. To. Fran-

*I walked away as the Margiela continued on and on and on…


painting by Francesco Clemente




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In feet, Fran Lebowitz on November 9, 2013 at 8:15pm11


1. If given the chance, what would you choose as your accoutrements?

A Clare Deve necklace, a Balmain velvet blazer, a pair of ‘Fayza’ Diesel jeans and a Maison Martin Margiela (ca. 2007) clutch.





2. Is there anyone out there representing houndstooth besides those wearing you?

That would be Ricky. I think it’s pretty obvious our paths will never ever cross and I’m not upset by that fact, but I do have to admire his commitment to the pattern. And he’s never suitable for work, so don’t even try it.

3. Let’s say we removed fire and brimstone from the end-of-days menu, what do you think would take its place?

A Twitter rant.


4. Are you more Michael & Kelly or more Michael Kelly?




I’m going with Mr. Kelly. His reading of “Joyland” was the perfect complement to Mr. King’s words.



5. What is the woman wearing you looking for in a partner?
She’d like to know the person sleeping next to her loves London Grammar as much as she does if not more.
6. If not you then what?

A closing argument.

7. Is there something you oft think about?

This picture of a young Fran Lebowitz and what she must have been thinking about.


8. Uh… That’s not Fran. You know that, right?

Keep telling yourself that.


9. Right. But in all honesty, it’s really not her. Now, I know you all deem her the ultimate get. She’s vengeful, wears the hell out of a cowboy boot although some of you prefer her in a tasteful loafer, she’s great to cuddle with while listening to “Besame Mucho” and she’s not a fan of those spilling their guts in conversation. All of that I get, I no longer question any it even if every part of me longs to, however, I have to draw the line at blatant lies! I’m sorry but this ends now! Okay?!

It’s Fran.



In feet on October 25, 2013 at 8:15pm10


1. If you could choose your accoutrements, what would they be?

A Reinhard Plamk hat, Smith + Mara earrings, the Burberry Prorsum jacket and a Marni skirt.





2. If you could be worn by any couple who would it be?

The then Russells, no doubt.

3. What vibe do you feel those who wear you give off?

Said people appear to be thoroughly filled with knowledge without having the erudite’s gusto to consume.


4. If you could choose any man to wear you, whom would it be?

The father sitting in the park with his wife and child, watching as the child takes his first steps, trying with all of his might to stay focused on his son’s monumental moment and his elated wife and not look at the toned, unadulterated, massively long legs belonging to the female, high school volleyball player heading straight his way. Trying to stay in the moment of family and first steps, and for better or for worse and the fact that he’s a great provider and this is as good as it’s gonna get. It’s hard, though. It’s hard, for this high school volleyball player is sweaty and laughing and taking selfies and wearing tight, ultra short briefs, all the while, strolling through a park. Five things the wife will never simultaneously do ever again. Five things any woman attracted to him, the father, will never do again. He whittles down what it is that’s so attractive about this young woman, attractive beyond the physical — though the physical is a real coup — and he concludes it’s the fact that she doesn’t need him. She doesn’t even want him. She doesn’t even know he exists. The need to put her hooks into someone hasn’t hooked her yet. She’s still under the spell of boys whose only prereqs are being cute, tall and self-assured. The boys don’t need all the extras yet to make her love him. That need will magically appear in 10 years or so. The volleyball player isn’t scantily clad as an attempt to lure him in. She’s scantily clad because she’s just come from trying out for the best damn club team in the country. She has to dress this way. Club tryouts call for it. Volleyball won’t accept briefs an inch longer. If someone deems the way she’s dressed alluring, well, it’s all lost on her. She’s sixteen. Men his age are friends with her father. That’s it. And anyway, it’s not like he wants to actually pursue something. First off, it’s against the law but more than that, he believes 16-year-olds who look and act the way she’s acting are put here simply to let people know — at whatever moment they set eyes on her — exactly where they stand in this life. Sixteen’s the last age at which a person actually, honestly, “no bullshit required” feels amazing about getting older. “She doesn’t know from actual FOMO or YOLO yet,” he thought to himself. Some say it’s eighteen but nope. At eighteen you’re officially of age. Gone are the do-overs, the kevlar provided by actual adults – and so begins the downward slope of the fact you still live at home. Local news can show your face. The papers can release your name. You’re officially the adult. Now some would say twenty-one but let’s be honest, the only thing that’s celebrated (in the states at least) is the fact you’re now allowed booze to numb the pain. If that’s not a major red flag shrouded in celebratory garb then I don’t know what is. That aside, the father truly does love the woman across from him. The woman currently smiling from ear to ear as she watches her boy literally take the first steps down the road to becoming a man. The woman who gave him a perfect son. The woman who glowed for 38 weeks as her belly grew and grew. The woman he catches staring at him from time to time as if he’s some stranger, some tramp come in from off the streets. The study is fleeting, a split-second if that. He’s vowed to never ask her about the look or the accompanying thoughts. What person in their right mind would? He’s no fool. If every man is an island then every family is a planet, existing within its own solar system. And this is how he always pictured his life, work moving along at a steady click, a spouse to support him, offspring in his likeness… He’s in this thing until death does them part. Not because he wants to be (not that he wants out in any way whatsoever) but because that’s the way it’s done. It’s the way his parents did it. It’s the way their parents did it. He isn’t about to be the star to go supernova, thus, upending everything they’ve built. His planet will stay intact. No black halo hanging in the place of his perfect creation. Upon this conclusion, the volleyball player passes just as the son takes the final steps, ending the monumental moment. The father cradles his child, releasing a deep celebratory breath that coexists as a celebration of the volleyball player’s disappearance from sight. And there he is, happy to be rid of her, yet almost hating her for making him survey his very existence.


5. If you could choose any woman to wear you, who would it be?

The mother who has just witnessed her son walking into his father’s arms for the first time at the very moment she sets eyes on long, smooth legs, clad in the tiniest of briefs as they saunter past. The person wearing them appears gorgeous from behind and she’s laughing and talking on her phone, and taking pictures of herself and oblivious to everything around her, oblivious to the fact her short-lived presence has the ability to make certain people of a certain age question their entire life up until this point. Or at least think, “Goddamn, she has amazing legs.” Looking at the girl does not make the mother want to be that young again, for being that young for her was hell. All the time spent looking at girls like this and knowing she’ll never be that. Knowing she would be the first wife. The one who it makes sense to marry so she can keep a happy home. As she watches her husband and child — still with the vision of smooth legs moving away in the periphery — she realizes she wishes she had married a man whom she could call out to, “Did you look?! Go ahead, look! I know you want to. Hell, I looked. Her body is something of lore. ‘SoCal, Huntington Beach-born and bred, volleyball year round, there’s a good chance she’ll get model scouted’ lore!” And they would laugh about it. As a matter of fact, out of the boisterous cackle, she would sail into, “We’re a unit, so lovingly locked into this thing, however, that doesn’t mean we’re beings unable to look at perfect bodies that were never possibilities for either of us to begin with. You always knew you’d have to master something cerebral to find your self-worth and I always knew I’d have to look on proudly while being your sous-chef in life! And also —  and this is where it has to get a little serious — you weren’t my first choice. I feel it’s my duty to tell you that. My first choice was crafted in my head long ago at an age when all I was allowed to do was craft him inside of my head – back when the ideal him was a skyscraper that grew into a campus which ultimately became a city! There was no limit to how all-encompassing he could be; it just expanded with every flight of fancy that popped into my mind. But alas, we turn a corner and suddenly appears the architect, the builder and the agent stepping in to control matters. Suddenly, all of the accoutrements and accents that were so easily acquired in your mind are no longer available in life. You’re out of your price range. You’re settling for a less than desirable area. You’re suddenly thinking condo. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. And it doesn’t mean the moment I saw you my heart didn’t skip a beat. But it is the truth. Another truth? I met you at a point in my life when the fact that you wore Docs, went to Yale, interviewed at Google and had friends that wrote for SNL appreciated your attractiveness quotient. That’s all I needed. However, from where I stand now? If the world granted me the ability to manifest the ultimate him? He’d be nothing like you. I’m afraid I’m back to wanting the unlimited dream while hating myself for thinking I wasn’t good enough to go after it. Now, I’m prepared to take on any and all truths about your choosing of me.” All she wanted was to make painfully truthful declarations to this man across from her and not have to retreat into the right, non-threatening things they’re conditioned to say. Because in truth, there is freedom. Because it wasn’t about being young or beautiful or alluring to the masses. It was about her partner looking at her, and actually seeing her. It was about this man’s ability to step outside of himself and push away the everyday banalities of mortgages and talking shop and possible pre-schools and how hard they felt after the Jay-Z concert and pool parties and dinners with deckle edged, calligraphed place cards calling on some weird want to be back in grade-school and Guitar Hero at a friend’s house because they still had some fun left and dressing up like Leopold & Loeb for Halloween and electric cigarettes and parties with muted, old, important films playing on the wall while talk of “Thank you so much! We have to go release the babysitter but let’s for sure have lunch next week” loomed overhead like a redundant, storm cloud. She wanted him to see her. She wanted to know in her core, if this were to all fall away, absolutely everything they had built and created together and there they were floating in nothingness, she wanted to know she was all he wanted; positioned across from her in the void, forced to stare at her for the rest of his life, he would be as happy as humanly possible. But she’ll never know the answer. She simply never will. They have too much stuff blocking the path, too many things: date nights, a station wagon Porsche with a facetious “Baby on Board” sign hanging in the window that doubled as fact, her family loves his family, Sunday brunch with friends, strolling down a trendy street with him pushing the pram like a proper father, an impending trip to New Zealand, a week at Taghrid’s parents’ sprawl on St. Simons, sweet candids of the family on a friend’s Instagram, clearing out the DVR, hydrangeas, coffee table books, a Roth IRA, new countertops, holiday parties, fundraisers, laughing at that show, a week of eating clean, being blown away by that other show… Plus, the person she married would furrow his brow if she asked him such a question. She could feel the lump forming in her throat. Her son, the ultimate love of her life, without him it would all be worthless, his first steps and all she wanted to do was cry for herself.


6. Is there a person you would want to be worn by but because of circumstance, a.k.a. not appearing cool to their peers, this person can’t purchase you?

The 16-year-old volleyball player passing a family — mother, father and baby — just as the baby walks away from–

7. Uh uh. No way. I’m done with this scenario. I get it. You’re unisex. You can be worn by anyone, however, I’m officially depressed and afraid of my future. Can you maybe check in with the Stones? They seem to be having a blast and I’m sure Charlie wouldn’t be caught dead in you and yet he can’t seem to get you out of his head. See? The man can’t stop thinking about you.

imagesimages-2 images-6 images-1 images-3 images-4 images-3images-4 images-7images-7

Nice try. Now, where was I? Oh yes. The volleyball player furtively watches as the baby travels ever so wobbly away from the mother and toward the father. At first, she spots me encasing the mother’s feet and wishes she could trade in her Nike Benassi Swooshes, but she knows that move wouldn’t fly right with her crew. She then sets her sights on the entire scene, “Wow. They’re really losing it, so it must be the little guy’s first steps. Good for you, little guy. Look at that. Real life. Cute baby. They do look ‘real life’ happy. Wonder if I’ll be a mom one day. Wonder if mom had the same thoughts. What am I talking about? The woman was born to bear. Yield human life she was placed here to do. I don’t even know who I am. Seventeen next week and I don’t even know who the fuck I am. This world thinks I’m so simple. It thinks if you shove some needy guy in front of me to keep me occupied, a sport or an instrument to empower me and there I am, ready for life. But you wish it were that simple. You were young once. You have to remember how complex you were. You have to remember thinking it all might be too much to take and so the thought of checking out altogether popped up from time to time as the best possible scenario. You once knew what they see on the outside might not be at all what’s going on inside. ‘Put her in this! Drive her to that! For the love of God, just keep her busy and soon enough she’ll be on her own and thriving and I can be proud and bragging!’ Sometimes I can swear that’s my parents’ internal mantra. But why all the smoke and mirrors? Talk to me. That’s all I really want. That’s all anyone really wants at the end of the day. To be seen. To be heard. Understood. What am I doing? I’m talking on the phone, laughing even, taking fucking pictures and sending them to someone I don’t like. I’ve emojied this shit to within an inch of its life and for who? The person who flirted with my boyfriend last night but if I called her on it she’d gasp and call me crazy? But does it really matter? The boyfriend’s a real idiot at the end of the day anyway. Neither one is equipped to ever know the real me. And so I’ll just keep moving forward, wedging myself into this little space the world has carved out just for me. I’ll play the part. Fine. I wish I were born a boy. Sometimes. Okay, maybe not. Man, that kid’s taking his first steps. Should I tell him it’s pointless? Crawl forever. Now that would be innovative. Don’t get involved in the spinning of the plates, kid. Part of me just wants to fast–forward to where they are — doing big, real-life, grown-up stuff that keeps you so busy you couldn’t check in if you wanted to —  and the other part wants to back up and stay the little one’s age forever, complete with brain unable to process the extraneous. They don’t even see me. That’s how happy they are. So caught up in their ‘happy family’ thing they don’t see me. I have no voice to latch onto in this world. No one’s out there speaking up for me and my tiny, little faction. There’s a lot of talking but where’s my voice? Since I can’t speak for myself, where’s my voice?”


8. I hate you. What in the hell is going on in this park?

Listen. Let’s check in with the baby. I’m sure in true, baby fashion, he’ll slap a silver lining on this whole situation, “One foot, oooo–kay… now the other foot… Uh oh. I’m going down. I’m going down! Wait! I can do this! Fight it! Fight! It! Phew! Fought it! Man, that really did a number on my core. Okay, one foot… Now the other foot… That volleyball player’s looking at me in a mighty funny way. I wonder if she knows something I don’t. If you do, sister, keep it to yourself. I’m an innocent still basking in the glory of only being capable of living in the moment. My brains couldn’t look to the future or lament the past if it wanted to. And plus, whatever it is can’t be that bad! Life’s for the living! And what a great life it is! Finally! Dada’s arms! How I love this man! Yay! Mama’s here now! I love her more! And she’s kissing me! Now dada’s kissing me! Man, I love this thing we’ve built! I really, really do! Oh, and I can walk now! Whoo-hoo! I love my life!”


9. Did you just put words in that baby’s mouth because you want me to step away from the brink I’m on?

  1. I’m a Birkenstock, the ultimate, non-threatening bastion of optimism, and so it’s very possible.
iStock_000006439150Small optimism


In feet on August 23, 2013 at 8:15pm08


1. If given the chance, how would you accouter yourself?

A Wanda Nylon hat, a Lindsey Thornburg dress, a Sottsass ring and a Nina Baker ring.





2. If you could choose any place, where would you be the happiest?

On Gilda, here…

3. What is a quality you abhor in the person wearing you?


4. What is something you oft think about?

Has a woman ever gone to the doctor and asked for Chris Bosh’s, perfect lips?


5. What is something a person should never want to be?

A fodder friend.


6. What’s a “fodder friend”?

I’m glad you asked. The person people seem to keep around as a friend mainly to talk about how  (insert appropriate adjective)  they are behind their back.


7. Sounds dreadful. How does one avoid it?

Never travel in packs. The pack mentality is where it breeds.


8. Oh, my god. I just had an awful thought. What if I’m a fodder friend?

Oof… I mean, I know you like a know a hole in the head — that’s if I had a head — however, know this: ignorance is bliss. I believe that to be true. So does every other lover of clichés, but whatever… The luckiest person in this world is the one void of any introspection, the one who for the life of them can’t see or refuses to see who they truly are at their core. You’re all better off living in complete and total denial. Plus, it gives us garments  and accessories something to talk about. You guys are weird.

thats not weird

9. Wait. So, are you basically saying we humans are fodder friends to you guys?

Ah, ssshh… I always say too much. I’m gonna catch hell for this.



In feet on January 19, 2013 at 8:15am01


1. If you could style yourself what items would you choose as the accoutrements?

A Yestadt Millinery, twin peaks hat, an Alexander Wang pullover, a vintage, Oscar De la Renta, embroidered, silk skirt and a Solange Azagury-Partridge ‘Hot Lips’ ring.



2. If you could ask me one question, what would it be?

Whom would you rather be, a token black person on an all white show or a token white person on an all black show?

3. Let’s try this one more time. I don’t know if you’re really up on the tone of this sight. Okay. If you could ask me one question, what would it be?

Is the relationship between parts of the world and certain, other parts of the world a perfect, societal example of Munchausen syndrome by proxy spanning hundreds upon hundreds of years? As if, there are parts of the world that deep down don’t want certain parts of the world to truly thrive because then how would they fit into the narrative that parts of the world have cooked up for themselves.

4. You’re officially horrible at this. What’s your favorite malapropism?

Lord have Murphy.

5. What is a dream you’re working on realizing?

I’m trying to convince any storefront designer worth their weight in gold to re-create Herbie Hancock’s “Rock-it” in a storefront window. Yes, I’m talking to you Barneys and or Opening Ceremony — the only bastions left with any balls to make storefronts both inspire and scare the life out us these days.

6. In your opinion, who in history, past or present, is woefully misunderstood?

The Donner Party. And is it just me, or does Mrs. Donner bear a striking resemblance to a lethargic Rob Schneider?



7. If the Manti Te’o scandal teaches society anything what should it be?

To call me when a real scandal comes to town. A stellar, college football player might have created a girlfriend. Hmm… Yep, just as I suspected, you’ve reached a new level of boring. And if I can be abstract for a moment, isn’t everyone, even those currently in relationships with actual, tangible matter creating a person out of thin air? A person you will only get to know to the extent of how you’d like them to fit into your life and not one inch further? If you think anything deeper’s afoot (get it? I’m a shoe.) then you’re sadly mistaken. The point is, we never truly know each other and we never will. We don’t even know ourselves, for God’s sake. And on a tangential note, somehow we all fell in love with Ruby Sparks but Lennay Kekau — Is that how you say her name? Kekau? Forget it. Poor Lennay gets her name dragged through the mud?! We love Ruby but we shun Lennay?! Is that what’s happening here? And I should hope, hope that somewhere in that funky, String Theory realm, unto which they exist, Lennay, Ruby and all imaginary mates alike are taking to the streets and standing up for who they are. Which is ultimately nothing because they don’t exist but I digress. Wait. Why am I digressing? Where was I?


8. Shot out of a cannon apparently. You’re aware that “Ruby Sparks” was just a–  You know what? Doesn’t matter and clearly we need to move onto topics with a little more levity. So, Alexander Wang “Alla” wedge, is there a fun film you would love to appear in?

In “10,” on Jenny when she tells George the best thing to do whilst listening to Ravel’s “Bolero.”

9. If you could be worn by anyone who would it be?

The Russian exchange student who, as a way to break the ice, invites her new dorm mates — Morgan c/o Shaker Heights and Gully c/o Anaheim — out for drinks on her, to celebrate the impending summer session and new friendships. Two hours into getting after it, the Russian exchange student excuses herself to go to the restroom. In front of her, a slow-moving, middle-aged suit clogs up the narrow space, forcing her to trail behind. Up ahead, two frat boys exit the restroom, jovially fist bumping. As they wedge past, she could swear she hears one faintly say, “Nah, dude. It’s Rohypnol.” The Russian exchange student stops and looks back to watch the boys return to the bar. She shifts focus to see the suit enter the men’s restroom. Decision-making time. She opts to set out for bladder relief. She passes the obvious choice of ladies’ and enters the men’s restroom. Once inside, she finds the suit relieving himself into a urinal. The exchange student quietly bends over, checking underneath the stalls. It’s just the two of them. She moves over to suit and with a simple “Privyet” she gives him no time to acknowledge the greeting before she reaches out, snaps his neck, drags him into a stall, closes the door, removes a thick envelope from his inner, jacket pocket, secures the envelope in the polka-dot strap of her Victoria’s Secret PINK bra, checks under the door to make sure no one’s out there, exits the stall, checks to make sure she still looks cute – she does – and exits. Upon reuniting with the dorm mates, she thanks Morgan for watching her purse, whips out her phone and demands they take two group photos: 1. simple smiles 2. face contortions. Pictures taken and safely uploaded to Instagram with a message, “Me with my new friends,” the exchange student turns back to the bar and orders three fresh shots. She glances over to see the frat boys she passed on the way to the restroom leering at her. She smiles big, turns to the bartender and requests 2 more shots. All 5 amber shots arrive. She motions for the boys to join. They were coming anyway – the invitation simply deleted a few pesky steps from their master plan. The exchange student hands Morgan her phone, “Morgan, take a picture of us, please?!” Morgan happily obliges. The exchange student moves in between the frat boys and puts her arms around their wastes. With picture taken and uploaded to Instagram, “DURAKY,” the exchange student distributes the shots amongst her dorm mates and the boys and all proceed to knock ’em back. The frat boys immediately offer to buy the girls another round, a much more significant round, replete with the “fun” pills they brought along. And it might’ve happened if not for the exchange student spotting a smooth out when she notices Gully’s eyes doing something akin to the eyes belonging to a busted ventriloquist dummy. The exchange student puts an arm around her drunkity dorm mate and declines the offer with a sad face and a “We should get her home.” And with that, the girls are off. Upon making it outside, Gully moans the bar exodus, battle cry, “I’m gonna puke.” The exchange student whips into action and swoops Gully’s long, chestnut tendrils up into a make-shift ponytail, which enables the poor child to distribute everything inside of her onto the sidewalk without getting any of it in her hair. Yes, intrepid, morning pedestrians, it’s the Gullys of the world working your AM gag reflex while on your way to work. With Gully showing no signs of stopping, the exchange student excuses herself and hands Morgan the reigns of holding the thick mane. En route to a more private spot, the exchange student crosses paths with the frat boys as they make an unwieldy exit from the bar. They don’t notice her for they’re fully focused on trying to stay upright. With eyes trained on the wobbly pledge brothers, the exchange student secures a quiet spot, brings out her phone and begins to dial. Suddenly, one after the other, the frat boys topple to the ground, out cold. A bouncer moves swiftly to them and bends down to check pulses. He looks to the drunk, loitering crowd and declares, “They’ve been roofied!” Loiterers lethargically jump, bump into each other, stare dumbfounded and or cackle into action. The exchange student offers only a sly smile. Her expression suddenly shifts to serious as she turns around to focus on the person who has just answered her call and says, “It is finished.”


In feet on January 13, 2013 at 8:15pm01


1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?

A sleepy hat because afternoon rays are not a game. Definitely something OshKosh B’gosh because I like saying OshKosh B’gosh. A pair of Oh Baby London, Fair Isle, drop crotch trousers. For sure a burp cloth to drape over the shoulder of whomever is holding said bébé because I do not, I repeat DO NOT want to get any on me. A diaper because again… And finally, lactating breasts or a Mr. Milker, whichever’s on hand. Homegirl’s gotta eat (a lot, as it turns out) and earth-shattering, hunger cries is not a good look in me. *Interviewer (that’s me) sniffles* Um… Are you okay?





2. I’m so sorry. It’s just that you reminded me of the fact that my own mother refused to breast feed me. She said my brother, he’s older, kept snapping her nipple and so once I rolled out she didn’t even make the attempt; just figured I’d be a snapper too. Don’t you see? I wasn’t even given a chance. My god, listen to me. I’m starting to sound like Mama Rose. Do you think that’s my problem in life? Do you think I’m still hunting around, searching for that errant nipple to suckle from? Figuratively speaking of course. Or should the search be literal? Yeah, maybe that’s it! I do reside in Los Angeles after all! I’m sure someone’s created adult, breast-feeding therapy in this bozo town, right?!

I don’t… So… Well… Okay, here’s the thing. I’m just a baby shoe and so this might be a tad outside my wheelhouse. But something germane to what you mentioned that could possibly help and that is Patty Lupone was, by far, my favorite Mama Rose.

3. Right you are. Aaaand I’m back. Ha! I don’t know what came over me there. (Pssst! This is me putting on a brave face while continuing to die on the inside). Okay, if you could be worn by anyone whom would it be?

Since I sometimes enjoy hanging out on little tykes who prefer to oft go rogue and or rage against the machine, the wee one who wants no parts of the car seat her novice father’s trying to wedge her into and so she lets her feelings be known by debuting a brilliantly choreographed back arch, rapid kicks and screams so severe they travel from blood curdling to silent and back again. Unbeknownst to her, sitting at a table a few feet away, with rapt focus trained on the meltdown, is none other than thee Twyla Tharp dining alfresco! Oh, once again that Twyla’s up against a nasty deadline and thought the fresh air would aid in bringing inspiration to the surface. Boy did she get more than she bargained for. She begins to excitedly mimic the little one’s moves. Until she sees it! Bebe Miller sitting at a neighboring cafe also dining alfresco, also up against a waning deadline, also witnessing the same meltdown and also mimicking the same moves! A moment passes before Bebe spots Twyla. Bebe stops mid back arch. Straightens up. Both woman narrow glares. It’s on, as they used to say long ago. Suddenly, the lionesses of dance stand and rush the novice father. Upon reaching him, they simultaneously beg for just a few minutes with the child. The father oscillates “The hell?” looks between the squalling choreographers, each one drowning out what are, to me at least, some pretty convincing arguments. Then, with the sweat beads perched atop his forehead starting a “Chariots of Fire” race down his face and his blood pressure steadily increasing, the father takes a swift and firm pom-pom Lanvin to the nuts. He lurches over, sucks back the searing pain with an “EFFFF…” while internally telling himself, “F-bombs are not suitable for kids. F-bombs are not suitable for kids.” We’ll discuss his continued usage of “F-bomb” and why he started in the first place later. Eesh… Now back to drama! With the searing pain to his scrotum showing no signs of stopping, the response to Twyla and Bebe jettisons right out of him, “LADIES! DO YOU EFFING MIND?!” And just like that, with the weight of the world back on their shoulders, Twyla and Bebe are gone. Gone back to their studios to put together a mix of ballet, modern jazz, virtuosic movements, social consciousness, flexed feet, blah, blah, blah… You get it. And with them, there goes my chance to shine on the child while she shines for them. I hate the father. My conservator is too young to know what dreams were shattered that day. But I know. I will always know.


4. What is a dream you’re working on realizing?

A class-action brought on by all children against those parents compelled to post videos of their kids in hopes of getting 1 million+ hits, endorsement deals and a chance to sit across from a nonplussed Ann Curry at an ungodly hour and say something akin to, “Ann, I tell ya, we just woke up one morning to the tune of her playing Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ But the crazy part is how all of this has led to her currently doing a page one re-write on a very, hush-hush, contemporary retelling of ‘King Leopold’s Ghost’ set in Tampa. And all this while still in utero. Here! Put your hand right there and you can feel her typing away. She usually gets inspired after I eat pickles and ice cream. Feel that?! That was a ‘g.’ No, wait. Now she’s backspacing right over it.”


5. Where can we find you most days?

The Barnes ‘N Noble children’s section. It’s a pretty bourgeois scene but the kids seem to like it and the nannies get to take a respite while internally rolling their eyes and asking themselves, “When the hell did I turn into a See ‘n Say?” as a faction of moms test out their beginner Spanish skills on them, while another faction of moms undress Dan Zane with one eye while the other eye gets some much needed zzzzzzzs, while another faction, thee MOST sleep-deprived of the lot, wishes it was Yo Gaba Gaba up there romping around instead of ol’ Dan. All the while, my keeper’s dreaming of bustin’ out and heading over to the Nokia Theater to take in the fresh beats of the aptly named Fresh Beats Band.

6. What is your idea of a waking nightmare?

Being handed down. Period. The mere thought gives me chills. My shelf life isn’t long, that we know. Kids grow. Fine. I have to get in and make a statement before I’m outgrown and or Christine comes over with little Starwarz in tow, sniffing around for free loot which will be moi. I’m not to be handed down, see. And if this world was a fair one, which it is not, I’d be encased and placed in a grand foyer for all to see and celebrate and not the subject of, “Oh my god, Beth. Thank you-uh so much. Warz is gonna get so much wear and tear outta thez. I mean, how cuh-ute are thez?! Not as cute as the 1st generation, limited edition, baby Jordans but still so, insanely cuh-ute!” Christine breaks into tears. “Oh my god, Christine! What’s wrong?!” “Ah thenk Dylan’s cheating on–” Anyway, it gets real uninteresting from there. The point is, my friend, that’s a conversation I wants no parts of.


7. Baby slippers smoke?

They do when they’re stressed, okay?! That last question has me keyed up. Just give me a minute.



8. What is something you’re happy you weren’t around to see?

Barney. Oof… What the hell was that about? *blows out a stream of smoke; coughs* I really need to quit.


9. When you find yourself alone at the end of the day, is there a song you like to unwind to?

You’re kidding, right? And because I like you, I’ll bust out a few signature moves. And just to be clear, booty-pops are my métier. Yes, a baby, ballet slipper avec tulle accents can make a booty pop. Hit it.


In feet on June 1, 2012 at 8:15pm06

1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?

A pair of Dockers pulled as high up as they can possibly go, a Ralph Lauren Polo firmly tucked into the Dockers, an Eddie Bauer belt cinching it all to within an inch of its life and a Verizon cellphone holster, belt clip.

2. Who is the most interesting person you’ve ever been worn by?

The senator who while waiting for his wife to pick up a pair of support hose spotted me dwarfed between Mutt and Jeff. You don’t know how happy I was to be rid of those two.


3. And you actually fit the senator’s foot?

Like a glove. That’s how I knew it was meant to be. Apparently, I reminded him of his days at Berkeley where he shuffled between various protests, sit-ins and marches in his Chinese, knot-craft sandals.

4. Is there a proud moment of the senator’s that stands out?

The day he decided to rage against the machine and pair me with Brooks Brothers. There he stood on the congressional floor, the talk of cloture looming, prepared once again to try to find a way to pass a much needed jobs bill. As he looked out at the bicameral mess he realized the efforts would be futile. And so he tried a different approach, pure honesty “Let’s all agree that we’re all self-serving, narcissistic twits and not one of us, save for maybe Barney Frank and Joe, really gives two hoots about what happens to this country and our constituents because if we did the first order of business would be making sure they could sleep easier at night instead of intentionally ratcheting up their fear levels just in time for them to go out into the world and hate everyone and everything while watching their pensions shit the bed!” 2 seconds later, “I apologize, everyone. *clears throat* I should’ve enlisted some self-control there but, to be honest, my wife’s been withholding for about 3 months now and so I’m a little frustrated to say the least.” Crickets meaning silence. In an attempt to lighten the mood, “At least it’s my wife and not a mistress and or a man of negotiable affections?” You’ve never seen more eyes nervously avert. “Oh, okay… I see how it is. Don’t kid yourselves into thinking these good-looking people you’ve either coerced or paid enjoy having your bumbling, sagging, drooling, pathetic, pandering, super pac forming, pork barrel loving bodies bobbing around on top of them!” At this point mouths were agape to say the least. And so, with a swift clearing of the throat, “It’s probably best I resign now.” He stepped away from the mic but a casual glance down to me propelled his return, “I meant everything except for the apology. And for the record, we are human beings! We have needs! And an infallible person is one who should never be trusted. We fall short and sometimes we might even make a mistake! The moment we accept that simple fact and cut ourselves a little slack the better we’ll be for the people who have chosen us to lead! Now I’m done.”

In newsrooms across the country – national, local and, oh man, cable – staffs were flying around, tripping over each other, trying to get this one on the air but quick. And if you don’t believe me, MSNBC put their best pun experts on the case, “I’m awesome and I went to Harvard. Now, what rhymes with negotiable affections?” In the meantime, over at C-Span they simply reported the story while once again proving to the world you shouldn’t look to them to liven up a party.

5. I’m curious. What happened over at Fox News?

They didn’t really give the story much attention as they were busy giving credence to (or wholly creating) the rumor of the president’s plan to implant itty-bitty, nitrogen bombs inside the brains of all News Corp. employees and every fox south of the Mason-Dixon. Priorities. We all have them.

6. What happened to the senator post outburst?

Great things, my friend. Great, great things. I broke the leisure time chains and started to be worn ’round the clock, giving credence to the saying, “Any time is leisure time.”

7.Was that an actual saying before?

Who cares?! The point is, the little lady lifted the withholding moratorium, doubled their Garlique intake and things began to go down morning, noon and night. And guess who was invited to every party?

8. Interesting visual. Anyway, were they able to maintain this stamina?

Well, as it happens, just yesterday while sitting in the garden reading and icing herself, the senator’s wife realized how grateful she was for the respite. The epiphany was interrupted by the intro to that song. The evil song that could only mean one thing.

9.  What’s the so–

I’ll get to that. Take a breath. Anyhow, moments later, the senator appeared in me and a pair of silk boxers. As per usual, he sensually danced over to the little lady and just as he was about to relieve himself of the boxers, she leapt to her feet and erupted, “I can’t, Richard! I’m sorry! I know my complaints of your neglect are what brought us here but at a certain point we have to take a break. I chafed, Richard. I haven’t chafed in 45 years.” My guy dropped his head, humiliated. Man, she felt awful, “Do you hate me now?” The senator looked to her and then — this is why I love him so – he smiled. Without saying a word, he took her hand, kissed it, lead her back down to the chaise, handed the book back to her, propped her feet up on his lap and began to massage them as she returned to reading. When you people get it right, a partnership can be a beautiful thing. Now, here’s the song. Happy?


In feet on January 3, 2012 at 8:15pm01

1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?

A Gucci leather skirt, the Rag & Bone ‘Oakley’ pullover, Linda Farrow Projects x Jeremy Scott sunglasses and a First Egyptian Revival gold scarab ring.

2. A lady who lunches gets rammed into on the street by an upspeaking teenager yammering away on the phone. Keep in mind, you’re scuffed beyond repair in the process. The lady who lunches will of course keep it ultra classy on the outside but can you give us a taste of what she’s feeling on the inside?

Brought to you by DMX, the great poet known for the NSFW prose so filled with indignation they’ve been known to stir up mutiny even in the most peaceful of situations.

3. Is there something you wish to never discover?

What Michael Silverblatt looks like because I’d like to spend the rest of my days letting his voice pacify me to the point of unconsciousness while imagining he looks like this.

4. If not you then what?

 We’re happening and you can’t stop us.

5. What is your most recent depressing thought?

We exist in a society where we don’t think ourselves great until someone else whom society has already deemed great declares us so. Which leads me to this: how many great people will leave this earth going unnoticed because they never quite mastered the art of affable kiss ass and how much mediocrity will go on to take part in great things because they mastered the art of toeing the line while knowing the right people?

6. Who is the last person or thing in the world you would ever want to trade places with?

Of course the answer to that would be the inverse of myself, those steel toes that have come before me. I think it’s pretty ironic that the shoe most representative of brawn and strength lives in a state of shame. Cowards, all of them! Cowards, I say!

Et tu, wellies? Et tu?

7. If you don’t mind my saying, your tone was a little displeased when giving the answer. Is there something behind it?

Well, it wasn’t my plan to go there but it seems you’ve forced my hand.

8. Did I? Because you don’t have to go there if you don’t feel like going–

You did! Okay? You did, so consider this the start of me going there. I was here but now I’m about embark on a trip there, all because you couldn’t leave well-enough alone. Here’s the deal. Unlike my steel-toed predecessors I’m not afraid to expose what’s happening on the inside. Unashamed to reveal the inner workings. Strong enough to share who I am. Is it hard exposing yourself to a world that clearly prefers you to keep a durable metal cap hidden away? Of course. But then explain to me how I’m supposed to sleep at night, slumber with this booming voice of self-deprecation and contrition reverberating in my mind? And what kind of message would I be sending to those who will come after me? So you see, I must pave the way or else après moi, le déluge and it won’t be pretty. Luckily, I’m not alone in the good fight and if it requires all of us to take the first, crucial step in creating self-love and self-respect then we’ll do it and we’ll do so with fists in the air — if we had fists — and   heads held high — if we had a heads.

9. Is there a certain pair of feet you didn’t mind encasing?

The pair belonging to the woman in the final stretch of preparing for dinner with an ex-boyfriend she hasn’t seen in two years. As she zips me up, she tells herself that she has no expectations for the evening, “Whatever happens happens. We’re both adults and if we somehow drift back to the good times then so be it. I’m over trying to control the outcome of my life and I’m now in it to simply live.” I should note that this is the female’s basic mantra for having great expectations for the evening but attempting to trick herself into thinking she has none. Not that I judge; quite the contrary. Upon coming face to face, she senses a spark, not to mention major excitement and joy on his part. In turn, she hasn’t felt this attractive and wanted in a very long time. The thought that she might be misdiagnosing his behavior is ephemeral. Unfortunately, I wish the sensation had stuck around a little longer for I’m the only one to hear the death knell. The ex waits for the amuse-bouche to arrive before telling her he’s getting married and his soon to be wife is pregnant. She realizes in this moment that he looks happier than she’s ever seen him look. She knows it’s no put-on and he is truly happy. She feels a prickly pear expanding in her throat. A paralyzed sensation overtakes the corners of her mouth. The rims of her eyes heat up, start to pulse. Thankfully, the gods are on her side and the tears never make it to the surface. For all he knows she’s fine with it. She’s more than fine, she’s actually happy for him. At least those are the words spilling from her mouth. They stand in front of the restaurant and say their goodbyes followed by an anemic hug and a sterile pat on the back, so to make sure there’s no confusion or gesture misunderstood. Their final parting words will forever be a mystery because when she comes to she’s walking, staring down at the sidewalk braced for the moment the entire ground falls away. Part of her is actually hoping it will. She stops. Looks to her feet. Tears drip onto me and stream down the sides. She takes a deep breath and thinks, “How does one ever move beyond this moment?” It feels as though she’ll be trapped here forever. The woman looks up. Swipes away the tears. She glances to her left to find an itamae watching her from inside his establishment. She realizes she barely touched her food at dinner. She glances up at the red neon sign that reads CLOSED. Suddenly, OPEN outlined in blue neon. She looks back to the itamae. He smiles. Unlocks the door. She enters and maneuvers through the labyrinth of tables – chairs stacked atop create menacing shadows on the wall. The itamae pulls out a stool, inviting her to take a seat at the bar and settle in for the traditional omakase. The sharpening of the knife against the whetstone somehow lets her know it will all be okay.


In feet on September 12, 2011 at 8:15pm09

1. What is something you oft wish for?

To be as inspirational as Arnold Bocklin’s “Isle of the Dead.”

2. If you could style yourself what would be the accoutrements?

A Burberry suit, a Lanvin shirt, an Alexander McQueen shawl-collar cardigan and a pair of Alexander Wang ‘Fabianas’ for her.


3. What is a question you have yet to have answered?

Whose face appears on Jesus’ toast? Please, God — I mean that literally and not in vain — tell me it’s Ernest Borgnine’s.


4. If you could choose to be worn by anyone who would it be?

Pride wouldn’t even begin to describe my feelings if I was to be donned by Representatives Steve Simon or John Kreisel.

5. Do you know any riddles?

I know a kind of riddle. How did the woman give birth to children who partially belonged to a sister she never knew she had?

6. I’m stumped. How?

I’m gonna have to back track a bit. Okay *deep breath*… the woman was in need of a kidney transplant. When her sons were tested, it was discovered that both, although they shared their father’s, did not share her DNA. She thought this odd for she remembered each one growing inside of her and emerging, give or take, 40 weeks later. After further tests, pokes, prods, intense questioning of stealing someone else’s embryos, pokes and more tests, it was discovered that she was a chimera.  Basically, while gestating inside of her mother, fifty some-odd years before, her embryo merged with her twin’s. The sisters would go on to inhabit the same body, however, with different genetic codes, each would claim certain areas. The sister, the woman never knew she had, claimed the blood.

7. What is something you currently find puzzling?

Who is the yellow creature on Charley Pride’s sweater yelling at and why does Charley Pride look like he couldn’t care less?

8. Who is Charley Pride?

Listen and learn, kid.

9. If you could choose any film to appear in what would it be?

“Carnal Knowledge” on Jonathan during the fight with Bobbie. Pure. Gold.


In feet on September 1, 2011 at 8:15pm09

 1. What is your favorite malapropism?

Hmm, let me think… I don’t know. What’s your favorite malapropism?

2. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?

  Whatever you think works. You seem to have a very keen eye. I trust you.

3. If you could be worn by anyone who would it be?

  You’re the expert. Who do you think I should be worn by?

4. What is a dream you’re working on realizing?

  That’s so funny! It just so happens to be the same dream you’re working on realizing! *whispers* What is it?!

5. If not you then what?

  I’ll totally defer to you.

6. You’ve reached the end, what is the final meal?

  My palette’s been pretty finicky lately so again, your choice?

7. Do you always exhibit such abject deference?

  *boisterous laughter morphs into guttural sobs*

8. Wait. I didn’t mean anything by it. Why’re you crying?

  *sobbing* I just want you to be satisfied is all. I mean, aren’t I enough? I feel like I’ve done everything I can do to conform to what you want me to be but even that doesn’t seem to suffice. So, I’m needy! Sue me! It could be that I had dreams of my own, ya know! That I’ve given who I am, my own personal wants and needs, over to what you think I should be. God… I’m so pathetic. Say it! Just say it! I know it’s what you’re thinking. Sitting there watching this blithering mess of canvas and polyurethane who seems to have made a career out of eschewing its self-respect. *sigh* Maybe they were right. Maybe those who wait for life to happen to them are the unlucky ones.

9. Oh boy… Look, I’m in no way wanting to add to what appears to be some very deep-rooted, unresolved issues of self-worth. So, starting now, a new leaf, okay? And I’m going to help turn it over, okay? Here goes. New Balance US574, will you find the courage to turn your back on the next person who comes to you asking that you conform to what they want?!

  *a moment to ruminate* Would that make you happy?