The clogs I've been wearing for the past 18 months are made of techno-pop synthetic material. I've been noting that I'm the only person in Pittsburgh who wears them in public. Maybe people wear their synthetic black Dutch boy shoes in private. Or the shoes are just too carnal for the average person in Pittsburgh. Or they are a fashion blunder.
The shoes look a bit like a foot dipped in tar, yet offer thickish foam toe indulgence. Many times I have been accused of being a frivolous little lamb. The seamless primative shoe. Ga'head, call me a right modern finger-in-the-dike person. I'm in rubber tulips.
I've worn these clogs this long, and today the meaning of the shoes has been revealed. Let me try to help you.
Moments happen when they want to. I stepped into a bar. Ordered a beer. Drank a wee bit. Wee bit more.
Maybe halfway into the beer a man of about maybe 40 sat down next to me. He said "I just have to tell you, you're the first person I have ever seen who looks really good in clogs."
I said, "thank you." Flattery blows. Well that's not really what I mean. It can be gratifying. It can be enabling to some degree. A little bit of well-placed emotional support can even cause people to do things they never imagined possible for them to do. But there is another aspect to draw your four ounce ball-pene hammer back and beat on. That same guiding force can lead you into the grips of becoming a schmuck. They were a hit with the boys.
I did not know that the bar I picked at random to test my fashion statement in was a gay bar. It looked common and blue collar on the outside. I was deceived. There is no hard feelings. But men took great interest in me. Many men took interest in me. It could have been really anything at all but looked like the shoes outed me as somebody they should target as a hopeful homosexual partner. I wish every single man in that bar well every single day in their life. Long life to all of them. But I wanted some snatch. Not the first time this happened.
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