Sole Searching
As any New Yorker will tell you, at least one good pair of shoes is de rigueur in this pedestrian oasis. You can usually tell how far along someone is in their New York life cycle by their shoe collection. Newbies tend to have a few old pairs they cling to like safety blankets linking them to their comfort zones. After a season or two, the sharper ones wise up and ditch the ratty nostalgia for more practical, stylish walkabouts. Eventually the adjectives switch place and style trumps sensibility. And so on, until through a confluence of subway riding, job interviewing, party-hopping and Fashion Week exposure, they become fluent in the unspoken language of shoe-reading. Women have been practicing this craft all over the world for millenia, but at the turn of the 21st century, NYC is perhaps the only American city that indulges and encourages Men to follow suit, right down to their soles, until they too are prone to throwing shoe fits in front of god, girl and country.
Last weekend, before Terre went traipsing off to Machu Pichu, we went sole searching. He couldn’t finish packing without a new pair. For Peru? Let’s see, what matches donkey-riding butt rashes? In my village, we call them chanclas, and our moms tend to throw them across the room at us when they’re not smashing cucarachas with them. I tagged along with him to Soho because I haven’t bought any since last season when, like a real New Yorker, I bought two pair – one for work, one for play. By this math, there should be 8 new shoes in your closet every year, the cost of which could pay someone’s rent in any other city. My pad is a shoe-less zen zone, and with every new pair that clutters up my foyer, I feel more at home.
The store we went to was on Broadway, below Houston. It was packed with homeboys, fly girls, and a smattering of Euro tourists and Japanese hipsters. The guys working the store were serving up b-boy style with their angled caps (“lids”), hoodies, chains, trimmed beards. The customers were unruly but civilized, calling dibs with nods and sighs. Boxes and tissue paper flew above our heads, before our faces and yes, underfoot. Groans, often from the size 8-9 set like me, signaled dashed hopes. Self-conscious props, like Wall Street caterwauling, moved stock back and forth in a snap. Terre went through the appropriate stages of shopping – he started with the pair he really wanted, sampled a few other distractions, made a few substitutions and eventually went back and walked out wearing the pair that kick-started our kicks-hunt. I, alas, found nothing. A few things came close, but nothing stuck. Until…
A couple days ago, I found myself at Shoe Mania in Union Square. As Techno videos blared over the monitors giving the space an Ibizan vibe accentuated by the Italian and German accents asking for shoes in Euro sizes, I made my way through the racks. The first pair to stop me was a pair of green leather Vans slip-ons with little dollar sign logos in the lining. Next, I spotted a pair of Puma Moon Jammies in black with red and orange details. After negotiating with the Bronx dykes, I wrangled the clerk to find both of these in my size. He came back empty-handed. Curse my damn averageness, I texted to Twitter on my Crackberry. It was a second-pair half-price sale, so I could not walk out shoe-less again, especially with a new credit card in as many weeks burning a whole in my wallet and soul.
As I went down the line – La Coste, Nike, Puma, Tsubo, Merrell, blah blah, I nearly conceded defeat. Then, there they were, on the Adidas rack – the pair I could daydream of sleeping in. They were slim, snug slip-on booties that stretched at the curved ankles, black with dark blue stripes and little breathing holes on the upper, capped with a wee brass logo on the back – the Adidas Porsche CLM. I approached cautiously, wary of being burned again. With a deep breath and a resigned air, I sent the clerk off to that parallel universe to fetch the cure for all that ails me. Therapy, religion, narcotic diatribes, nothing could reverse my genetic and social flaws – but these shoes, this could be a start. 
While I waited, I couldn’t stop thinking about the discount on the second pair. I went back to the green Vans and noticed the display model was size 8.5, just under the 9 I usually wear. When the clerk came back with a blue box snuggled under his arm, I felt my fortune turning. Emboldened and greedy, I sweet-talked him into letting me try and buy the display pair. I could order them online, or find them in another store, but that’s clearly not the point. During the time that he was gone – again – I tried on the CLMs and had a slow, internal petite morte, leaning back, sighing, steeped in deep tristesse.
I was snapped out of my glaze by Terre buzzing on the crackberry – from Machu Pichu? “Now that you’ve been to the mountaintop, did you see the mothership,” I asked, creeped out by the fact that reception reached way down there. Ignoring his complaints of altitude sickness, I texted him a play by play of my crisis. The clerk had returned and I was desperately, publicly squeezing my Geisha foot into the smaller size to no avail. I was prepared to live with a bit of discomfort in return for the instant gratification, but these were actually cutting off my circulation. Quoting T’s catch phrase du jour, I texted back – “I can’t, I just can’t…” I couldn’t bring myself to handing them back to the clerk, so I set them down next to another box and took the long way to the register. Outside, I sat on the steps of Union Square as the skaters whizzed by and slipped them on. “Nice kicks,” someone muttered. “Yes, they are…” I beamed.
Fashion Tweek: Way to St. Tropez…
Behnaz Sarafpour
Rodarte
Lacoste
Baby Phat
Badgely Mischka
Jason Wu
Thakoon
Temperley
Miss Sixty
Miele
Everyday Sunday
The brakes on the bike needed some work, so I made my way back to my new favorite local bike shop. Every neighborhood – at least the ones in NYC – should have a good deli, a decent Chinese take-out, a well-stocked 99-cent store, a 24-hour Duane Reade (if only for the pharmacy) and ever since I became a born-again bi-pedaller I’ve come to believe – a reliable bike shop. Innovation Bike on 106th is just that. Run by a trio of enthusiasts, it’s a small, clean, well-lighted place where a Puerto Rican guy in his late 30-s named Leo (“who refuses to shave his legs”) has fixed my tire (that popped in the middle of Times Square) and today, upgraded my brakes. His wife or girl works the register, and I think they have a toddler son that wobbles around the place excitedly. Fifteen minutes and $25 dollars later, I was back on the road and on my way to breakfast at the Metro Diner counter.
Since September is upon us, the magazine world is weighing down newsstands with Fall Fashion previews, NY Times included. There, in the mix of glitz and glam was Sarah Silverman, looking H-O-T in full Gap JAP splendor. Since we’re about to launch a fashion-related text messaging product with one of our sister publications at work, I’ve been loading up on the Rag rags in the name of research. More than usual, that is.
After the Lumberjack special, I pedalled down to a couple of the pet shops, looking for new fish since we had a few losses in the aquatic community lately. Maybe it’s just the ones in this neighborhood, or at least the employees that help me, but more than a few of these boys seemed a little “touched” – as in “that way”.
One in particular stood out. I’d noticed him months ago, and we had a coy flirtation by the Salt Water tanks. He was one of those mixes you find “only in NYC” – Blatino, but almost albino, red-haired with freckles – and, oh yeah, muscles.
Today, he was in a nearby section unpacking things and tearing down boxes. As I was looking at the Red-tailed Black sharks, he wandered over. 
“Need help?”
“Yeah, I think I want one of these black sharks with the red tails.”
“What kind of tank do you have?”
“It’s a 20-gallon, with a Jack Dempsey, a couple of loaches, algae eaters and one other shark. I think he’s kinda lonely and I’d like to find him a friend.”
“That’s a good idea; they like to play.”
At that point, I almost lost my cool. It had just been one of the hottest, muggiest days of the summer, and as I was still recovering from a cold and had just been smoking, I was winded and sweating in my camo tank top. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just nodded and smiled. Then he pointed at my bicycle seat.
“You take your seat with you all the time?”
“Well, you never know. If it got stolen – what would I ride home on?”
At that point, he blushed under his freckles and nodded.
“If you need anything, whenever you’re ready, I’ll be over there…” he said, patting me slowly on the shoulder. As he walked away, I winked and returned the gesture and lightly touched his back.
“Thanks, I will…”
I had my hands full with the Sunday paper and a few things from the deli, so I was planning on coming back later anyway. This just gave me another excuse.
Love (and Gunfire) is in the Air
Critics be damned – one of my favorite flicks turns 40 this month. Arthur Penn’s bloody, comic fashion play, Bonnie and Clyde starring Warren Beatty and newcomer Faye Dunaway, was just the subject of a big old article in that newspaper of record , the NY Times – A.O. Scott gushed and squirmed as profusely and squiggly as any of the billion “squibs” used in the climactic blowout.
The final quick cuts between Dunaway and Beatty awash in slow-motion gunfire were also recently featured as part of the screening series at McCarren Park Pool in hipster ground zero, Williamsburg. All the girls still struggling to get their Jane Fonda “Klute” look down now have to contend with the indelible images of Faye in her proto-Prada outfits, “au naturel” makeup and ginger bob. (Chinatown is this Faye Gay’s other fave – but don’t get me started.) Beatty as impotent, metrosexual Clyde was rocking conflicted chic long before any of the current crop of emo boys’ parents were even born. Expect overnight makeovers on the L train.
Yet another remake of the story is on the way, but really – who could possibly fill their heart-shaped bullet holes?
Bat for Lashes
Got this from Piglet. She’s working with a P.R./event crew on all kinds of fashion and music related stuff. The last thing she tipped me to was the casting call for the last CocoRosie video. By strange coincidence, a group of 4 of us bumped into each other on 15th street, under circumstances similar to what Piglet and I were talking about….this thing that happened yesterday, which we’ll write about separately and discreetly. For now, check out the video. The info’s from the press release.
Bat For Lashes is the work of British singer/songwriter, multi-instrumentalist and visual artist Natasha Khan. Born in 1979, yet combining influences that span decades, Natasha’s work dwells in the elemental, emerging in timeless forms.
Bat For Lashes played her first big show in London supporting CocoRosie at the Scala at the end of 2005. A year later almost to the day, Bat For Lashes headlined a sold out Scala, where the likes of Bjork, Nellee Hooper and Brett Anderson were to be seen in the sold out crowd. Other fans include Devendra Banhart, Jarvis Cocker and Thom Yorke (who chose ‘Horse & I‘ for his iTunes Top Ten Playlist, saying “I love the harpsichord and the sexual ghost voices and bowed saws. This song seems to come from the world of Grimm’s fairytales, and I feel like a wolf.”)
Bat For Lashes – Whats a Girl To Do
TGIF: ANTM: JASLENE
And now, some righteous levity. Hey, even the NY Observer is up on this – it’s in their 8-day Calendar every single week, so there.
If you’ve never sat around , puffin and hootin’ and hollerin’ at the screen as Tyra plays Pygmalion to a posse of banjee girls, I don’t want to hear it!
Never mind “What Would Jesus Do?” – everything you need to know about life and how to live it glamorously can be gleaned in one single elimination round.
The Soundbites:
“Nine months ago I had a baby, and I thought my life was over.”
“If Natasha wins the competition, I’m-a pull off all her hair.”
“Its hard for me to get, because I don’t talk, like, English. I speak basic words.”
“She walks like a pigeon toed duck with a piece of poop hanging out of her ass.”
The Prize:
Jaslene Gonzalez is America’s Next Top Model and last night she walked away with a $100,000 contract with CoverGirl, a contract with Elite Model Management, and a cover and six-page fashion spread in Seventeen magazine.
Hopefully now that Tyra’s successfully got homegirl outta da Chi-town hood, homegirl can get the hood outta her head; otherwise, we’re looking at another Gia Carangi. 
She’s already got that late 70’s Janice Dickinson (and our dear friend Regan) thing goin on. Yeah, she’s too skinny, too ghetto, she looks like a man and she’s only got one look – but that’s modeling folks. Just look at Tyra!
The final shot says it all. The way T’s holding this girl is worth more than a thousand words, but here’s two, on the casa…
“Pa’lante, Jaslene!”
PS – Arianna, and haters – lighten up. Every photo student (myself included) has a “fashion victim”/murdered model shoot/idea in their book; the concept’s not a big stretch. We’re all just trying to pay some bills, here. What’s more empowering – Jaslene’s old job as an online college admissions administrator, or a season of self-discovery on someone else’s dime? M’kay?!
