the sloppy copy

While I’m not necessarily all Carrie Bradshaw about them, I do enjoy shoes – or at least, window shopping for them. I was born with long, ski-like feet with spindly talon-toes, which makes finding cute shoes that stay on my feet a bit of a challenge.

But that doesn’t stop me from pretending that a) I have an occasion to wear the aforementioned Cute Shoes or b) said shoes are not, in fact, extremely uncomfortable.

As you might imagine, the Search for Cute Shoes often leads one into the land of Fugly Shoes, and into that land I journeyed today, all for the sake of entertaining my 4 readers.

First we have these beasts pictured at right (They’re a Jessica Simpson design, apparently). Here are my questions:
1. Who wears this color on their feet? I can’t imagine an outfit that these suckers would complement. I once had some couches that were this exact color; I believe they were constructed of some sort of plastic-coated DuPont product (yay, residence hall-grade furniture!). Though I can’t be sure, I wouldn’t be surprised if these shoes were also constructed of the same material.
2. This is – what? – a 14″ heel? How does one physically walk while wearing these?

Second: a doozy of a pair as seen on the Victoria’s Secret website. Lovely, no? It appears that someone took a pair of regular pumps and then attached them to this poor girl’s feet and ankles using black electrical tape. I honestly cannot figure out how they actually go on one’s feet. Are theose bungee straps? (if so, they might have just become a few notches cooler). Or is this some sort of elaborate belt buckle system at work here?

Oh, and again with the 24″ heels. Judging by the legs whose feet have been forced into these ghastly contraptions, I’m sure this chick is not under 5’7″, making the need for such astronomically high heels just ludicrous.

Really, Vicki? Really?

Did I save the best for last? Oh, girl, just look for yourself. These Steve Maddens aren’t so much “shoes” as they are “feet cages.” I’m sure this is the reason they’re pictured sans feets, as I don’t know if there’s a way to make these puppies look comfortable (or good, for that matter).

Also-also! The mega-wedge! Why, Mr. Madden? Why? This shoe might possibly be passable as a normal old heel… but then again, probably not.

upbeat music + hint of australian accent = happier song today

“Catch my disease” / Ben Lee (2005)

I always liked this song, but it’s since taken on a sadder tone. John McCauley of Deer Tick played this as a tribute to Dave Hagerty of Fattback before their concert on Thursday  – a concert that Fattback was scheduled to open. Dave passed away last week after being involved in a hit-and-run car accident.

“Sleepwalk” / Santo & Johnny (1959)

My mom was waiting in the hallway for me this morning.
“My Aunt Ruth died,” she said.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” I said.
“She died yesterday,” she said.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” I said, again.

I didn’t know what else to say.

There are several distinct pockets of my family that I’ve either never met before in my entire life, or have only met once, more than 20 years ago. And when I say “pockets,” I mean “gigantic branches of my family tree.” I never understood this. We all live in the same town. It wouldn’t require more than 20 minutes of travel by automobile to get everyone together. So why don’t we?

Each time I raise the issue, it’s brushed aside. I mean, I understand that when everyone has jobs and kids or whatever it’s more difficult to get things together, but not even once a year? Really, people?

I think I’m just being whiny. And immature. And, yes, jealous of people who have big family reunions that they actually attend. I’m not suggesting that these families all get along and love each other and travel the country in a flamboyantly-colored bus singing C’mon get haaaaaaappyyyy! I’m saying that these people – whether they realize it or not – know that family is important, and not to be taken for granted.

So I guess that’s the moral of this story: Don’t take your family for granted! You only get one, so make the time to make it count!

Holy hell, there’s a reason there’s a warning on this one.

“Flashing Lights” / Kanye West ft. Dwele (2005)

Also, this video couldn’t be made the other way around (girl cheating on guy) without a major shit-fit being raised.

If you’ve not seen the SNL sketch “The Mellow Show with Jack Johnson” you should check it out. Vegan cookies!

“Banana Pancakes” / Jack Johnson (2005)

This dude is alright.

“These Arms” / Matt Costa (2006)

Sometimes I forget this song exists, and then I remember, and then I’m happy.

“Heroes and Villains” / The Beach Boys (1967)

T-Pain might blame it on the a-al-a-al-a-alcohol, but we all know the truth: getting buzzed, tipsy, drunk, trashed or otherwise intoxicated is, never has been, and never will be an excuse for “uncharacteristic” acts.

To clarify: it does not cause the imbiber to do something he or she would never otherwise do. It only lessens the personal inhibitions against engaging in a particular behavior. There’s a reason the stuff is called a “social lubricant” or “liquid courage.”

Am I in the minority here? Maybe, but this is my story and to it I shall remain sticked.

Want an example? I’ll give you one, full disclosure: Say I’m in a bar. A nasty, dirty, townie bar full of dirty, nasty townies. The bartender has mixed me my severalth Mr. Pibb and vodka (am I the only one who orders this drink at this bar? Could very well be) and I spot a dude with whom I need to make a connection. Like, must. Were I to be sober, the thought that would cross my mind might go something like “Hey, that guy looks interesting. What’s his story?” Drunk me has the same thought, only it kind of glides across my dura mater, bypassing the part of my brain that might more coherently form such neural connections. To shit-faced me, the thought comes across something like “Dude that guy over there is hot! And I like his hat! What his story is? I like his hat.”

Sober me finishes her drink, continues chatting with her friends, possibly points out Hat Guy, maybe smiles at Hat Guy, and will engage in conversation with Hat Guy if we happen to be at the bar at the same time, or maybe waiting in line at the jukebox together, et cetera, et cetera. The acknowledgment of Hat Guy’s presence, the potential for conversation or, more likely, the hypothetical backstory that my friends and I create is enough to quench that particular impulse.

Drunk me will finish her drink, order another, and proceed with her cold open: walking straight over to Hat Guy and striking up a conversation about the first thing that slowly flickers inside her head. It could be the state of the nachos he is eating, the logo on his shirt, the smell of the bar or the availability of the shuffleboard table. It does not matter, because with this verbal exchange I will have satisfied that original impulse within my brain.

Two different scenarios, just viewed within disparate lenses. Think of one as the correct prescription and the other as a pair of Walgreen’s readers.

So while the drinking might make Shorty feel loose, she’s not suddenly thinking and processing with someone else’s brain. To blame it on the alcohol, and mean it, is essentially bullshit.

A favorite from my favorite artist: What a sweet little song. Also, more charming in lo-fi.

“Thirteen” / Elliott Smith (2005)