I have a favorite pair of shoes. Big deal, you say? Well,
consider this: The shoes--cranberry oxfords made by Giraudon--are
perforated along the top with holes big enough for a bantamweight
worm to crawl through. And I wore them regularly through a
typically wet Portland winter, often arriving at work with
socks that needed to be wrung. A big deal now? I think so.
Pathological? Maybe. But love, let me remind you, knows no
reason.
We met in San Francisco. At the time I couldn't quite stomach
the bill--$175 or so--and I left town without them. But
I was plagued by their image. Feeling smutty, I ogled them
electronically. Weakening, I phoned a Giraudon store in
New York and was told they could be shipped to my doorstep
for $159.99. I cracked. When they arrived, I lied to friends
and told them the burgundy babies cost $120. These friends
agreed: Yes, this was a reasonable price for a well-made
pair of shoes. Still, I felt anything but reasonable; I
felt like a man with a shameful habit.
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I am not alone. I am of a breed that John Plummer,
co-owner of the Johnny Sole empire on Southwest Alder
Street, terms "shoe dog"--men who have an unnatural
craving for slick shoes.
"A lot of our shoes have these tiny, subtle, neat
things that most men don't notice," says Plummer,
35, his straight black hair, streaked with gray, tucked
behind his ears. "But some shoe dogs flip out over
them."
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Plummer's Deluxe Johnny Sole, the upscale neighbor to the
original Johnny Sole, opened in August 1997, making more
options available to a burgeoning shoe-dog population. Soon
after opening Deluxe, Plummer estimates, his male clientele
nearly doubled.
The odds that you are, right now, sitting next to a shoe
dog are greater than ever. Here are some things you should
know about us:
We walk among you, checking your package--from the ankle
down, but we're not who you think we are. We are not stylists,
decorators, hairdressers, thespians, clerks at Mario's or
coaches in the NBA. We do not find anything powerful about
lunch or coaching in the NBA. We won't spend $300 to wear
something as tired-sounding as loafers. The word "tassels,"
we will tell you, sounds way too much like "assholes."
In many ways, we are average blokes. We care more about
an RBI than an IPO, are likely to read Paul Auster before
Jane Austen and reject most things "fusion": in our food,
music or otherwise.
| Kenneth Cole and Todd Welsh are popular
brands among shoe dogs. Their shoes come tailored with
squared-off toes or capped toes, in split fronts or
oblique fronts, furnished with monk straps and different
bits of hardware. They tend to cost between $100 and
$180. They are, above all, stylish and sturdy. |
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My current shoe count is at 13 pairs. They clutter the
floor of my half of the closet--a leathery militia--facing
my girlfriend's 18-strong collection. Though the Giraudons
have held the crown for over a year now--mainly because
of their sheer brilliance and partially because they can
be worn with anything from jeans to suits--I do think back
from time to time on other eras.
In the past I've championed high-top creepers from a Paris
flea market; old-man wingtips found for $2.99 at a Berkeley
thrift store; square-toed, Italian jobs; Adidas indoor-soccer
kicks; and the persistently cool Hush Puppies. The different
styles represent different financial responsibilities, yet
they all have one very serious thing in common: the ability
provoke the psychotic manners of a shoe dog.
As with most addicts' behavior, the trajectory of the shoe-dog
thought pattern can be traced artfully. The process is as
follows: the sighting, the swooning, the guilt, the rebuffing,
the considering, the reconciling, the courting, the second
sighting, the swooning, the denying of guilt, the buying,
the wearing, the loving.
It is a cruel game. Initially unable to commit, we lie
tortured in our beds, counting Italian sheep in Pradas until
we can't take it any more. Admittedly, much of the thrill
derived from the procurement of the Next Big Pair comes
from the hunt as well as the conviction that the same shoes
can be found somewhere else for less money.
| Now, I realize many of you are tsk-tsking
me for my frivolous ways. Poor fruit, you're thinking,
why can't he have a respectable consumer obsession--say,
cars or something? And yet I stand Humbert Humbert-like
in my naked admission. Moreover, I feel confident that
were you, broad-minded reader, ever to encounter a shoe
dog at the moment just before he bought a pair, you
would judge him without malice, scorn or pity. |
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Turning before the cat-height mirror, he notes how his
hem hangs just so above swollen soles. Turning again, he
confronts his image, his reflection nodding reverentially.
He leans forward slightly to swoon, bowing at the waist,
rocking gently on cushiony soles. His pose resembles not
so much that of a shoe shopper as a man in mid-prayer.
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Willamette Week | originally
published June 23, 1999
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