If the shoe fits . . .

Shoes?

I usually write about politics, but as I transfer from my daily e-mail about events and issues I find I am focusing on something else. For the day of my first unraveling blog, shoes occupied a considerable portion of my thoughts and actions this morning.


Waiting for the dogs to finish their breakfasts (acting the role of enforcer, as some greedy members of the pack think nothing of pushing others away from a dish and gobbling extra rations), I picked up one of the books we have for bathroom reading (that is one of the purposes of that room, isn’t it?): "The Deviant's Pocket Guide to the Outlandish Sexual Desires Barely Contained in Your Subconscious" by Dennis DiClaudio (Bloomsbury USA, New York, 2008, ISBN1-59691-409-2). And I read about retifism (your common shoe fetish): "Looks like it's going to be another cold, wet day. You can hear the sleet hitting the windowpanes from here. Don't get out of bed. Call in sick. . . .stay here and snuggle. Wrap your arms around her and hold her close to your chest . . . the love of your life . . . this gray suede high-heeled boot that has brought you so much happiness."


Mr. DiClaudion goes on to say that there "... are two kinds of shoe fetishism. One is 'Oh my God, that shoe is so cute; I need to buy it!' and the other is, "Oh my God, that shoe is so sexy; I want to run my tongue along its corrugated muddy sole."


He also calls attention to the subset of Retifism called Altocalciphilia, "the attraction to high-heeled shoes."


Altocalciphilists are sometimes interested in when "... the long and sharp heels are often used to inflict pain upon submissive men--most popularly in the genitals."


OK, so what does this have to do with my first blog?


Getting ready for work, I put on my shoes and discovered that I had mixed two pair, both black lace-ups. Luckily the mix-up came to light (literally, as I left the darker bedroom into the hall) so I was able to do the conventional and wear a matching set. I did, however, remember a "Vanity Fair" cover which featured David Hockney’s feet: while his shoes matched, he was wearing different colored socks, something I have wanted to do but find difficult as men’s accessories have tamed down to basic black, brown, grey, argyle, beige, tan, or white, at least when well-made socks are being considered.


Art and Altocalciphilia aside, I have always noticed shoes (I understood "Serial Mom" and her problem with the Patty Hearst character wearing white shoes after Labor Day). I even took time in my mostly-political-e-mail-daily-event to note my distaste for the toe-cleavage-showing , high-heeled, pointy-fronted styles women were wearing a few years ago (sorry, Jimmy Choo and other designers, they reminded me of talons and also made feet look enormous).


Maybe my attention to shoes is a harkening back to the late 60s/early70s, my coming of age and Andy Warhol’s career history.


Who knows? I just find shoes an interesting visual (think of Bette Davis coming down the gang plank in “Now Voyager,” the transformed Charlotte Vale’s first public appearance starts with her spectator-clad feet, also highlighted mid-film in partner Bill's YouTube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1EDVnySxoU).


Co-workers have commented on my vocal appreciation of lady’s footwear. I just like to look at well-made, stylish shoes (yesterday on the subway in a preview of summer heat to come, I also noted that there is something about a woman in a beige linen or cotton summer dress that can say stylish and sophisticated to me as well—and reminds me of Irwin Shaw’s “The Girls in Their Summer Dresses”).


Speaking of coworkers, yesterday I also noticed something on the job. During a rather poorly executed fire drill/actual emergency (who knows which of the two, all I know is it was one in which the elevators did not work and no alarm sounded), my office-mates and I rendezvoused at the assigned check-in, gather-to-be-counted-safe, street corner. Two of the women were wearing platform sandals, the sight of which flashed me back quicker than an acid memory to the 1970s, when that style made one on its many comebacks.


Then, living in NYC on a very small salary, I still had the money to purchase a number of pairs of platform sandals (one of the differences between the 1970s and now—trendy, sartorial splendor of the platform variety for our lowest extremities was designed and sold to both women and men). I also had platform saddle shoes, platform blue penny loafers (a real find on sale at Bloomingdales), and even platform clogs—with cork platforms and multi-color, striped leather uppers.


So, while the thought of a spike heel in my genitals brings no pleasurable anticipation of pain, there is something about shoes that affects me. I guess it is up to my/your imagination to untangle this unraveling.


And, to return to the political (what I usually obsess about), basically Arlen Specter was dealing with a shoe issue, too. As the Republican Party’s acceptable principles became smaller and smaller, a number of people found that they no longer fit.