There is nothing in this that surprises. I sincerely doubt that nature would have ever coughed up these materials…but it wishes it had.

I think it’s pretty obvious that these are the most awesome shoes in the world. When Pope Benedict slips on a pair of red brogans, he’s wishing he had these shoes. They’re just that amazing. And they would really show off his calves. If popes have calves, it’s hard to tell under the robes, but even popes have to go out dancing every once in a while. And when they do, why not trip the rite fantastic in sharp-toed lace-ups with a three-inch transparent heel? Eat your heart out, XVI.

Go ahead…walk all over me. To hell with it.

I’d be a little worried about shoes with wispy, vaguely shocked zaftigs on them. But frankly, it’s not the worst crime committed by cobblers. Certainly not tonight. With the full moon in the background, it’s like she’s fleeing a werewolf, or maybe Zeus. All on your shoe. How should one feel about that? I felt a bit like a party to the crime. Not that I wore these, mind, they’re about two sizes too snug. Oh, but in my dreams…

Is it possible to achieve “worldly” simply by the advent of sufficiently graphic-intensive footwear? You’d have to wear them completely unironically. You’d need to pull them on, lace them, without a trace of self-effacement, shove your paramour to the bed, hold him down firmly but lovingly, and say, in a husky voice, “You’re going to see Ephesus tonight.” A classically-educated dominatrix is a threatening dominatrix.

So…I really love this shot. The sense of motion, antiquity, and shoeness is so compelling I want to unzip her to see if she escapes her bound universe and runs free, her life unbound by shoes, barefoot through a field of daffodils and scraps of sonnets on curled parchment. Run free, nymph of the mid heel.

But don’t think that life in these shoes is all Romanesque beauties and midnight dalliances. These shoes are fraught with danger, too. Like a Harryhausen film, they may contain beautiful women and Greek ruins, but they also hold stop-motion plesiosaurs.

There’s really a lot going on here. But basically, if you wanted a pair of stilettos that presented a reasonably accurate history of the Roman empire and allegorically portrayed the collapse of civilization following the ascent to the throne of Constantine and the assumption of Christianity as a state religion, there you go.

Goodwill on I35 near Parmer, Austin

So, this is one of those times where I really don’t have anything to add, because my work has been done for me.

I was visiting Treasure City Thrift yesterday to poke around and chat with some of the people there, and discovered their Therapy Shoes.

Now, the back story here, this group works with several local nonprofits, including “Inside Books,” a prison book group. So they have a lot of books. Apparently, they recently moved the books to the far side of the store, leaving an empty bookshelf, sad and lonely. It’s a fact universally acknowledged that an empty bookshelf must be in want of filling, so…they filled it.

And yet there are, shall we say, lingering traces of the shelf’s former life. Signs, if you will.

Frankly, the ones on the left just scream “third trimester pregnancy” to me. So far as the right ones go…yeah, maybe rosy pink expectations for the first child, but after a few years of that the glow will wear off and you’ll be reaching for the fifth-year sneakers and possibly the Jack Daniels. Still, the optimism is appreciated.

Here, you can see the exact moment where I got my camera out. The only thing that would have made this better would have been a pair of sixteen-hole gougers. They actually DID have a flogger for sale, but it was in the Valentine’s Day section. Priceless.

…because there are days when you can’t bend over to tie your shoes, because that would be bending upward. Which is not, as far as I know, topologically possible. I’ll ask one of my yoga friends.

I can’t tell if this is very bad marketing or very good marketing. You be the judge. But I would, to be on the safe side, bring a bottle of Lysol with you when you do.

At some point in time, things took a turn for the absurd. The Treasure City staff was free-associating in a lofty and exalted headspace that, clearly, I wasn’t wearing the right shoes for. But there was still these young ladies to come.

A high-resolution version of this one is now in my “art photography” directory, it was a nearly spiritual experience I had to savor. This brightened my afternoon on levels. There wasn’t a men’s health section, unfortunately, I guess they hadn’t gotten a pair of “Coors” brand flip-flops that week.

Treasure City Thrift, east 7th near Chicon

The Christmas it snowed blood, oh, what a year that was. Grandfather would often tell us stories about those long-ago blood-christmasses, how the world was covered in a thick carpet of red gore, and when the moon shown on it just right, late at night, it was kinda…kinda horrible. We thought those special Christmasses were long long past, possibly entirely fictitious, until we got our own bloodfall.

What fun we had, throwing bloodballs at each other, the sound of children laughing, or screaming, it’s hard to tell sometimes. But I’m sure they enjoyed it, except for ma, who had to wash the clots off our warm winter clothes.

Nobody’d ask where the blood came from. Grandpa would always say something kinda vague, like “looks like the angels are playing hockey!” or “We said that’s what happened when Santa made a reindeer roast for Christmas Dinner,” or “when can I get out of this place and go home?” Some of us tried to skate on Newfield Pond, but that was doomed from the beginning. Kind of like trying to slide through a frozen pudding. You really didn’t want to try a double-axle, you’d get a face full of something pretty nasty.

So we contented ourselves with playing silly blood games, decorating the christmas tree with sparkling clumps of gore, you know, what everyone would do on a magical day like this.

I think someone may have skinned my 3rd Grade teacher to get this sweater. There must be a special catalog they all shop from.

This next guy isn’t really a horror, per se, but he is awfully stupid. And very, very excitable.

You have to imagine him either trampling through the snow yelling “Santa! SANTA! Can I help fly the sleigh this year, pleeeeeease?” the other reindeer–even Rudolph, and he’s had more than a few lumps of coal in the stocking of life, muttering…just keep flying, please don’t turn around, don’t turn around, don’t turn around…”

Apparently, this was a candle holder of some kind? Which is a little terrifying. Kind of like a festive Yuletide “Wicker Man,” or some nightmarish way to torture a reindeer that managed to fuck up one Christmas too many…”Oh god, it burns, just…kill me, Santa…” (Arms flail wildly, maybe a little festively)

Something from the “minimal effort Christmas” family, I think. If it’s the thought that counts, maybe someone should think a little harder.

I assume this is Christmas, it’s got a sprig of holly on it. I also assume these are horses, because tube socks don’t have ears and a mane.

If my sister had ever said, “I want a pony for Christmas,” this is probably what she would have gotten. Or else something that Mrs. Corleone might have embroidered for Jack Woltz as an extremely creepy Hanukkah gift in the Godfather Christmas special, the one where Vito Corleone is visited by, like, eight ghosts and learns the true meaning of Christmas. “I’m going to stitch you an ornament you can’t refuse” sort of thing. We’d watch that one every year when I was a kid.

I think this guy escaped from the little-known Rankin/Bass Christmas Special, “Jack Frost Vs. the Angry Snow Gods.” A lot of the dynamic duo’s later work just didn’t make any sense at all, I didn’t think it could get weirder than “The Life & Adventures of Santa Claus.” (or Thundercats. Did anybody else know that? I didn’t know that.) But, no, things can always get weirder in RankinBassland.

Tremble before the Snowflake King and his 5.7 million subjects!!

Honestly, I don’t think I would have been quite so cavalier about snowball fights if I’d known that the snowflakes had little tiny faces, and probably little tiny hopes and dreams (very tiny ones that melted at 33° f, but still, dreams nonetheless.) Thankfully, we only have snow in Austin, Texas one year in seven. I don’t know how people in Minnesota live with themselves. So much blood on their hands. Particularly during those three-foot-high bloodfalls I’ve seen sweatervests about.

This one was from another little-known Christmas special, they’d only run it past 10:30 so. I never got to see it when I was growing up. Now that it’s been released on The Warner Archives, I’m not sure what all the fuss was about.

“Mad Monster Party” was a lot worse. Seriously, Phyllis Diller vamping it up will leave scars that Frosty showing us his snow face never would.

Now, Frosty would like you to put his sordid past behind him, and just have a merry Christmas, okay? Forget all about his “Blue Christmas” special and move the hell on.

Or he’ll club this poodle.

Fields of Snowblood Sweater from Goodwill’s Blue Hanger, which is always a magical wonderland no matter what time of year it is. Flailbot Reindeer from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, horses needlepoint from Savers on South Lamar, Snowflake God from Goodwill near 183 and I35 behind Goodwill Computers, “Snow Job” from Goodwill on Parmer near I35, and “Merry Christmas or I’ll club this Poodle” from Goodwill near 620 on 183, all Austin. And a Christmas “Thank you” to our stunt model, Dierdre! I’m sure I misspelled your name again :)

Bears are kind of the “Stairway to Heaven” of the craft world. Everybody tries it once, and there’s a big sign over the craft department at Wal-Mart that says “No Bears.” Which is insincere because they also have bear-making kits.

For the record, I’m like 90% confident that neither of these bears came from a kit. Because someone would have had to greenlight that kit, and I can’t imagine what busy craft department executive would throw himself under the bus like that.

Welcome! Pay no attention to that bear on your hat. It just wants you to know that you are welcome. So very welcome. And if you brought your friends in, they would also be welcome. Ignore the bears hanging from the ceiling…they’re just here to welcome you, too. It’s been a long time since we’ve welcomed anyone, and we’re oh so very lonely.

This really is a portrait in blond. The ribbons are little golden wisps, the bear has long gold hair–the BEAR, which strangely merges Goldilocks and the poor ursine family she practiced her breaking and entering skillz on. Now, add some pink, and you’ve got a hat fit for the most Shirley Templelest little tow-headed cherub that ever sat in a field of tossing daisies. The addition of the “welcome” sign…and the bear…does somewhat mar the effect. I don’t think hanging a “welcome” sign on an aspiring Heather O’Rourke or Abigail Breslin is appropriate. It might attract Disney merchandising teams.

Good lord. I’ve had this thing lurking in my photo bin since 2007, and never really looked at it. What the heck is it? Is this some sort of mascot from an alternate-universe Japanese Olympic games, which, all things considered, isn’t that big of a stretch. It’s a huge improvement over the current options.

Either we’re dealing with some sort of weird seal-bear-wombat hybrid, or it’s standing in a salad bowl. There’s a certain “teletubbies” element here, but the ‘Tubbies never had that manic, “love me! LOVE ME!!!” grin on their faces–from what I remember, they wore faces of bland passivity, the only expression allowed by their dreadful sun-god. This guy–this guy looks like he’s about to pounce.

And even knowing what the critter is–which, really, I do NOT–doesn’t change the fact that I have no idea what this artifact is. It’s not a purse, purses aren’t ceramic. It’s not a bank or a vase, those are both things you can put something in. No, this is a clay pouch, sealed, with a carrying strap, or a hanging-cord, or something of that dangly sort of nature. Without any context, I can only assume that it’s a ceremonial urn to contain and shield us from the dreaded seal-bear-wombat god of love, stars, and hoodies, trapped within this clay prison since time immemorial, the dread image traced with a mixture of paints and blood as a warning to all those who would find it on the third shelf of “Housewares.”

Terrible Bear Hat from Goodwill on Metric and 183. Enigmatic ceramic bear-purse from Savers on South Lamar and 290.

Please stand and say the pledge of allegiance to the shirt.

I have to assume this was yanked off some poor teacher. Oh how she must have struggled. “No! NO! It’s educational!” It was probably freaking out the third graders–the way Mrs. Klapham had Uncle Sam staring at them from over each boob, his tangled beard covering her ample breast in a cascade of wool. Setting up weird associations between Americana, Santa Claus, and mammaries that would, later, send many of them to a marriage therapist when their partners refused to wear the “lady liberty” to bed.

You have to side with the Parent Teacher Association on this one though. Really, there’s such a thing as too much weirdly-placed patriotism. This one was worse than the “Old Glory” sarong.

Not that I’m really a part of that particular subculture, because they never hold late-night, throbbing-techno dances in “Salvation Army,” and if they would I would be there in a heartbeat, but this doesn’t really speak “rave” to me.

But, there you go. As the raver generation ages and buys minivans, this…THIS is what you get. Dreadful.

…and bunnies. USA and bunnies. If there was an angel of America, yeah, she’d have that hair. She’d have bag-lady hair, and a D-ring suspension point embedded in her chest, because she’d be totally pro-bondage and anti-conditioner. But she’d have a soft spot for cute, fluffy things. And nice hips, but no feet. Because that would symbolize…something. Probably victory. Or determination. Or shopping. I don’t know, one of those.

Hi, George!

Awesome pants, by the way! I can see you’ve got your entire life wrapped up in this one iconic image. You’re probably holding the Declaration of Independence, there. And an apple, because you discovered gravity. I didn’t know that, but it was on Wikipedia. I’m not sure about the leg-warmers, though they’re a very forward-looking fashion statement, and would have been a great boon when crossing the Patomac. Maybe this is actually BOY George, but I don’t think he’d be caught dead in a dusty blue muumuu. And the make-up’s a little too subdued.

If there’s anything more patriotic than a furry holding a lot of fruit, I am not currently aware of it. Those are truly awesome pants. Not everybody could pull those off. Most people wouldn’t try, I’m guessing. I’m not sure about the hat, though. Maybe you should give that to George, he needs a little more color in his life.

Uncle Sam Rave Shirt from Salvation Army on South Congress near Ben White; American Angel-Peg from Goodwill on 183 near 620; “George” and Patriot Bear from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar. Happy 4th, y’all!

I’m thinking that’s the marketing slogan Nike’s ad team rejected. Up there with “Tragically, the footware is at fault,” “I’m afraid it’s the pumps,” and “Needless to say, it was the plimsolls.” And yet, you can’t argue with the stark reality of these clogs. If it’s anything, anything at all, it’s got to be the shoes. The people demand totality.

Imagine if Dorothy only wore comfortable shoes. And when she crushed the witch under her heel, and I’m pretty sure that’s how the story went, she contracted some unfortunate condition that you can only catch from infected witches, a morbid condition of the shoe—sort of a sandle-mange. And for weeks and weeks, her ruby slippers—or possibly sequined brogues—slowly lost their glitter, dark bare patches spreading across them like mange, until finally she was taken out back and shot like Old Yellar. And I have to say, ever since the Wizard of Oz went public domain it’s been MUCH more fun to read, with good solid endings and none of this mucking about with broomsticks and sequels.

The one on the left is particularly nasty. Well, I should say, of the two the one on the left is somewhat less pleasant. The bow curling off and flaking away adds that faintest wiff of morbid tragedy that you don’t normally get in a pair of, say, loafers.

Which makes finding two pairs by the same designer in the same week some kind of magic.

North Austin was obviously blessed by the Horrid Shoe Fairy last October. It must have been unusually naughty.

We’re clearly edging into, if not the limits of what superglue can do, at least what it should do. It really would have taken very little effort to add some pizzaz to these little sandles—sadly, it also took very little effort to glue a couple of beads and a string of sequins on them and call them art. Mother’s day? 11th anniversary present? Post-divorce anti-gift? You be the judge!

I like the sparkly little thing near the toe. I don’t know if it’s a beautiful star, some kind of fruit dessert, or a new, sparkly kind of marine life. But I’m really leaning toward the latter.

Comfortable yet distressing shoes from Savers on North Lamar, Minimal Effort Sparkle Sandles from Goodwill on Parmer, Austin.

I hope the artist that made this majestic footwear is out there because, really, nice boots. I want to know the person that made these. I kind of want to know if they’re single, because whoever they are, they are magic.

YES! Tattoopunk galoshes, and they’re hot pink! These boots really sing! Lordy, if those notes weren’t actually painted on, they’d be the loudest footwear EVER.

If I owned these, I would not come out of the house unless it was raining. Because 1) I would never take them off, and 2) you wouldn’t want to wear galoshes if it wasn’t raining, that would be silly.

…There are some kinds of inner pain you can only express…through galoshes.. The pain of a broken heart. The loss of a loved one. Not getting the third number on “Powerball.” Daytime TV. These…these are galoshes wounds.

Not sure about that arrow, though. There’s a message here that says “look up. No, keep looking up. My eyes are up here. Actually, my eyes are also on my galoshes, but there may well be another pair three to six feet upward. But I can understand it if you just look at my galoshes. Many do.”

The danger here is that these shoes are so AWESOME that, to properly let the world see their full glory, you’d have to learn to walk on your hands and wave your gloriously-shod feet in the air, which is probably a great workout, but you’d get completely and ridiculously soaked in some unusual places, which would defeat the purpose of raingear.

Or maybe…maybe you just lie back in bed on five yards of red velvet, glass of cognac in one hand, smouldering clove cigarette in the other, and say “Come in…I’m wearing my galoshes.”

Found in the Goodwill on Manchacha and Stassney, and to my eternal regret, I did not buy them :(