Keynoting in my beloved "pimp" shoes

(811 words)

It’s been almost two weeks and my sails are still filled by all the heady compliments I heard at my Columbus keystone before 200 associates of National Church Residences.

People said I was great.

Note the tense: I was great.

Nobody said I am great.

The only thing I can figure is someone in the audience must have been texting my family.

It’s a real joy to be given the opportunity to talk in front of that many people and have them repeatedly interrupt with laughter and ovations.

Best part? It’s now all on YouTube. The hotel had a videographer film the whole shebang, including the 20-minute meet ’n’ greet at the end where 50 people — 50! — lined up to buy crayon-signed copies of my book.

I whittled the 45-minute talk down to 12 minutes. This is the link. I invite you to give it a skim. There’s no nudity — you’re welcome! — but I do swear and people enjoy profane titillation.

I think it’s the perfect promo for me. It shows a good-sized crowd reacting enthusiastically to my every punch line. It shows humor, poise, compassion and heart. The only way it could be better is if it showed the shoes above.

Ah, yes. Bask in them. They’re Giorgio Brutini, maker of “contemporary shoes for confident men.” I only wear them to events where I’m promised a big paycheck. They never fail to earn flattering attention. It certainly happened in Columbus.

It was after my talk and I was passing by a group of five women who’d heard me speak.  We smiled and nodded. As I passed, one of the senior women said to the group but loud enough for me to hear, “Now, those are the kinds of shoes only a real man can wear.”

She wasn’t flirting, I don’t think. It was more like she was instructing her younger friends so next time they saw shoes like mine on a man like me they’d know they were seeing something to behold.

I say she wasn’t flirting, but after I bowed my head in dapper acknowledgement of her compliment I put a little turbo wiggle in my butt for a walkaway encore. Of course, I overdid it and almost tripped, which would have given the ladies a chance to laugh all over again for all the wrong reasons.

Then I called my wife.

I had to tell her. See, these shoes were once a controversial subject in one of those matrimonial tugs-of-war over spousal tastefulness.

I paid, I think, about $150 for them in 2002 at Kamps. It may surprise those who know me for dressing like a guy always ready to spring off his bar stool to help gut a deer, but when I have dough I invest in nice clothes.

I appreciate the importance of looking swanky. 

It was something I only sensed in 2002. I remember the salesman having to persuade me they weren’t too flashy. “Someday,” he said, “you’re going to want to make a dashing impression on influential strangers. These shoes will do that without you ever even having to open your mouth!”

Sold!

But when I took them home, Val said things that gave me cold feet, an ironic turn considering the topic was brand new shoes.

I’m paraphrasing here, but the phrase “pimp shoes” leaps to mind.

I was 39, but had yet to establish any real ego so, deferring to her sensibilities, I put the shoes back in the box and headed back to the mall. I was woefully unprepared for the counter argument that awaited.

The salesman was furious. “She’s crazy! These are marvelous shoes! I’d be doing you a disservice if I let her goad you into returning these!”

I remember feeling tremendous pressure. Do I side with the mother of my children or some stranger who earns his living by carrying a steel shoe horn in his shirt pocket?

What I should have in hindsight done was tell him, yes, he was right, it was high time for me to man-up. Then depart the store for another hour and returned to sheepishly say she’d ordered me to again return the shoes. I could have done this repeatedly until either the store closed or he got fed up enough to bitch slap me into submission right there beside the imported loafers.

You know how this story ends. I took a stand. And a walk. 

In my new shoes!

They remain one of my most proud purchases. I usually wear them with black pants and black shirt under a charcoal blazer. It’s all very understated.

I can’t see myself ever getting rid of them — for strictly professional reasons. They make a great impression 

And you just never know when I might one day need them to satisfy an adolescent ambition to pimp.

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Thumbs up to professional shoe salesmen!

(731 words)

The dapper shoe salesman had given my feet a full fitting, checked the arches and answered all my questions about flex, durability and waterproofness. Now it was his turn to ask me a question.

“Well, what do you think? Do you want the $89 pair or the Goretex Merrells, our top seller, for $140?”

The man, a veteran shoes salesman, didn’t really have to ask. He already knew.

When it comes to matters of the foot, this guy is an old hand.

Most people get their shoes at big discount shoe emporiums staffed by bored 20-somethings who view your presence as more of an annoyance than an opportunity. They could care less about your feet. They don’t fit shoes, they stock shelves.

Yes, it’s ironic that a place that’s so full of shoes can have so much of one kind of sole and so little of the other.

I try and buy my shoes at a quality shoe store staffed by professionals. Mine is the Kamps Shoes at Westmoreland Mall. The guys there are mostly older, refined gents who know feet the way the way a butcher knows beef.

These gents understand my feet deserve the best. So do yours.

I say that without wanting to mislead anyone into thinking this is going to devolve into some aberrant passion for the foot. Mine is not a foot fetish.

In fact, I cannot stand the foot, even as I know it’s standing me.

My feet are ugly and cracked. They stink. The jagged toenails are a horror show. They look like a witch’s teeth when she smiles after roasting a stupid, fat boy.

And I baby them. I cuddle them in good shoes, soft socks and always take tiny little steps anytime I’m barefoot in a darkened room where other careless stumblers stub toes.

Because you can forget you’re wearing a swank or ratty shirt or dress, but a shoe -- good or bad -- is the one thing we all put on that lets us know it’s there with every step we take.

I’m confused by how many people spend so much time and consideration picking the perfect barber or hairstylist to determine the shape and length of their hair, but never give a thought to the care and comfort of the essential appendages they’ll rely on to carry them throughout life.

Feet are forever. Ill-fitting shoes can lead to back problems, sore joints and monthly appointments for spinal adjustments.

I figure if I patronize a good shoe salesman now it’ll reduce the chances I’ll ever need a pricey chiropractor.

I asked the guy how business had been.

“Tough,” he said. “It’s tough everywhere, but I don’t think people realize the problems they can have when they walk around in cheap shoes.”

I’m not kidding when I say I have immense respect for these gentlemen. I’m pretty sure they like most kids grew up wanting to be maybe a cowboy or an astronaut. It’s a cinch they didn’t raise their hand on 4th grade career day and say, “When I grow up, I want to be a shoe salesman!”

They are true professionals. They really care about their customers.

In fact, that may be a bit too broad.

They care about their customer’s feet.

I wonder if they feel they are to retail professionals what feet are to people. No one extends to them the dignity they deserve.

I wonder if they after a lifetime of selling shoes feel that people walk all over them. I thought this and at that very moment became instantly chagrined that I wasn’t some half-man/half centipede hybrid.

I wanted to buy 50 pairs of shoes and give this kind, hard-working man the sort of day he deserves.

It made me sorry I couldn’t grow another foot -- and that’s the first time I’ve ever wished for another foot that came with five little piggies to boot.

So what did I do?

You know exactly what I did.

“Give me the Cadillacs, my man! Don’t even bother with the box! I’m walkin’ ‘em right out the door!”

He gave me a kind little smile.

By putting some spring in my step, I was putting some back in his.

So let’s hear it for the humble shoe salesman, the only professionals for whom when we give them a foot we give them a hand.

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Five li’l piggies went, “Ouch!”