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Nice Shoes, My Man

Those who have seen me in real life know that I do not adorn my body with luxurious fabrics tailored in the latest style. Rather, I dress in the urban camouflage known as “business casual” (think Dockers® and button-down shirts—although I don’t wear actual Dockers®). I think I blend in perfectly with my surroundings, and as long as I keep up with the rest of herd, the lion ain’t gonna get me.

Once a long time ago (probably when I was in my ballroom-dancing phase), I stepped out a little and bought some notice-me shoes. I wear them rarely, because they just aren’t “me.” Monday night, however, I got myself all dolled up to go to Chris’ Jazz Cafe: wool trousers, one of my lobster ties, and these look-at-me shoes. Since I’ve always called these my “jazz” shoes, it seemed appropriate.

As I was walking along 16th Street, I thought I heard someone say, “Nice shoes, my man.” He couldn’t be talking about me, but I slowed down anyway. He repeated the compliment in a tone that unambiguously emphasized his sincerity. I had to laugh because it was so unexpected to receive any kind of compliment on my appearance (there’s a first time for everything, I guess). But you know, they are nice shoes. They really are.

Allen-Edmonds shoes

Update: Albert shamed me into posting a picture of said shoes. i think they were better left to the imagination. :-)


where's the photo?!

Found your site through the Philadelphia Blog Community.

I just started checking out your site and I must add I like the shoes as well.

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