One of my sons wears high heels. And, so whip me, Dr. Laura, I let him. A lot.
At least my boy’s lust for pumps (and emo eyeliner) comes in handy when, say, a herd of Jehovah’s Witnesses feel the urge to pinch a loaf of sanctimoniousness on my doorstep. Trust me: Nothing, maybe not even a flaming birthday cake with their names and ages frosted on it, repels Watchtower-waggers quite as effectively as dispatching an adorable, three-foot-tall white RuPaul to answer the door in his mama’s Frederick’s of Hollywood hooker heels. In fact, my little Louboutin did me the favor just last month.
Which brings me to a similar tran-tastic “experience” yesterday at Henry’s Shoe Experience in Downey, when what looked like a pair of white nursing shoes perched on five fugly inches of wicker stool inspired my pre-k crossdresser to go public with his Alexis Arquette act. The worst part? The bastardized-for-Glow’s-sake Nurse Mates were designed by Jennifer Lopez. And I had such high hopes that the boy wouldn’t inherit my hobunky taste. Perhaps J. Lo fake-synth-sang it best in a pop flop you never heard: “Ten million men couldn’t walk a mile in these shoes. Honey, these pumps are too big to fill.” Is that so? At a measly size six, what does Jell-O know about “big” feet? She’s got nothin’ on a sasquatch like me, a galumphing size 10-and-thensome.
Those hard-to-cram-a-fit Hammertime feet of mine are the two reasons I braved the gangland barrios of the Downey-Pico Rivera line to check out Henry’s, a humble roadside shoe shop that sells Rodeo Drive caliber kicks for Santee Alley chump change (unfortunately without a trace of the bodega bacon-hugged hot dogs Santee is famous for).
But I’m not the only one willing to make the trek: I pulled into the littered strip mall parking lot and was surprised to see a prissy O.C. trophy wife-type lumber out of Henry’s graffitied storefront with an unmarked grocery bag swollen with stiletto spikes in her French-manicured grip. She cracked a shit-eating grin in my direction (pop goes the BOTOX®, and the BOTOX® goes pop!) and tore off in her Mercedes, presumably back to the clueless White Flight from whence she came. Greedy shoe vulture! I peeked through Henry’s scissor-gated, black-tinted security windows (ghetto fabulous, mang) and steeled my wallet for lockdown.
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