When I was growing up, I got one pair of shoes about every six months. I wore them until the soles tore open and they smelled like last week’s garbage. I don’t remember being poor – but this might qualify. Thus my propensity for a new pair of shiny bright soles. Slipping into a new pair is stirring. Images of late nights and garden parties abound, bettered by the heels I will wear to them. Though a full-on shoe fetish is too exaggerated to describe my current closet and predilections, I find myself with about 20 pairs (not too big a number, not too small).
Today, I face the bus in beautiful black snakeskin Ralph Laurens’. 
NO SAINTS IN L.A. 
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