Shod

In the shoe store, I've never been a loafer guy. Especially not the casual, virtually shapeless canvas kinds worn without socks. And definitely not those velvet, so-called Venetian, slipper sorts that seem ridiculously impractical for negotiating canals and gondolas. Both are more appropriate for a Turkish brothel rather than city streets in the USA.

And speaking of houses of ill-repute, what depths of professional and aesthetic depravity were plumbed by the cobbler's workshop that first stitched decorative tassels on a client's loafer? Tassels belong on a Vegas showgirl's costume and nowhere else. That shoemaker was obviously aided by the wrong sort of elves.

As for penny loafers, well, even the name sounds cheap. 'Golden doubloon' loafers I might consider, but only for wearing around the house pretending to be a pirate. I'd never allow myself to be seen outside in such an insult to proper footwear. In fact, if you ask me, any shoe that lacks laces can be classified as resort-wear. 

But, for me, such rigid rule-making ends below the ankle. I'm happy to clothe the rest of myself in sporty socks, blue jeans, open-necked shirts and chore coats. I've even been known to opt for a pair of Bermuda shorts if the weather is unbearably hot and humid. So I'm not sure how or why I became a draconian tyrant about shoes. Draco himself surely wore open-toed sandals, which always leaves me wondering how any self-respecting Athenian could have taken him and his tedious laws seriously. 

I suppose we can make an exception for Italians wearing loafers, but only in the south and when lounging beside the sea. 'Dolce far niente' is a very good excuse, after all, and only a fool would argue with its wisdom. Besides, it would be rude and unseemly to impede your neighborhood passeggiata by kneeling down in the middle of the sidewalk to re-tie a shoelace that's come undone. 

On second thoughts, perhaps I should begin envisaging myself as a loafer guy. When all is said and done, it seems that sitting at cafe tables in the sun while talking nonsense and pontificating is all I'm good for in these days of enforced retirement. And that's the loafer lifestyle in a slip-on nutshell. Thank you for letting me talk this out with you. I'm thankful for your time.

The Star Gazer's Almanack

I'm a very poor planner. My daily 'To Do' list may as well be written in invisible ink and blueprints for my future fade as soon as they're unfolded. And I'm pretty much legally blind when it comes to Vision Boards or manifestation maps. 

Going forward, I'm just stumbling around in the dark with a faulty flashlight. Someone who shall remain nameless always neglects to replace the dead batteries. There are sleepwalkers with a better sense of direction than me.

Fortunately, I have a lucky star to follow. It's named Unsirius and sits in an obscure constellation called The Leprechaun, forming the tip of his long beard and illuminating that proverbial pot of gold. 

How do I know it's my star? Well, it's only visible by observing the night sky through the wrong end of a telescope, from the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, and only when it's raining. I'm the only person who does that, as far as I know. 

And how do I know it's also lucky? I don't get wet when I'm following it, that's how, even though I obviously didn't plan to bring an umbrella with me.

So I go here and there, wherever my star leads me. I do this and that whenever my star winks. And I remind myself, as Ralph Waldo Emerson claimed, that life is a journey and not a destination. 

Being about mid-journey now, I've accumulated many pictures of roadside attractions along the many circuitous routes I've taken: memorable people I've met; breathtaking buildings I've visited; beautiful landscapes I've walked through; out of focus snapshots of good times I can't quite remember.

But mostly there's a scrapbook filled with selfies of me imitating a Mediterranean wayfarer disembarking from his private yacht. Perhaps that's who I've always wanted to be: the Sailor from Gibraltar approaching the Port of Shadows. 

But ambition lost at sea, dream overboard, castaway on a desert island of what might have been. I lack the energy and motivation to maintain that kind of A-list lifestyle. I'm certainly a man of leisure these days. I just don't own a boat and couldn't afford to pay the crew anyway.

It's Spring now. The season of new beginnings. My star is shining on Erewhon Avenue, as usual, directly above the alfresco tables of the French cafe about halfway down the street.

Take a seat, the starlight seems to indicate, you've done enough already. The only plan you need to make this evening is when to move inside to the bistro after finishing your apéritif.

Machiavelli The Scrivener

"If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever." So wrote George Orwell in his novel, 1984.' 

Reading in my safe, terror-free teenage bedroom, I often used to wonder what kind of boot it would be.

A traditional Nazi jackboot? 

Or a trendy desert boot designed to conceal the threat to our republic behind an aura of nonchalant hipsterism?

A muddy hiking boot maybe, for intimidating rural insurgents in the mountains? 

Or perhaps a furry Ugg boot worn in feminist controlled dictatorships? 

An authoritarian astronaut's anti-gravity boot to future-proof any nascent Stalin's off-Earth autocracy? 

Wellington boot for history buff tyrants who conduct their brutal repressions via live action re-enactments of the Battle of Waterloo? 

Thigh-high river wader for reigns of terror focused around the Venetian lagoon? 

And what about a Das Boot, for confused German film students with a poor command of remedial English? 

Submarines aside, I guess it doesn't matter what type of boot it is, as long as we're talking about a size twelve with steel toe inserts.

But Orwell was ever so slightly incorrect, of course. It isn't a boot we need to fear but a bot. An internet bot, from Russia or China or even Arizona. 

And it won't be stamping on a human face. No, it will be doing the informational equivalent: posting on social media.

In other words: "If you want a picture of the future, imagine an AI bot commentating on a human Facebook feed —forever."

To be fair, the blog post you're currently reading can't claim to provide much better content than the imminent AI bot dystopia. 

All I've done is waste your valuable time with a list of whimsical boot possibilities for 21st Century Caesar's shopping list.

Mind you, if any 21st Century Caesar is reading this, please consider me for a role in your propaganda department. I need a job.