Boots on the Ground

Boots on the Ground

I have maybe fifteen pairs of boots. Black, brown, tan, and about a dozen variations of those shades. I like them because they give me a sense of invincibility. They’re weighty, solid and make consequential sounds, no matter what surface they strike. The love affair started when I was in college in Poughkeepsie, New York. My school was populated by over-privileged kids who wanted to look like they were anything but. We wore army surplus coats, plaid shirts and distressed jeans. And boots; always boots. The most popular ones were Doc Martens. But as a budding Black nationalist, I wasn’t down for Docs because they looked too much like jack-boots, which I associated with Nazism.

Instead, I cobbled together my own look with anything but Docs. Cowboy boots, calf-high Frye boots that last a lifetime, and lace-up witch-boots (as I called them). It was a whole look, consistent with my artistic pretensions. My crowd—such as it was—was comprised of a similar tribe. We were sarcastic, and spoke to each other more with significant looks than with words. We were introverted, and thought too much; and thought too much of ourselves. We wore black almost every day, we smoked clove cigarettes, some of us did so-called “party drugs” like E and Special K, and most of us spent our weekends doing lots of weed. I mean, lots of weed.

A guy I knew, who wasn’t a close friend but in the second concentric circle of people I hung with, had a full-fledged marijuana farm in his dorm room, complete with sun lamps, humidifiers and dryers. I think he supplied the entire campus. His last name was Wolf, and he looked like one, so that’s what we called him. He had dark, shoulder-length wavy, tousled hair, dark eyebrows and an unnervingly penetrating stare. He was the kind of guy who was so beautiful, you’d have no trouble believing that he could get away with anything. And for a long time he did.

Someone snitched on him during senior year, and his pot operation was exposed to the college administration. But instead of expelling him, or even turning over to the police what was clearly a major drug operation, all they did was strongly suggest he find accommodations off-campus. And so he did, but he remained a full-time student in otherwise good standing, and even graduated on time with us, the rest of his class. And maybe my overactive imagination is making this part up, but I think I even recall that Wolf graduated with honors.

Somehow in my mind, what happened to (or rather what did not happen) to Wolf became symbolic of those days, those boot days. Rain or shine, spring, summer, fall or winter, I wore boots and I felt like I would live forever and my friends would live forever, and we would do big and amazing things. Bad things wouldn’t happen. Not to us. Just like nothing bad had happened to Wolf when his drug-dealing was discovered.

We would clomp through our world, making consequential, substantial sounds wherever we went, and we would leave a big mark. Wolf is a professional photographer now, and captures stark images which he displays on a blog site full of cryptic posts that lead me to believe he is still regularly smoking. Another friend, this one much closer, is an art dealer in New York City. Yet another is a yoga teacher.

Among us, I am the only one with a more conventional career in the law. I love my work. But I am aware of how the mark I leave is smaller, and more incremental. Ripples, rather than waves. And I no longer wear boots every day.

That Minimal, Criminal, Sinful LBD

That Minimal, Criminal, Sinful LBD

While surfing the internet looking for a topic for today’s blog I happened across this:

Now even I know that no matter what her shape, size, or age, every woman needs this all important garment in her closet. This isn’t just a dress. This is a statement. It needs to be you.

Beautiful young woman in black dress

Find that shape, length, and exposure you’re comfortable in, but keep it on the daring side. Little means little.  A side slit, a little cleavage, or some lace can make a big difference. And make sure it highlights your best assests.

Believe me, every guy, straight or gay, notices a woman in an LBD on one level or another. So shop, shop, shop until you find the right one, because a mistake here can be disastrous.

punk screaming in theatrical mode

Once you’ve found the right dress, you are not done. No way.

Female bag, shoes and accessories isolated on white

It’s now all about the accessories. Bag or clutch, sunglasses, jewelry, and those all important shoes. Accessories are the frame to that perfect picture. Just enough to enhance without taking away from the artistry of the dress and that amazing woman within.

So…have you got one? Do you own it?


Sophisticated woman holds a blank tablet computer.

Oh, girl! I like how you accessorize.

So is there a guy equivalent to the LBD? Let me know in the comments below.

I may need to go shopping.


The Non-Fashionista, Appreciating Fashion

The Non-Fashionista, Appreciating Fashion

I think I’ve covered this before. I am not a fashion guru. I don’t buy expensive clothes. I like to be comfortable when I go out – or to work – or hell, just sitting around the house. This typically means, jeans and a t-shirt. Sometimes a polo-ish top (or the like).  I own one pair of tennis shoes and one pair of flip flops. I’m a simple woman. *wink*

However, none of this means I cannot appreciate someone who’s dressed nice.



And so I give you . . . my top (we’ll go with FIVE) favorite best dressed hunks whom I love to watch on T.V. and / or movie screens.

First, of course, there’s Jensen. Because . . . JENSEN.


Helloooooo, Jensen.

Then we have, Gerard . . .


Barrrrre . . . Feeeeeeet!  COME ON.

And Stephen . . .


Do I seriously need to spell this one out?

And okay, Robert . . .


Because that pic of him has always killed me.

And last but far from least . . . the Fassy:


It’s a tough life, but someone’s gotta Google these men.

You’re welcome.

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And big love, see ya next time,




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