Thinking about my days towering atop a pair of Italian army boots (they were cheap and the surplus store had zillions of them, brand new and not just surrendered war surplus) that I actually had two pair. One were the beat up gnarly ones I’d stomp around on daily, at work, in the clubs, at gigs, like that. But I had one pair always freshly polished and perfect that were for weddings and funerals and job interviews and nice places. They were my formal combat boots. I had class. I’d still smack my head going through doorways, but they were much nicer doors. It’s the little things. Or the big giant clodhopping things.
Back in the eighties I didn’t have any shoes. I wore nothing but Italian army boots I’d get cheap at the surplus store in Silverlake. They must have made me two inches taller and I was forever bashing my head. Unforgiving leather, they’d leave me with callouses I’d slice off with razor blades. That’s how punk rock I was. At some point I broke my toe and the doc taped it up and gave me one of those sandals to wear. They came in blue and pink. Unfortunately they’d run out of the blue. So there I was in Silverlake in an Italian army boot and a pink sandal.