The Artist Formerly Known as TarFoot

Once upon a time in a land far, far away...ok, like, last year (give or take) in Miami, there was a fellow that took to calling me TarFoot. We'll call him Valentine because that's his name. This nickname that, thankfully, didn't catch on, came from the fact that the soles of my feet were always, always, always black. It wasn't like I didn't wash my feet. I did. It was more that I refused to wear shoes and that shit just takes a toll. I wore Havianas and, when I absolutely had to, heels. That's it. No boots. No tennis shoes. No flats. Just flip flops. And, on more occasions than I should even admit, not even those.

No big deal, right? That's what I was thinking (or not depending on my level of inebriation). But, I guess, it is a bit unusual to run around the city barefoot and people started to notice. I suppose I became just a tad bit notorious for going sans shoes...on the street, in clubs, you name it. Years ago I'd even check my way-too-tall stilettos at the DJ booth. Then one day someone (I won't mention any names) put my shoes on the shelf behind the bar alongside the Grey Goose and I spent forever searching under chairs and posting all points bulletins until finally, finally said DJ admitted the hoax. It was like Cinderella but so much more hectic because it was WMC (2003, I think) and I was wasted and the place was packed and those were my most favorite shoes of all time (which I can't remember for the life of me now). Now I just hide them in inconspicuous corners.

Then there was the whole injury thing. I've lost so many toenails. Twice at the hand (or should I say hoof?) of police horses. Yes, twice. Once in downtown Atlanta during that Y2K ruckus and then again in Savannah at St. Patrick's Day. You'd think I'd learn to move when police come storming through on horseback but, alas, no. And, once I sliced super serious at that suicidal celebrity's house on Fourth of July. I couldn't walk for a week. See photo above (so much nastier than it looks...trust me).

So, there's all that.

Now I'm in New York and its winter and I have to wear shoes. It's contributing greatly to my current SAD-ness. My feet feel trapped. I have to wear socks and I HATE, HATE, HATE socks. I get blisters and callouses and such.

Can't wait for summer. How do New Yorkers feel about barefoot bandits?