honky cracker: The Angels Wanna Wear my Blue Shoes I've had these boots since 1993. They are 8-holed, blue suede Doc Martens -- my Punk-Rock Elvis Sh!tkickers -- and they know me more intimately than any person I've ever known. I bought them when I was 16. I had recently returned to the states from Russia, where I played balalaika in a makeshift punk band called Bitter and Pensive. We lived in a St. Petersburg brothel for a while (never taking part in their trade, mind you. We were just happy to have a roof over our heads) before moving on to Siberia. Camping almost a time zone away from civilization, we wrote songs as wild cattle trampled through our campsite. Our last night there, we performed -- wearing only a washcloth and some shaving cream -- for naked Mormon girls. (who, incidentally, stole our money that night while we were passed out.) But this isn't about my old Russian punk band. This is about shoes. They were there the day I waved goodbye to the womblike safety of my hometown for the harlot of the big city. I wore them the day I walked into a new school for the first time, with nothing else but the desire to prove that I belonged -- that I was a damn good enough performer to hack it with the big boys. They were on my feet when I cradled my dog -- the dog my parents brought into our home the same time they brought me into it -- as he died. They danced on tables when I crashed some guy's retirement party wearing my dad's old leisure suit and carrying a boom box playing the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. I was wearing them when I lost my virginity. They jumped with me when I found out I had been accepted into the drama program at NYU. I trembled inside them when I heard the news that my grandfather died. They walked four years of Manhattan with me -- through casting successes and rejection failures. They woke up with me in a hospital bed, not knowing how they got there just as I didn't. They were with me when I sent the Second Great Love of My Life away on a plane, never to see her again. They were with me when I sent the First Love of My Life away on a plane, only to have her return every now and again. They were knocked off the ground only a few months ago, when I got mugged on my birthday. And you know what? They're still here, kickin' sh!t punk-rock Elvis style.
