Tonight on the short train-ride home, I saw one of my favorite shoe designers, John Fluevog. Not a huge surprise, it is well known he lives here, but still I thought of his presence as slightly humbling, since well, I WAS wearing my trusty Fluevogs at the time. I then felt it was my duty as a loyal consumer, to let him know that I appreciate him and his lovely shoes – and that I was too cool for skool, of course. I saw him lecture a year or so ago, and I was always upset that I didn't approach him with a fat silver sharpie and have him sign my mid-calf leather boots. I thought to myself, "now is as good of a time as any, I do have a sharpie – it is no silver sharpie, but he can sign the inside with a black one." Yeh, that thought lasted for as much as about a milli-second (because then I started salivating over the thought of having a huge assortment of sharpies and all the things I would draw on) when I remembered that I am unable to approach people of even mild fame and celebrity stature. Unless you are someone like, Carrot Top – who is just a retard, on TV and in real life; or the lead singer of the Autumns, cause, uh, I had been daydreaming about him for what seems like my entire adult life and plus gin helps ease the nerves, or maybe Damon Albarn, cause well – it makes the conversation less stressful when the other guy is passing out due to his heroin problem. My stop came and I left the train, slowly making sure to kick up my heel so Mr Fluevog could catch a glimspe of the giant blue 'F' on the sole of my shoe, me relying on the hope that he is completely obsessed with staring at people's feet, curious about what shoes they might be wearing. Who knows, maybe it makes his day to see is life's work stroll by during the daily commute?