A haiku for Ms. Farrah Fawcett:
Golden hair so fine
Lady Cortez on your feet
Taken by sunset
Oh Farrah, we love you.
And we miss you.
But this blog isn't about you. It's about the shoes you're wearing. That pair of Lady Cortez, nylon with suede trim.
Wait, what's that Farrah? Why do I want to talk about your shoes? Why don't I want to talk about you? I will talk about you Farrah, in another blog. I promise. But right now I'm talking about your sneakers.
"But Chris," Farrah asks, "why do you want to talk about my feet? Do you have a foot fetish?"
"Well," I say, "I wouldn't exactly call it a fetish..."
"A thing for women's feet?"
"Well, if anything, men's feet..."
"What's the difference?"
"Night and day."
"But a foot is a foot. You know, like, toes, an arch, the heel...the ball..."
"Farrah, we're getting off track. Why don't you study this chart and we'll talk later?"
"Fine. Be that way. I have a hair appointment anyway."
"Dont' be mad Farrah--"
But Farrah's gone, to that great beauty parlor in the sky.
Golden hair so fine
Lady Cortez on your feet
Taken by sunset
Oh Farrah, we love you.
And we miss you.
But this blog isn't about you. It's about the shoes you're wearing. That pair of Lady Cortez, nylon with suede trim.
Wait, what's that Farrah? Why do I want to talk about your shoes? Why don't I want to talk about you? I will talk about you Farrah, in another blog. I promise. But right now I'm talking about your sneakers.
"But Chris," Farrah asks, "why do you want to talk about my feet? Do you have a foot fetish?"
"Well," I say, "I wouldn't exactly call it a fetish..."
"A thing for women's feet?"
"Well, if anything, men's feet..."
"What's the difference?"
"Night and day."
"But a foot is a foot. You know, like, toes, an arch, the heel...the ball..."
"Farrah, we're getting off track. Why don't you study this chart and we'll talk later?"
"Fine. Be that way. I have a hair appointment anyway."
"Dont' be mad Farrah--"
But Farrah's gone, to that great beauty parlor in the sky.
This really is about the sneakers. The classic Nike Cortez shoe and how it came in and out of my life, often on the feet of one young woman in particular. Let's call her Maria. She was Italian. Picture a mash-up of Cara Delevingne, Mila Kunis and Sophia Loren. Yes her name was Maria Pecorino (but it wasn't). She first came into my life in either the third or fourth grade. Probably fourth. She rather looked liked this young lady:
I mean, she didn't dress like a Sicilian peasant; but she was nearly that exotic. She moved to my hometown from East Boston in the early 70's. East Boston is heavily Italian (I went to high school there: Saint Dominic Savio Boy's Preparatory). Dom Savio's favorite expression was "Death Before Sin."
The goody-two-shoes to end all goody-two-shoes.
However, Maria Pecorino was no goody-two-shoes. And it was Maria Pecorino who delivered some extremely immediate life lessons to me. I think she was put in my life for just that reason. To teach me some lessons. But our lives over-lapped. Maybe I taught her some things too. What they might've been escapes me; but it's possible.
Kids can be mean. Shit, they can be downright sadistic.
However, Maria Pecorino was no goody-two-shoes. And it was Maria Pecorino who delivered some extremely immediate life lessons to me. I think she was put in my life for just that reason. To teach me some lessons. But our lives over-lapped. Maybe I taught her some things too. What they might've been escapes me; but it's possible.
Kids can be mean. Shit, they can be downright sadistic.
I'm sorry to say, I had my moments of childhood cruelty.
When Maria first arrived in our class, she was the "new kid." Actually, she was our first "new kid." I think we all know that the welcome wagon isn't generally wheeled out or the red carpet unfurled when kids encounter a new (read: strange) kid. The New Kid usually has to go through some kind of hazing or shunning before being let into the status quo, elementary school social-strata. Maria got raked over the coals for being from East Boston. She was a dirty city kid. Why didn't she go back to her smoke stacks and concrete wasteland? I actually said that to her; the part about the smoke stacks. Maybe I wouldn't have said anything at all if I'd known at that time that my own mother had lived there when she was a little girl. Or that I would be the New Kid at my high school in East Boston and be the initial object of scorn. I still feel ashamed of myself over that. Actually, I did at the time. But the other kids were doing it, and I wanted to fit in. However, Maria leveled the playing field a few years later.
When Maria first arrived in our class, she was the "new kid." Actually, she was our first "new kid." I think we all know that the welcome wagon isn't generally wheeled out or the red carpet unfurled when kids encounter a new (read: strange) kid. The New Kid usually has to go through some kind of hazing or shunning before being let into the status quo, elementary school social-strata. Maria got raked over the coals for being from East Boston. She was a dirty city kid. Why didn't she go back to her smoke stacks and concrete wasteland? I actually said that to her; the part about the smoke stacks. Maybe I wouldn't have said anything at all if I'd known at that time that my own mother had lived there when she was a little girl. Or that I would be the New Kid at my high school in East Boston and be the initial object of scorn. I still feel ashamed of myself over that. Actually, I did at the time. But the other kids were doing it, and I wanted to fit in. However, Maria leveled the playing field a few years later.
Our classrooms at Lynnhurst Elementary school had water fountains, kind of like the above. I recall them being built into a countertop. Is that unusual for a classroom to have a water fountain? I don't know; but that's neither here nor there. It's what happened at the water fountain that's important here. I don't remember a lot of the specifics, but the teacher was out of the room and we were "self policing." Maria and I both happened to head for the water fountain at the same time. We were now both in sixth grade. Two years at that age generates huge shifts in everything. The differences between a nine year-old and an eleven year-old are astronomical. Especially an eleven year-old girl.
I don't recall what was said or exactly why what happened, happened; but Maria went first and when she raised up from the fountain, she stared me in the face and then full-on slapped me across it. Hard. It was the kind of blow that could've gotten her expelled. It was a true bitch slap. But I didn't say anything. Nobody seemed to witness the event. I returned to my desk and sat with the burning sting for the rest of the afternoon. Was it her answer for me, when two years earlier I had asked her why she didn't just go back to the dirty city?
I don't recall what was said or exactly why what happened, happened; but Maria went first and when she raised up from the fountain, she stared me in the face and then full-on slapped me across it. Hard. It was the kind of blow that could've gotten her expelled. It was a true bitch slap. But I didn't say anything. Nobody seemed to witness the event. I returned to my desk and sat with the burning sting for the rest of the afternoon. Was it her answer for me, when two years earlier I had asked her why she didn't just go back to the dirty city?
Maria got bitten by the disco bug before anyone else. I remember one day when we were having an end of the year party in class, she brought in the soundtrack album to Thank God It's Friday. And maybe the Carwash and Saturday Night Fever LPs as well. I remember the Thank God It's Friday record had like three discs in it and tons of artwork. I pored over every inch of those record sleeves: Thank God It's Friday had decidedly adult themes and I sniffed out every one of them. Maria's love for disco only grew. By the time we were in junior high school, she was known for being "into" disco. Some even called her "Disco Maria." But she was swimming upstream. Most of the little shits at Belmonte Jr. High School were into hard rock. Or claimed to be. The boys anyways. And wasn't it the boys who decided what was cool and what wasn't and what someone should be made fun of for? Girls too. But girls were open to more musical styles. And then one day, Maria came to school wearing a pair of these:
It was love at first sight. I HAD TO HAVE A PAIR.
That is a pair, of course, of the classic Nike Cortez shoe, first introduced in 1972. I didn't gaze on it until 1978 when Maria strutted down the hallway. The shoe, in white with red and royal blue trim was officially deemed "The Disco Nike." So, if you wore them, you were "Disco." I loved disco; but I also loved a lot of other musical genres. The shoe spoke more to my aesthetic tastes than my musical ones. I don't know what it was about them. They were some kind of perfect storm of design, fashion and culture. I must've not been alone in my love of these kicks, 'cuz if ever there was a cult around a certain shoe: the Cortez cult was it. They cost $40.00 in 1978. That's like $170 dollars in today's money. Which is kind of shocking. How I was able to acquire a pair, in retrospect, seems miraculous. I reeeeeaaaallly wanted those shoes and must've struck a bargain with the devil to get them. I mean, we weren't poor; but we didn't have that kind of money to throw around on sneakers. But I got them and I was kind of obsessed with them. I remember ritualistically cleaning them with saddle soap once a week.
What you wore on your feet at school was of the utmost importance. No, it was more than that. What you wore on your feet could make or break you, socially. I can remember agonizing over certain shoe choices, including the Cortez. Did I want to officially be identified as "disco?" Disco Chris. Disco Chrisco. Go Disco Chrisco Go! I remember the first song I danced to in public. It was "Le Freak" by Chic. Karen Champalillo pulled me onto the floor and showed me the moves.
That is a pair, of course, of the classic Nike Cortez shoe, first introduced in 1972. I didn't gaze on it until 1978 when Maria strutted down the hallway. The shoe, in white with red and royal blue trim was officially deemed "The Disco Nike." So, if you wore them, you were "Disco." I loved disco; but I also loved a lot of other musical genres. The shoe spoke more to my aesthetic tastes than my musical ones. I don't know what it was about them. They were some kind of perfect storm of design, fashion and culture. I must've not been alone in my love of these kicks, 'cuz if ever there was a cult around a certain shoe: the Cortez cult was it. They cost $40.00 in 1978. That's like $170 dollars in today's money. Which is kind of shocking. How I was able to acquire a pair, in retrospect, seems miraculous. I reeeeeaaaallly wanted those shoes and must've struck a bargain with the devil to get them. I mean, we weren't poor; but we didn't have that kind of money to throw around on sneakers. But I got them and I was kind of obsessed with them. I remember ritualistically cleaning them with saddle soap once a week.
What you wore on your feet at school was of the utmost importance. No, it was more than that. What you wore on your feet could make or break you, socially. I can remember agonizing over certain shoe choices, including the Cortez. Did I want to officially be identified as "disco?" Disco Chris. Disco Chrisco. Go Disco Chrisco Go! I remember the first song I danced to in public. It was "Le Freak" by Chic. Karen Champalillo pulled me onto the floor and showed me the moves.
Luckily, mastering The Freak was not difficult (and I have two left feet). I think Maria was at that dance. She had to have been.
Here's another moment when Maria set me straight (so to speak). And it's another moment of shame. One I'm not proud of. And one I've never forgotten. So, I will share it with you. We were in the same homeroom. Our desks were next to one another. Since we had gone down decidedly different social paths since grammar school, we didn't really talk. But one day we did. Maria told me I had "perfect" eyebrows. I thanked her. You see, Maria knew about eyebrows. She had a pair that would've made Brooke Shields look over-plucked. Maria's were thick and lustrous and meticulously groomed. I had never given a second thought to my eyebrows. It just wasn't something boys thought about back then. Not even gay boys (unless you had a unibrow, which some girl would inevitably try and vanquish). I said, "Oh, really? Thanks..." Then she said, "You have really nice lips too..." And then I said something. I remember weighing in my mind whether I should say it or not. Sage advice: if you're having that thought, the answer is always "NO." I grew up in a casually racist environment. There were no black people in my class. I don't know if I said this because I wanted to seem "cool" or that it would give me some street cred; and I knew it was wrong even before it was coming out of my mouth. "I have N-word lips." But I used the actual word. An unexpected aggregate of micro-emotions passed over her blank face. She sat back in her chair. I tried to back-pedal: "Well, someone said that to me once--"
"I think black people have beautiful lips." And then she cast her gaze elsewhere. The conversation was over. And I had been schooled once again. The thing is, the sad and ironic thing, is that I wasn't really racist. Not in my core, anyways. I had been bitch slapped again. And deserved it again.
In ninth grade, I found myself next to Maria in a study class. She had a Trapper Keeper. It was green.
Here's another moment when Maria set me straight (so to speak). And it's another moment of shame. One I'm not proud of. And one I've never forgotten. So, I will share it with you. We were in the same homeroom. Our desks were next to one another. Since we had gone down decidedly different social paths since grammar school, we didn't really talk. But one day we did. Maria told me I had "perfect" eyebrows. I thanked her. You see, Maria knew about eyebrows. She had a pair that would've made Brooke Shields look over-plucked. Maria's were thick and lustrous and meticulously groomed. I had never given a second thought to my eyebrows. It just wasn't something boys thought about back then. Not even gay boys (unless you had a unibrow, which some girl would inevitably try and vanquish). I said, "Oh, really? Thanks..." Then she said, "You have really nice lips too..." And then I said something. I remember weighing in my mind whether I should say it or not. Sage advice: if you're having that thought, the answer is always "NO." I grew up in a casually racist environment. There were no black people in my class. I don't know if I said this because I wanted to seem "cool" or that it would give me some street cred; and I knew it was wrong even before it was coming out of my mouth. "I have N-word lips." But I used the actual word. An unexpected aggregate of micro-emotions passed over her blank face. She sat back in her chair. I tried to back-pedal: "Well, someone said that to me once--"
"I think black people have beautiful lips." And then she cast her gaze elsewhere. The conversation was over. And I had been schooled once again. The thing is, the sad and ironic thing, is that I wasn't really racist. Not in my core, anyways. I had been bitch slapped again. And deserved it again.
In ninth grade, I found myself next to Maria in a study class. She had a Trapper Keeper. It was green.
She had graffitied on it, like most kids are wont to do. One of the slogans was: "Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick."
"What's a rhythm stick?" I asked.
"It's from a song."
"What song?"
"'Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick.'"
"Who sings that?"
"Ian Dury and the Blockheads."
"What else do they sing?"
"Reasons to be Cheerful, Part 3."
"I don't know that--"
"Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll?"
"That I've heard."
She shook her head. Clearly Maria had some eclectic and sophisticated musical tastes. In a way, this was another lesson, because I sought out the songs.
"What's a rhythm stick?" I asked.
"It's from a song."
"What song?"
"'Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick.'"
"Who sings that?"
"Ian Dury and the Blockheads."
"What else do they sing?"
"Reasons to be Cheerful, Part 3."
"I don't know that--"
"Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll?"
"That I've heard."
She shook her head. Clearly Maria had some eclectic and sophisticated musical tastes. In a way, this was another lesson, because I sought out the songs.
She demonstrated to me that just because you were into one thing, didn't mean you couldn't be into something (or many things) else. So, I'd have to say Maria sparked my interest in alternative music. Ian Dury and the Blockheads were then and still remain somewhat obscure and underrated. I often wonder how Maria came across them. Reasons To Be Cheerful, Part 3? Maybe. It's sorta disco. But it's also rock. And it's even kind of rap.
My mother worked at a department store that was a small Northeastern chain. Caldor. Caldor was kind of like a cross between Woolworth's and Sears.
My mother worked at a department store that was a small Northeastern chain. Caldor. Caldor was kind of like a cross between Woolworth's and Sears.
Caldor had very distinctive signage and entrance design in the 70's. I found out later that hookers used to work behind the building (fyi). Maria got a job there (inside, not behind the building!) and she and my mom became friends. I mean, like, not hang-out friends; but friendly.
And then, many more years later, Maria married a guy from my high school class. I mean, what are the odds of that? There were only about 90 guys in my whole class.
When my sister and her kids came to visit the States some time ago, my nephew, Jack (who was around seven or so) wanted to go to "Hungry Jacks," which is what they call Burger King down-under. While we were there, we were at a table in the front of the dining room, the order counter behind us. Now, the building had four entrances, one on each corner. You'd think someone coming to get food would go in to the place through one of the doors closest to the counter. Right?
So, we're sitting there, eating our burgers and a woman comes striding up towards the door which we were right next to. I was facing the door. Guess who it was. Maria Pecorino. It was like the Universe marched her right up to our table. We were adults now. Pleasantries and brief chit-chat were exchanged. Warm smiles, sincere ones, were given on both sides. I was happy to see that Maria's eyebrows were as magnificent as ever.
And then, many more years later, Maria married a guy from my high school class. I mean, what are the odds of that? There were only about 90 guys in my whole class.
When my sister and her kids came to visit the States some time ago, my nephew, Jack (who was around seven or so) wanted to go to "Hungry Jacks," which is what they call Burger King down-under. While we were there, we were at a table in the front of the dining room, the order counter behind us. Now, the building had four entrances, one on each corner. You'd think someone coming to get food would go in to the place through one of the doors closest to the counter. Right?
So, we're sitting there, eating our burgers and a woman comes striding up towards the door which we were right next to. I was facing the door. Guess who it was. Maria Pecorino. It was like the Universe marched her right up to our table. We were adults now. Pleasantries and brief chit-chat were exchanged. Warm smiles, sincere ones, were given on both sides. I was happy to see that Maria's eyebrows were as magnificent as ever.
We're Facebook friends now. However, I almost never see her posts, for whatever reason. Whatever the funky algorithm on Facebook is up to. But as I was writing this, the other day she popped up in my feed (she'd changed her profile picture). Again, odd. I mean, I changed her name for this piece. Coincidence? Surely. But was it?
I wonder if Maria still has her Disco Nikes. I do. Not my first pair. But the pair I bought right after Forrest Gump came out and Nike brought the shoe back. Again, I had to have them. And I paid full price. Again, I couldn't really afford them. I blame Tom Hanks. Oh no Chris, not Tom Hanks again! Yes, damn it. Tom Hanks.
I wonder if Maria still has her Disco Nikes. I do. Not my first pair. But the pair I bought right after Forrest Gump came out and Nike brought the shoe back. Again, I had to have them. And I paid full price. Again, I couldn't really afford them. I blame Tom Hanks. Oh no Chris, not Tom Hanks again! Yes, damn it. Tom Hanks.
You know, I actually dressed up once as Forrest Gump when I worked at Paramount. It was right after I bought my new pair of Disco Nikes and right after the movie came out. It's gotta be one of the easiest costumes to put together, as long as you have the shoes. Yeah, I wore it to work. And it wasn't Halloween. I quickly felt like an idiot; but I wore the outfit all day.
I wonder if Tom and Maria have ever met?
So, what's our take-away here? Well, we opened with a haiku, so let's close with an aphorism:
"Do not judge someone until you have danced in their Disco Nikes."
Sounds like sage advice to me.
I wonder if Tom and Maria have ever met?
So, what's our take-away here? Well, we opened with a haiku, so let's close with an aphorism:
"Do not judge someone until you have danced in their Disco Nikes."
Sounds like sage advice to me.
RSS Feed