"Denizens of Brownstone Brooklyn like to pad around in plastic clogs..." -- "Brooklyn, Meet Your Oligarch" by Clifford J. Levy, the New York Times, Sunday
"...W. pads around the White House in Crocs..." -- The Devil Wears Crocs by Maureen Dowd, the New York Times, Sunday
I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore.
I live in what journalists call Brownstone Brooklyn and I wear Crocs often. I wear them at home, for quick trips to the mailbox or chores like taking clothes to the dry cleaner. I wear them for walks in the park and busy excursions to midtown. Once, during a dark time in my life when my feet -- actually, only one foot -- hurt so badly that normal shoes caused me to limp and wince, I wore Crocs to a wedding, not my own, but still a important and dressy occasion. They were in the Endeavor style (no holes on top), navy to go with my suit. They looked swell, which is exactly what my feet would have done if I'd worn my normal dress shoes.
You got a problem with that?
It's not as if Crocs are unique to the region. Slovenly, under-dressed individuals all over the country wear them, to no particular opprobrium that I'm aware of. Besides, at a time when all New Yorkers are celebrating our city's Dutch heritage, something to do with Henry Hudson, cheap shots about a shoe that so closely resembles a wooden sabot seems distinctly ... well, "racial profiling" is such an ugly expression, but there it is.
At the moment, shoes are the least of my worries. The ice cap is melting, Iran is thumbing its (imminently nuclear) nose, the public option didn't get out of committee, Atlantic Yards is not yet dead. The revelation that W. and I share a taste for anything, even leisure footwear, is something I will deal with in the fullness of time, with the help of my spouse, spiritual advisers and dog. But for the time being, I would appreciate it if the Grey Lady would quit it with the Crocs cracks.