2002-07-28

These boots are made for chasing Ad Frank

So, on Friday I get an email from Ad Frank, who wants to gather up a gaggle of "pretty ladies" to pose with him for the cover of his upcoming CD. We're instructed to wear some kind of go-go getup, and shoes that we don't mind running around in (it's important for you to note that last part, as Paula and I did not).

Saturday afternoon I pull a few random go-go-esque dresses from the closet, shove them into my bag, and totter down the street -- in my 3 1/2 inch, lace-up, calf-high black leather boots -- to meet Paula, who of course looks eleventy-seven million times better than I do -- in her 3 1/2 inch, calf high white patent leather boots -- because she's the only person in the world who can pull that shit off, and together we totter over to the Squealing Pig, where Ad is surrounded by about half a dozen women in calf-high boots of varying shades and sheens, looking for all the world like the cat who ate the canary.

(Now that, chickens, was a sentence.)

After some preening, the lot of us, accompanied by our able photographer, the Lady Miss Violet, tottered on over to an abandoned parking lot in Mission Hill, where, for the next hour, we chased Ad back and forth, pretending to either want to deflower him or kick his ass. After several jaunts across the parking lot in the aforementioned footwear, Paula and I were using the latter as our "motivation." We also made use of the down time to hone our seasoned wise-ass skills.

"Being a model is soooo hard!"

"It's, like, rully hard."

"You have to stand around all day in your heels and THEN you have to pretend that you want to do Ad Frank!"

As is usually the case, Paula and I were greatly amused by our own jokes. I suspect that everybody else thought we were on crack.

My feet, chickens. By the end of this little escapade they felt like I'd been running barefoot through a field of cheese graters. Paula and I stumbled back from the lot, apart from the others, grumbling and occasionally sneering at the carloads of buttheads who hollered in appreciation of our get-ups: "Ahhhwoooooh! YEAH, baby!"

"Duh-HAW! Lookit me! I'm driving a JEEP!"

"Dude! "

Back at the Squealing Pig, I sipped at my club-soda-with-lime, and tried to make Ad feel guilty. "We suffered for you, dude. Running back and forth across that nasty parking lot in those boots."

"Hey, I warned you guys. I told you not to wear anything you wouldn't be comfortable running in."

I'm just a slave to fashion, that's what I am.

lisamcc at 3:58 p.m.

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