Feet 7

(Feet 1 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/11/30/feet_1)
(Feet 2 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/12/09/feet_5)
(Feet 3 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/12/11/feet_8)
(Feet 4 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/12/30/feet_9)
(Feet 5 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/02/09/feet_18)
(Feet 6 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/02/13/feet_19)

In a life lived uncertainly, moving between coasts constantly and not
knowing where you'll be laying your head that night (I've been on
planes heading from New York to Los Angeles, not knowing where I'll be
staying that night), hygiene is often a casualty. Throw in a lack of
income and you've got a prescription for bad smells.

Among the parts of the body most susceptible to such smells are feet.

Couple a days wearing the same socks = bad smell
Wearing the shoes without socks = bad-smelling shoes
Periodic socklessness = a stink that crawls up out of your shoes and
surrounds you, sometimes mimicking the smell of shit

There are only two things you can do when you've reached this point
and don't have the money to get new shoes or a spray or some kind of
powder or something:

#1. You can hide (if you have someplace do it).

or

#2. You can simply live your life, acting as if everything is normal
and hoping others won't notice or will understand and accept, though
you know they've gotta notice, but if they don't say anything, then
you won't know for sure, so maybe it was okay and you were worrying
unnecessarily.

I have generally chosen, or had thrust upon me, #2.

And the hardest place to cling to the most optimistic yearnings of #2
is in a car.

The doors are closed and you're often sitting right next to someone.
Man, it's hell.

Which is why I was so impressed when comedian Bruce Smirnoff gave me a
lift home from The Comedy Store one night. He had to notice, I knew.
But he asked me how I was and if there was anything he could do for me
without criticizing or insulting me or outing me as a stinky feet guy.

And he said I should call him if I ever needed anything. Man, he was nice.

So, a year or two later, when my friend Michael said he was going to a
hip, singles thing being thrown by Bruce Smirnoff at a fashionable
club, I said, "I'll go with you. Bruce Smirnoff is a really nice guy
and he really likes me."

The plan was made and later and when the time came to go, Michael told
me I could not.

"Bruce said you can't come," said Michael. "He said not to bring you;
that you smell and that if I bring you he won't ever invite me to
anything else again."

"But I smell okay today. Did you tell him that?"

"I tried to convince him, but he wouldn't listen. And don't tell him I
told you this, 'cause he told me not to say anything to you."

I was mortified. I was so embarrassed.

It would have been so much better if Bruce had said something back in
that car. I guess when someone doesn't say something, it doesn't mean
everything's okay.

Because some things just can't be transcended. Like the primitive,
locked-in, unavoidable revulsion to terrible smells.

Still, those smells must be there for a reason, such as to alert us to
something.

For instance, my stinky shoes alerted me to the fact Bruce Smirnoff
was an insincere prick.