For the sake of the confusion the image above may be causing you, do let me explain: Those of you who know me well or at least, of my peculiarities, you're well aware of my penchant for monk strap shoes...or, for the uncivilized among us, shoes with buckles (dear God). I'll now step out on a shaky branch by saying you may be unaware that there is some solace to be had in the fact that, despite my issue(s), I do own a few pairs of shoes with laces. Hard to perceive; I know. Take your time.

Now then, I bring this up only to put a fine point on something I recently discovered about myself while standing in front of my closet: I have deep-rooted issues with suede. And I'm certain of it being a thing. I have every confidence there are underground, twelve-step program meetings being held to explore the dilemma such as it is.

What I discovered was that I'd been, for the longest while, taking all of my suede shoes for granted, done in a way that now leaves me remorseful. You see, up until recent, they had been blended in with the lot, taking up their place like just another gravel that made up a handful of sand. Standing in the doorway to my small fortune—a phrasing my long-suffering wife would argue as being far off the mark—I realized that I had been wearing less and less of these various pairs of suede shoes.

For those less in the know, I still live in Florida and because of the regular rains forcing me to become very cozy pals with my weather app, I've been made to carefully judge just when I was likely to get away with wearing these little gems without fear of Mother Nature, on her own whims, squatting above and forever blemishing them. The greatest of my discovery was that there had been some missed opportunities, ones I can never regain. Regret.

Yes, I am quite regretful in how I've gone about things. It is for this reason that I shall now honor all of my suede dress shoes and sneakers in a manner befitting their stature. They shall be, from hence forth, worn in proper rotation with all the other upstanding citizens that adorn my feet.

So, please join me in the rebirth of my suedes. Should you cross my path on the street or in one of my many haunts, you may feel a sudden obligation to look down and offer a rigid salute or something far more simple like a respectful forty-five degree bow from the waist with your arms pinned to your sides; do so knowing full well that you're aiding in their resurgence...lifting their spirits and renewing their confidence, the one they had when I first raised the lid on their box. Thank you for the kindness.




So the thing is, I recently made time to do something I used to do fairly regularly: I went back and watched a movie—one of my favourites—again, for the umpteenth time. And no, I haven't seen it as many times as "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" or "The Thomas Crown Affair." Sidebar: My lovely bride will have you believe I've seen both epics some seventy-eight times (very random of her)...but in lieu of a protest, I'll opt to digress.

"The Best Offer" with the distinguished gentlemen, Geoffrey Rush and Donald Sutherland, is where I tend to go when feeling my artsy self. I loved the depicted sexiness of the European city backdrop with its tight, cobblestone streets (brings back memories), quaint little shops and people boasting a certain deportment straddling the fence somewhere between New Yorkers and their strong aura and Californians with their renowned nonchalance.

Everything about this film was textured. With each viewing, I found myself obsessing further on the little details. I loved that it showed how much effort Europeans put into dressing up to go nowhere [of real consequence]. I admired the creative settings of the interior living spaces, in particular, the ranging details from an old, run-down estate building to a modern, refined apartment.

In my view, the storyline and acting was fantastic—unsurprising considering the cast—but had it not been for the setting, the little details, The Best Offer may not have made my "favourites" list. I know, I know...I'm a creative person so I'm greatly influenced by what I see before any other sense can step forward but perhaps that's what has contributed so much to my writing; perhaps it goes a long way to explain my twisted mind.