null

Posted by Kim Addinizio on 19th Dec 2014

Biker Cowgirl Boots: Handmade in America

Can't even say enough about this very special pair. Writer, Kim Adonnizio, came in our store and had this pair of boots she adored, but they were on their last legs. Pun intended. . ....and we said, "we can remake them for you." ... and so we did. She wanted the heel a little higher and the hardware to be ‪#‎Sterling‬ engraved and ‪#‎customized‬. Except for those two particulars and a stunning blue interior, she wanted it as close as possible to the pair of ‪#‎boots‬ she had for years.  One cannot argue that these boots are for a ‪#‎citygcowgirl‬. ‪#‎biker boots‬‪ #‎customcowboyboots‬‪ #‎custom order‬‪ #‎planetcowboy‬ Enjoy! More ‪#‎planetcowboyremakes‬ to come! 

This is what Kim wrote about her Space Cowboy Boots experience:  

Here’s how bad things had gotten: one day a homeless man called out to me, “Girl, look at them boots! Have some pride!” as I stood on a corner waiting for the light to change. But I loved my cracked, worn-at-the-heels, scuffed black boots with the brass rings on the sides and the chain links on the back that now dragged on the ground. For eight years they’d been a part of me. Who was I without my boots? To have to given them up would be like having my tattoos lasered off.

You either get this or you don’t. Maybe it’s like the pet situation. Either you empathize when your friend grieves for little Fluffer like she’s lost her only child, and stop by with a bottle of wine to comfort her, or you’re the heartless bastard who thinks, "What’s the big deal? Fluffer is a fucking cockatiel who said things like 'I’m a good carrot' and imitated a ringing phone." My boots were on their last legs, so to speak, and I was freaked. I scoured the internet for an identical pair, but came up bootless.

It’s worth noting that “bootless” means “useless, unprofitable,” as in Shakespeare’s Sonnet 29:

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate…

Now here I was, a beweeping, soon-to-be bootless poet. I travelled the country giving readings. How could I face an audience wearing shoes? Think Dolly Parton without a wig, Groucho Marx sans cigar, Charlie Chaplin hatless and clean-shaven. So I went shopping. But I was hopelessly in love with my own boots, my swains, my sweethearts, and infidelity was a depressing prospect.

I wandered into Space Cowboy Boots in Nolita, still searching. “Oh, we can remake those for you,” Paul and Jaylin, the owners, said. This was the next best thing to cloning. I handed over my beloveds, they took some measurements, and a few weeks later I was no longer in disgrace with fortune and homeless men’s eyes.

My new boots have a higher heel, and engraved sterling silver rings. They fit me perfectly, which makes sense. After all, we were made for each other. They’re a present to myself; I ordered them right after selling my latest book, a memoir titled Bukowski in a Sundress. And, I should add, now in kickass boots.

About Kim Adinnizio: The author of five poetry collections, two books on writing, two novels from Simon & Schuster. Her most recent books are acollection of stories, The Palace of Illusions, and My Black Angel: Blues Poems and Portraits, with woodcuts by Charles D. Jones. Visit her at www.kimaddonizio.com