Forgive me for dredging up something already mentioned in a previous Comments thread, but a day later, I remain completely confused. Here's the scene:
I'm waiting in line to board my plane from Minneapolis home to Dulles, and I hear a garrulous voice from behind me chatting up another line-dweller. The voice, a young man's, has a distinctly New England accent. And because it was loud, I knew that the voice belonged to a fellow who was heading to Rhode Island and claimed to have had five beers in the hour before boarding.
None of this is particularly remarkable. Obnoxious, maybe, but we've all heard that guy in airports before.
As we board the plane, Drunky O'Sullivan's voice stays behind me, and stays loud. At this point, I haven't looked back to catch a visual, because the last thing I want to do is catch his attention and get sucked into his conversational vortex. I find my seat, turn to place my carry-on under my seat, and finally get a view of our guy.
He's exactly what I thought he was. Twenty-something white kid, dark hair just below his collar and underneath a Boston Bruins cap. Zip-up hoodie over a flannel shirt. Fashionable jeans.
And shoes that looked an awful lot like these:
Slightly lower heel, maybe, and thicker straps, but definitely open-toed to show off the dazzling red paint job on his carefully pedicured toes.
I took a picture, because even I didn't believe it. The picture is terrible (my knee looks pretty nice), but it's here anyway. Zoom in:
I'm as baffled right now as I was when I noticed this. And to his credit, my loud, drunk friend never batted an eye, called attention to his feet, or acted like anything was out of the ordinary.
If this is what Trump's America has in store for us, prepare to spend the next four years questioning everything.