I love my brown suede Clarks desert boots. They look great and feel comfortable, but little did I know, they might also be delicious!

Legendary filmmaker Werner Herzog finds out for himself when he cooks his own desert boots, albeit a pair of leather ones, in Les Blank’s 1980 short film Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe. Herzog makes himself the titular meal as the result of losing a bet with fellow filmmaker Errol Morris. Turns out all you need is some duck fat, hot sauce, rosemary, onion, salt, and an entire bulb of garlic to give that boot some kick! Pun intended.

Werner Herzog’s latest film, the 3D documentary Cave of Forgotten Dreams, is playing now at the Bell Lightbox in Toronto. It closes Thursday, August 11th (tomorrow!), so be sure to check it out.

I’m big on lists. I write them in my planner, on scraps of paper (when said planner is unavailable), and when things get really desperate, in smudgy scribbles on my hands. My favorite type is of the “to buy” assortment, although mine always seems to grow and can never be completed, creating one giant, ongoing list. Almost every time I head to a shop, be it alone or with friends, for large pieces of furniture or just groceries, I will secretly be clutching a list detailing exactly what I’d like to buy. There’s just one problem: no matter what I have on my list, I somehow always end up bringing home the same thing. Shoes.

Last weekend, I went out looking for a vintage trunk to use as a coffee table in my new place. What did I come home with? Vintage suede slippers with a delicately embroidered toe in a delicious olive green. A few weeks earlier, it was black patent vintage Ferragamos with a fabric bow and gold detailing, a pair so precious they managed to trump my basic food needs for the week. No matter how final my lists are on paper, my mind always seems to have a subconscious agenda that constantly pulls me to the footwear department, distracting me from the things I actually need.

Now that I find myself packing up my tiny bachelor to move, I can’t help but feel ashamed by the sheer mass of shoes I’ve accumulated in the last year. Worse, I can’t seem to convince myself to pack them; the discovery of each clog, boot, and heel offers new outfit inspiration or nostalgia for looks lost in my past. As I pack away everything around me, the shoes stay, stacked in piles in my closet, by my door, hanging on a rolling rack, and even displayed on shelves. The evidence of my addiction is daunting, but I can’t bring myself to part with a single pair. Their soles have somehow become a piece of my soul, and the few times where I have persuaded myself to share my footwear finds, I really do miss them like old friends.

Am I going to end up like Imelda Marcos, with over 3400 pairs and no control whatsoever? Why do I choose clogs over cardigans and stilettos over shorts?

Perhaps it’s because, despite my misshapen feet, buying shoes is easier than almost anything else. Instead of shuffling into a tiny change room, taking off every layer, and scrutinizing how a garment fits my body, an intriguing pair of oxfords can be slipped on without the hassle, and will almost always fit my foot. Even if the size is a bit off, I’ve been known to turn a blind eye; this results in a small number of shoes I can only wear with three layers of socks.

I also find it easier to justify footwear. Work is always a go-to excuse for a new pair of black brogues, and school serves as an excellent reason to invest in extra sneakers. When a shoe doesn’t fit an everyday event in my life, I always manage to fabricate an extraordinary circumstance where I will need the shoe in question. “Maybe I’ll wear these to an 80’s themed party?” or “ These would be just perfect for a picnic in High Park!” are common rationalizations, although I seldom partake in either of these activities.

In the end, shoes are simply so much shinier, prettier, and more personal than anything else on my list. I can’t let my aging pairs go because every time I look at them, I get lost in the memories we’ve shared together. I can’t turn down a new find when the shoes on store shelves offer a little story, a character of their own, and a place they want to take me. I want to go to those places, so naturally I buy the shoes.

- Alyssa Garrison

A while back, we had a contest to win a pair of heels (as seen in WORN issue 10). Masami, our winner, just sent me images of her wearing the shoes. “I love them and got so many compliments!” she says. “The color is a dead ringer for my mom’s vintage shawl and it offsets my mostly black and grey wardrobe so well.”

Doesn’t she look cute?

- Anna Fitzpatrick

I came across them two months after the deadline I had given myself. On the bottom shelf of a cluttered but charming vintage shop they sat in waiting. Gently used Nine West oxfords within my humble price range (a mere $28). Since then they have been my constant companions, taking me from crowded basement concerts to a recent 3 a.m. hospital visit for stitches. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago when my boyfriend casually mentioned that it may be time for their retirement that I even considered parting with them. Although he may be right (the inside of the shoes are slowly shedding woodchips and transforming into a sawdust-like texture), I couldn’t possibly trash them without first paying my respects to where we have been together. Instead of providing a sappy list of our ten best moments, I have decided to pay tribute to my once lovely shoe’s casualties. Here then, is a list of events that have led to the unfortunate demise of my oxfords.

January, 2010: On an overnight bus trip to Montreal a can of hairspray exploded in my travel bag, leaving the left shoe a sticky mess which needed to be dissolved under the hotel hairdryer for about 45 minutes. This left permanent scarring in the form of a large dark strip near the outside heel.

March 2010: Right shoe loses elastic fastener.

May 2010: A race down a flight of stairs to the bathroom at Czehoski’s ends in my roommate tripping both of us to ensure no one’s victory. Laughter ensues, but left shoe’s upper button is severed on impact and lost somewhere between the sink and stall.

June-September 2010: Late nights and rain drenched walking has led to some inner deterioration. When I remove my bare foot, little wood-like pieces stick to my toes.

Reflecting now, it does seem to be my own carelessness and neglect that has brought my beloved oxfords to this point. Perhaps not wearing them to an event where a kiddie pool in the middle of the dance floor is the main attraction, or even going out of my way to slip on socks before leaving the house, could have prevented this premature passing (or at least helped control odour). Despite their now shabby condition, I do still rotate them into my wardrobe, but I think this may be based on purely sentimental reasons; so they sit, in my foyer, waiting to be worn. Though I may gain the courage in the next few weeks to kick them to the curb (in the nicest way possible), I know that they will always be present in memory, as well as many, many photographs, anytime I reflect on the past year.

- Casie Brown