Cheapass shoes that go with anything.
Left; me. Right; the sister.


I like it when most of my get-up’s thrifted, came at a steal, or was the last thing hanging on a neglected rack.

Like this roomy Kenneth Cole hobo that became mine one marginally cold evening in London last December. It sat on a dusty rack in High Kent, calling out to me in all its black leather-chunky hardware glory.  

Since then, calling it a wardrobe staple has become a great understatement.