Born Again Rock Stars

Years ago, when I was a young, naive lad, I brought a pair old Boreal rock shoes to be resoled at the Rubber Room in Bishop. The resoling shop’s logo—a cartoonish scantily clad, rubber-wearing dominatrix found in climbing magazines—shared a certain salacious fervor more likely to be found in the back of a big-city weekly where the term “massage” is thrown around rather loosely. So with this image planted firmly in mind with the spike of a six-inch heel, I hesitated at the door half expecting to be whipped and spanked. And I would have deserved it given the sorry state of my worn shoes.

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