Nobody Walks in LA

They say LA is a dastardly place, full of cultural cliché, sacrificial altars, and abstruse, cabalist codes.

One of these codes has to do with walking.

In a peculiar geographic perversity, the ratio of sunny days to miserable ones (roughly opposite that of, let's say, northern Minnesota) does not equate to the Angeleno wanting to engage in perambulation. To do so would be to refute the idea of the place as a brain trust of high intellectualism and supernal values. In other words, a complete and utter waste of time.

Blame it on the smog, that's the refrain. Slicing through aphotic brown goop when descending into LAX, dung-breath of the Santa Ana winds the only thing between tiny you and terrible terra firma, and it feels like the end of the world.

Here, a pair of boots for slipping like a newt down a rain-soaked Rodeo Drive storm drain. Winter, she will have her anyway. Like when we get out of our dopey, nice-day chairs.

Louboutin botte 946, $1,320 at Barney's