(Many years ago….) 

Went to a party last night. A gloriously crazed one just down the street with wild music spun, drunken Germans spinning, inadvertently cracked skulls, blood, and a rather wanton little thing from Uzbekistan. She passed me a joint. I had never smoked dope with an Uzbek before. I took a hit, my head spun, and I laughed. She laughed. She said I was a very big man. I said she was a very pretty lady. We laughed again. Drank bubbly and talked about the weather. Inside the music roared and the hostess was bleeding all over everything. Out here was a night breeze and the sound of our laughter. Uzbeks are just like regular people, only drunker and with killer shoes.

If you are the drop dead gorgeous mega-rich machiavellian daughter of the dictator of Uzbekistan nobody will tell you how stupid your shoes are. Especially at the Cannes Film Festival. It’s also amazing what pops up when you google “Uzbek footware”.