And My Shoes Keep Walking Back to You by Kathi Kamen Goldmark

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The morning before Thanksgiving, I woke up to find our garage door wide open and two cars gone, along with most of our music equipment. Among the items taken was my fabulous Leopard-skin Pillbox Strat. (This is a one-of-a-kind electric guitar decked out in a fringed, fuzzy animal-print slipcover I had custom-made many years ago to match a particularly fetching punk-band stage outfit, and I've joked ever since that it’s important to have a guitar that matches your underwear.) These people knew what they were doing. They left the Goodwill-bound junk and the older amps and speakers, taking only the best, most saleable equipment--along with a stack of our favorite CDs.

This opportunity to count our blessings (we have each other, no one was hurt, more wasn’t taken, etc.) came with a feeling of personal violation as well as the tedious business of calling the police, insurance company reportage and Triple-A visits; nice, sympathetic adjusters either returning or not returning our calls; gobs of paperwork.

We ended up having an especially lovely Thanksgiving with family and friends, and spent the weekend wondering if and when our cars might be found. But my mind drifted not to the thousands of dollars worth of stuff that was taken or the hassle and expense of replacing two old Hondas but to my one-of-a-kind guitar and a couple of treasured albums. The young seamstress who made the leopard slipcover has long-since drifted out of my life. How could we get through a holiday season without my Jimmy LaFave collection or “Zydeco Christmas Dance Party 1974”?

Our cars were found on Monday. Missing items included a portable GPS we called Gertrude, a favorite wool coat, our beloved El Rio hoodies, several dollars worth of small change, and a packet of Rolaids. But of all the insulting and hostile acts, the thieves left every single one of our CDs intact. Not only did they enter our garage without permission and take a lot of our stuff, they utterly dissed our taste in music. Those assholes. How dare they?

So this is an open letter to whoever robbed us.  Next time you break into someone’s house and steal a car, give their CDs a listen. You might actually like them. You might even learn something. In the best of all possible worlds, you might find a spirited, soulful connection to your better self, a new life; redemption.

And sweetheart, if you dare to play my leopard strat, make sure you are wearing matching underwear. Otherwise, who knows what might happen?