LACityBeat.com – By Kim Lachance
One of my sons wears high heels. And, so whip me, Dr. Laura, I let him. A lot. At least my boy’s lust for pumps (and emo eyeliner) comes in handy when, say, a herd of Jehovah’s Witnesses feel the urge to pinch a loaf of sanctimoniousness on my doorstep. Trust me: Nothing, maybe not even a flaming birthday cake with their names and ages frosted on it, repels Watchtower-waggers quite as effectively as dispatching an adorable, three-foot-tall white RuPaul to answer the door in his mama’s Frederick’s of Hollywood hooker heels. In fact, my little Louboutin did me the favor just last month.