If you're a guy and you plan to walk around in Crocs, I have an urgent piece of advice for you: Wear the heel guard flipped forward so you can kick those suckers off and run.

The reaction to my Crocs walk was immediate and fierce. I was on the street maybe 30 seconds in my bright orange footwear when the first pack of critics descended on me.

One woman remarked that parts of my anatomy must be constructed of a metallic substance, so daring was I to venture downtown with those nasty shoes.

It was Park Street in Lewiston at high noon and like Crocodile Dundee before me, I was off on a walkabout. It is easy to forget that the rubber shoes make you look like a sissy lunatic escaped from an asylum. My friends, those babies are comfortable as all get-out.

The first group to attack was a swarm of four or five women. No punches were thrown, but they appeared ready to go. My shoes looked like orange marshmallows and these ladies were offended no end.

"They're hideous," one of them said.

"I wouldn't be caught dead in those things."

"Don't you have any pride?"

No, ma'am. No pride at all. That's why I agreed to wander around emasculated in these goofy-ass shoes. That's why I subjected myself to certain beatings and self-esteem-busting ridicule.

That and the fact that wearing Crocs is like having a thousand fairies holding up your feet, their only mission to make sure your walk is a cozy one.

Wearing Crocs will make you think in such a tender fashion. Beware of it.

At a downtown diner, a retired cop I know looked at my feet, at my face, at my feet again. He slowly shook his head. One time years ago, he thought I might amount to something. And now look at me.

On Lisbon Street, a group of tough guys on a corner watched me strut by with those girlie traffic cones on my feet. One of the hooligans snickered and elbowed his friend. More laughter. I made a swift getaway with soft rubber clouds on my feet.

On Oak Street, a different group of thugs fell silent as I passed. No guffaws, no jeers. From a sociological standpoint, I surmised this: Real goons won't even bother with a man wearing effeminate shoes. The target is too easy. It is not worth their time.

On Park Street again, a car full of girls passed. They slowed and one of them yelled "Looooooooooser!" Or maybe she yelled her phone number, so stricken with desire was she by the blinding sexiness of the round-toed Crocs.

A police sergeant turned to talk to me at the station but then stopped in mid-sentence. His eyes wandered to my feet. I felt ogled.

"You're a brave, brave man," he said, and hurried away before someone spotted him in my presence.

At a Lewiston drugstore, a woman in front of me was wearing a bright orange dress. She looked casually over her shoulder at me and did a double take after spying my shoes. They matched her dress divinely. I saw that gleam in her eye and snuck out a back door so I wouldn't be beaten and robbed in the parking lot.

Life in absurdly bright footwear is all about the double takes. You will not go anywhere without drawing attention to yourself. Strangers will take furtive, nervous glances at your lower extremities. Dogs will bark and cats will hiss.

The sadists who provided the Crocs also included a few accessories. In particular, they jammed tiny skulls with crossbones into my orange dork shoes. Nice try, people. You can do anything you want in an attempt to add machismo to this kind of footwear. It won't work.

Crocs are not cool. They will never be cool. Not even when I wear them.

Back in my old neighborhood, wearing nerdified, bright orange shoes would have gotten you killed. At best, it would have earned you a horrid nickname and you'd never get girls.

That I lived through a day spent in these things is a good sign. It shows that we are a more tolerant society. It shows that most people will accept differences among their peers. It shows that ...

Ah, I can't go on. I've been feeling all sensitive and womanly since I put the damn things on. I need to feel cool again. I need to regain my sense of masculinity.

I need to bite the head off a whiskey bottle and watch cage fighting for about a week.