How hideous rubber shoes became summer's most unfortunate fad

Fashion is cyclical. Fall follows spring, solids follow prints, Tom Ford follows publicity, and every so often plastic shoes make an unfortunate comeback. Flip-flops, Tevas, the loathsome jelly sandals of the '80s: All had brief moments in the sun. Last summer, however, belonged to Crocs, the clunky rubber clogs that were—like meth labs—suddenly everywhere. Six million pairs were distributed to the populace in 2005, when total sales topped $100 million (up from a paltry $1 million in 2003). The company went public in February, and Crocs, Inc.'s $1 billion market cap now surpasses Earthlink's. Talk about irrational exuberance.

How did this happen? When did it become okay for women, children, and James Gandolfini to skulk around in cartoon-mouse footwear?

Composed of a proprietary substance called Croslite—an antimicrobial resin that (contrary to anecdotal evidence) resists odor—the clogs were originally marketed as a boating shoe but soon found a following among an audience as diverse as pharmacists, teachers, chefs, and children. Unlike other suspicious clothing fads, however, Crocs didn't start off as a coastal phenomenon, according to Michael Atmore, editorial director of Footwear News. "It was definitely a heartland story, and then it moved to the coasts," he says. "It took an awfully long time for Crocs to come east, I thought, and I'm not really sure how strong they're going to be in New York."

In short, the cheap, brightly colored, strangely unisex, and disturbingly cross-generational gunboats quickly tore through Red State strip malls, where they were positioned (preferably near the exits) as an impulse buy. "The surprising thing is that there have been other products like this before," says industrial designer Yves Béhar, who has designed a line of sandals for Birkenstock. "I think [the people at Crocs] just made them more consumable—a little bit like a Popsicle."

Pushed by a 2005 ad campaign that ran in Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, GQ, Men's Journal, Real Simple, and Time Out New York—plus invidious celebrity displays—the malleable mules invaded San Francisco, L.A., and New York earlier this year. "The New York City private-school kid ain't nobody unless she owns a half dozen," says veteran trendspotter Marian Salzman, an executive vice president at ad agency JWT. "And us yuppies have three or four pairs we claim as gardening shoes, but really they are a fashion alternative to last year's flip-flops."

This was not just the summer of Crocs; it was the summer of the Crocs sighting. They appeared everywhere, from Us Weekly to the New York Post. Patient zero of the phenomenon is carrot-topped celebrity chef Mario Batali, whom a Crocs spokesperson calls one of the company's first "brand ambassadors." He isn't on the payroll, but he reportedly owns 30 pairs—all in orange—that he cleans in the dishwasher (attention Babbo diners!), and his visible patronage lends the shoes the professional-grade aura prized by the urban Bobo. Meanwhile, the list of stars spotted wearing the clown kicks includes Matt Damon, Jennifer Garner, Teri Hatcher, James Gandolfini, Jack Nicholson, and Al Pacino. A- and B-list saturation has become so complete that the tabloids have turned to sightings involving celebrities' children, with a recent issue of Us Weekly featuring a diptych of the shoes as worn by the spawn of Kelly Ripa and Laura Dern.

Such popularity has, of course, spawned knockoffs. Crocs Inc. has filed suit against 11 different companies—outfits with names like Holey Soles Holdings and Acme Ex-Im—for violating its patents. There's even an iPod-like aftermarket for replacement straps, cheesy charms, and plastic gewgaws you can fit into the holes (or "ventilation ports") in your plastic—or, um, "Croslite"—shoes. Jibbitz, the Boulder-based first-mover in the Crocs-mod market, rings up $2 million a month in sales.