Manolo asked, whose shoes?
Manolo answers, it is the Carl Bruni!
Congratulations to the Manolo’s internet friend, the Shannon, for being the first person to correctly identify this flats-wearing personage of note.
The Manolo politely reminds you that he is now become part of the Facebook Nation.
You may ‘friend’ him if you wish, and the Manolo will certainly befriend you back, provided you are not one of the various bots, viruses, or simulacra which are reputedly infesting the Facebook.
Manolo says, accept no substitutes, even for your ridiculous Ugg boots.
But medical experts have warned that the trend for cheap Ugg boots is a price too high to pay.
They have said that knock-off versions of the designer boots are crippling a generation of young women, ‘literally breaking’ their feet.
With just six months of wear women could saddle themselves with a lifetime of foot deformities, backache and pain in their feet.
And a phrase has even been coined for the gait of devoted wearers – the Ugg ’shuffle’ – which describes the lopsided, pigeon-toed way in which cheap versions of the boots force women to walk.
[...]But low-cost imitations often provide inadequate foot support.
With each step the wearer’s feet slide around. This can cause the feet to splay which flattens the foot arch and leads to wear and tear on the joints in the feet, knees, hips and back.
As a result leading podiatrist and chiropodists have seen a stark rise in the number of women suffering toe deformities, backache and pain in their feet.
It is so true!
One minute you are shambling along in your fake Uggs…
And the next…
Manolo says, it is Tuesday, time to see what the Manolo is…
It is nearly St. Patrick’s Day, with all that means for people who like to drink too much green beer, listen to diddly-diddly fiddle music, fist fight with the authorities, and pretend to weep about the “auld sod”. In short, it is time to drink and think romantically about the Irish.
And yet, strangely, attempts to anti-romanticize the Irish experience are even more compellingly romantic than the old-fashioned Emerald Isle blather. Shane MacGowan, Martin McDonagh, and even those insufferable frauds, the McCourt brothers, describe the Irish condition in horrific and unpleasant terms. And yet we lap it all up and continue to schedule our Dublin vacations. Very curious, no?
Of the course, the Manolo, although not the least bit Irish, is as guilty as the rest, and completely enjoys the Pogues and the McDonagh plays and all of that (although he would happily push the entire McCourt tribe into the ocean), even as he wonders about what it all means.
What is one to do when saddled with the contradictory desires for authenticity and entertainment?
P.S. If Darby O’Gill = Uncle Remus for Irish People, then the Pogues = N.W.A. for Irish People. Discuss amongst yourselves.
Manolo says, here are the few links which may perhaps amuse…
Manolo says, the Manolo arose late this morning, the consequence of Daylight Saving Time and perhaps, possibly, staying out very late drinking many bottles of wine and tumblers of bourbon with his friends.
In any event, here is something pretty and perfect for your spring cocktail parties: the flowery Jardin from Stuart Weitzman.
And now the Manolo must go put some ice on his head and crack open the new bottle of aspirin.
Manolo says, there are the all too frequent moments in fashion when the movie Zoolander seems like the documentary. Behold this scene recorded by Guy Trebay of the New York Times at the end of the Evil One’s most recent Chanel show (the theme of which was apparently, “Sexy Yetis Visit the Fortress of Solitude“).
But there was also a Woody Allen moment, and it occurred after the last of the models, clad in fake fur Wookie-wear, had sloshed through the puddles and offstage, and a small group of Mr. Lagerfeld’s industry friends tried to see and congratulate him.
For reasons that were not altogether clear but may have had something to do with pooled water and electrical cables lying about, the security guards formed a human wall blocking the Vogue editors Tonne Goodman and Grace Coddington; the Vanity Fair correspondent Ingrid Sischy; Lady Amanda Harlech; Babeth Djian, the editor of Numéro; and Jonathan Newhouse, the chairman of Condé Nast International, from going backstage.
BlackBerrys were fired up. Frantic calls were dialed. Well-shod hooves were stamped. Ms. Sischy upbraided the security force, assuring them that Mr. Lagerfeld would be both furious and “triste” if prevented from seeing his adoring fans. But the guards would not be budged. Passage backstage was impossible!
Then, in an abrupt reversal familiar to anyone who has ever encountered French bureaucracy, they changed their minds. The guards moved away, and the small crowd surged en masse to where Mr. Lagerfeld posed beside his ice sculpture surrounded on three sides by television crews. Still separated from her friend and idol, Ms. Sischy called out plaintively.
“Karl, Karl, Karl,” she trilled, and for a moment one was not in Paris at all but on a floe in the Arctic Ocean, on a fragment of ice snapped off the glacial shelf. “Karl, Karl,” Ms. Sischy called, her cry like that of a baby seal.
…ripe for the clubbing.
Manolo says, our friend Christa (a.k.a. Never teh Bride) is this week all about the color gray.
