Manolo says, here is something simple, direct, and handsome from Bettye Muller. This the sort of shoe you could proudly wear for many, many years to come, something that would never go out of style.
Manolo asked, whose shoes?
Manolo answers, it is the Bruce Jenner!
Congratulations to the Manolo’s internet friend Natalie, who was the first to identify this famous Olympic personage given to unnecessary cosmetic surgery.
Manolo says, it is Monday and you are back at your desk feeling woozy and discombobulated, which considering how close to death you felt all yesterday, Sunday, is the major improvement.
Indeed, you are still not entirely certain how you got back home from the country, although you suspect that your college roommate’s husband, Texas John, the strapping big investment banker with the bald spot and the bankroll and the boots, drove everyone back to the city yesterday afternoon in his BMW sedan. Which would have made sense, as he was the only functioning member of the household Sunday morning.
And to think, it all started so innocently on Saturday afternoon when your hosts suggested that everyone head over to this “little place near the county line” to have the few drinks, the little place which turned out to be the unironically named “Billy Jeff’s Arkansas Roadhouse”, which was somewhat surprising, considering this was deep in the Catskills.
“John loves the place”, Amanda said, “it reminds him of a bar in New Braunfels.”
And the next thing you know, it is midnight and you are standing on your chair trying to improvise several new dance steps to the David Allan Coe song, your balance hindered by the two bottles of Shiner Bock that you are holding (one in each hand) and from which you are alternating robust swigs.
And then the band starts up with “Whiskey River Take My Mind” which you decide is the excellent suggestion, shouting at the barmaid to bring you the shot of Jack Daniels and the shot of Jim Beam, (“because I’ve never had a threesome. Ha! Ha! Ha!”)
At which point the rest of the evening goes mercifully dim in your memory.
And now it is Monday morning, and you are on the second day of the two-day hangover, something you did not think was medically possible.
Oy, but you feel bad, and even though Amanda assures via phone you that nothing untoward happened, you vaguely recall snogging frantically in the dark corner with someone in bib overalls.
What you need now are shoes, beautiful shoes that will wash away the bitter taste of possible public humiliation; something respectable and refined and sophisticated and as un-country as you can find; something like the Calista from Michael Kors.
Ahh, that’s better.
Manolo says, does the Manolo (as ill as he is) need to patiently explain to the producers of the Project Runway, that persons who take up the designing of clothes are not, in general, persons who know much about athletics (other than perhaps ice dancing)?
Indeed, as far as the Manolo could tell, only Emphatically Not Gay Joe and Angry Gay Mormon Kevin had any personal experience with sports, and in Kevin’s case that experience was gymnastics, (a.k.a ice dancing for people who do not like the cold).
And so, it was with this hidden but predictable liability that the designers were set to producing make believe costumes for the U.S. Olympic team, who would presumably sashay proudly into the stadium, or in the case of Stella, pop the synchronized wheelies on their red, white, and blue custom Harleys.
By the time of the final runway show, all the Manolo could think was “cluelessness”. Indeed, the best summation was when Micheal Kors said that it was as if the instructions had been “delivered in the foreign language”, undoubtedly one with many stray consonants and glottal fricatives, like Finno-Ugric, or Klingon.
Clearly, the last time many of these designers had ever seen the athlete, were in the final seconds before some laughing, low-browed jock shoved them into gym locker and slammed the door, as what most of them produced had not the least passing resemblance to what any self-respecting Olympic athlete would wear.
For some unknown reason, many of the designers settled on the 1940s femme fatale chanteuse, or else Rosie the Riveter, as their design inspiration, with Jennifer, who was rightfully sent away as the loser, settling on Jacquelyn Smith for Kmart as hers. Ayyy, but that was one terrible outfit.
Equally terrible, but in the different way, was that of Jerell (whom the Manolo has taken to calling Miss J. Alexander, Junior. And, by the way, what is it with the Idi Amin Dada garrison cap, Generalissimo J?) This outfit, all retro frou-frou and polka-dots, would have been fine for meeting the Queen Mum for tea at Harrods, circa 1936, but was otherwise inexplicable.
The less said about Daniel’s purpley-blue cocktail shift the better. Plainly, that boy is on the edge of the nervous breakdown. (It is like Chekhov’s dictum about stage guns, if Tim Gunn, our National Treasure, is mentioning the nervous breakdown in episode four, you can be sure it goes off in episode five.)
As for the winners, they were okay. Emphatically Not Gay Joe did the proper athletic thing, although not especially well, but props for the zippers. Korto, the default winner, produced another flowing pantsuit for the big-legged girl, as if she expected Hillary Clinton to lead the U.S. team into the stadium, in which case you would need sleeves. And Terri did the smart jackety thing, although the outfit looked more suitable for the jaunty Fourth of July with the Boston Pops, rather than the Olympics.
And the final word of the day: “tanorexic”, as in “Blayne the Alka-Seltzer Mascot is the tanorexic fool who is heading for early melanoma.”
Manolo saysk, ayyyyy! The Manolo possibly has the food poisoning, or perhaps the intestinal bug, and thus in any event, he is miserable. Hence the delay in posting his recap of the Project Runway. He hopes to be well enough to do so tomorrow morning.
Manolo says, the Manolo has for many weeks now been intending to mention Ladybrille, the blog completely devoted to the fashion trends of Africa, and which is run the Manolo’s lovely and exceedingly talented internet friend, Uduak Oduak.
Now is the especially good time to visit Ladybrille because Uduak has just published the most entertaining interview with Korto Momolu, the Project Runway, Season 5 contestant who comes from Liberia (by way of Little Rock). Please, go read this now.