Manolo’s Shoe Blog

Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.

Dear Manolo,

I’ve been hired by the development department of my alma mater to be a fundraiser in the upper Midwest. I’ll be traveling a lot this fall, and I need to look sharp, so I’m looking for a pair of boots that will see me through from the airport to the boardroom, and back again. What would you recommend?

Lillian

Manolo says, ayyyyy! The Manolo’s friend has gone over to the dark side, joining up with the only organization more persistent than the IRS, more tricksy than the CIA, more capable of finding fugitives than the FBI: your college’s fundraising department.

Trust the Manolo, the National Security Administation wishes it had the intelligence gathering capabilities of the average middle-sized liberal arts college development department, so efficient are the fundraisers at figuring out where to direct the guilt-inducing letters and politely hectoring phone calls.

“Hello, Mr. Gibbletson? This is Clancy Snaffleton from Faber College, and I’m calling to remind you that the Annual Fund needs your contribution. What’s that, sir? You’re in the Federal Witness Protection Program? Well, sir, we have our ways. Now how about the Class of ’78 Homecoming Fund?”

Here is the Mango from La Canadienne, in the black crinkle finish that is both attractive and weatherproof.

Manolo says, lately the Manolo has been receiving many letter like this one from his internet friends.

Dear Manolo,

I love your blog, but I’ve been disturbed to see that you’ve not been making many shoe recommendations lately for us poor girls. Please help me find something that is worth wearing this fall that I can afford.

Jeanine

It is always the best policy to save ones monies and buy the truly super fantastic shoes, shoes of great quality and style which will give you both pride of ownership and many seasons of wearing pleasure.

But, as always, the Manolo sympathizes with his poorer friends, for the Manolo himself knows what it is like to be poor, so poor that you must fashion your own shoes from the skins of pigeons you have captured with the tiny snare made from shoelaces and paperclips, and cured to leather in the puddle near your rocky redoubt in the remotest section of Central Park.

And so, the Manolo often recommends to his poor girl friends the shoes of the Franco Sarto, which in the opinion of the Manolo are among the best of the moderately priced shoes in terms of style and quality.

Below are three pairs which the Manolo thinks attractive.

Here is the Happy by Franco Sarto, the aptly-named cheerful moccasin-toed pump available in the suede or patent leather finishes.

For the poor girl who is looking for the flat riding boot, here is the Hobo by Franco Sarto, attractive and affordable.

And finally, for the girl who wishes to wear something that stands out from the crowd, the Manolo gives you the Amenity. And if the red is too much, it is also available in black and sand colors.

Manolo asked, whose shoes?

Manolo answers, it is the Minnie Driver!

Congratulations to the Manolosphere’s own Spirit Fingers, who was the first to correctly identify this personage of note.

Manolo asks, whose shoes?

Manolo says, many apologies from the Manolo regarding the lack of the recap of the most recent episode of the Project Runway.

The Manolo has been travelling again this week, rolling with the Posse Manolo in Boston and Long Island, and has not yet had the chance to see this episode. This week he is finally back in New York (but for only one week before his big move to Buenos Aires).

However, the Manolo hopes to be able to sit down tomorrow morning, view the episode and report on it before the airing of the new episode tomorrow night.

Manolo says, it is Tuesday, time to see what the Manolo is…

Reading…

Watching…

Listening to…

The Manolo finally managed to see the Sex and the City movie.

His reaction: In the word, meh.

Although supposedly set in the present day, the movie seemed dated, as if it were the daguerreotype from the previous millennium, quaintly hinting at the outdated customs and obsolete mores of the distant past.

On the one of the hands, Carrie and her pals were sweeter and more vulnerable, more desperately romantic, than we have ever before seen them (although less funny). They were also more likable than ever, except for Cynthia Nixon, who should be dropped down the long mine shaft and left there until she realizes how truly blessed her cinematic life (with its great job, wonderful child, and good-looking if drippy man) is.

The girls were also, despite the smutty talk and Kim Cantrell’s absurdly sexualized character, entirely monogamous in their relationships, which was something of the relief to the old man Manolo, who believes that intense monogamous love between two peoples is perhaps the greatest of the Almighty’s gifts.

Yet, while there were good things, on the other of the hands, the movie dragged on interminably, piling up senseless subplots and meaningless details. Yawn.

Worse, the movie’s attempts at bringing the romantic longings of the characters (and the audience) to fruition were misguided and inadequate. Shaped as the semi-conventional romantic comedy, Sex and the City contained little that could be considered romantic.

Take for the example, Mr. Big, held up by the movie as the choicest piece of man meat to ever tread the earth, with his dyed hair, droopy jowls, shaped eyebrows, and his indecisive, dreary, somnambulantly sulky ways. At least he was rich, moderately available, tall, and rich (did the Manolo mention that he was rich? It was very important in this movie, the richiosity of Mr. Big, able to buy Park Avenue apartments and fill their commodious closets with swag.)

Query: What is less romantic than the vacillating, indecisive, weakly lover?

Answer: The movie that confuses wealth for romantic desirability.

Oh, how the Manolo wishes he could have swapped Chris Noth for Tom Selleck!

Tom Selleck: charming, virile, decisive, funny, cheerful, and at 63, still the hunkiest man in Hollywood!

Chris Noth in Sex and the City: drippy!

But, you must play the hand you were dealt, and Mr. Big is apparently the only man who would have Carrie Bradshaw, looking, as she does, ever more like Miss Havisham…

Ayyyyy!

I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure of a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose, had shrunk to skin and bone. Once, I had been taken to see some ghastly waxwork at the Fair, representing I know not what impossible personage lying in state. Once, I had been taken to one of our old marsh churches to see a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress, that had been dug out of a vault under the church pavement. Now waxwork and skeleton seemed to have dark eyes that moved and looked at me. I should have cried out, if I could.

~Charles Dickens, Great Expectations.

And frankly this is another of the problems of the movie. attempting to sell us lean mutton as plump lamb.

This is not to say that romantic comedies that feature middle aged persons cannot be good, and satisfying, and funny, only that Carrie wanted to play the part of the virginal ingenue, rather than the mature woman with the frightening romantic history. The potential for humor and romanticism was undermined by this insistence.

But, the Manolo is confident that the actor of Tom Selleck’s caliber could have convinced even the skeptical, disbelieving audience that Sarah Jessica Parker is the hotty, could have convinced us that she is the suitable lead for the romantic comedy.

Ultimately, for the Manolo, the only romantic scene in the entire movie was the wedding at the courthouse, with Carrie in the demure suit, and Mr. Big finally wakened from his movie-long slumber. But, if Sex and the City were truly romantic, that would have happened in the first act of the fifteen minute long, single reel film, which would be followed by the feature length Tom and Jerry cartoon.

Manolo says, it is Monday, and you are back at your desk working feverishly to complete the task you had promised the bossman you would have done by this morning.

Mind you, you are not complaining about this, just working at the hectic pace, whistling softly, even as your mind wanders back to what had turned out to be the weekend to remember.

It had not started out that way, indeed, you had intended to work on your boss-appointed task on Saturday. But, the uncommon freedom of being the new empty-nesters seemed to inspire your man Larry, after 23 years of marriage, to treat the weekend as the opportunity for the impromptu “Honeymoon at Home”.

So, one minute, you are in the kitchen reading recipes for lemon pound cake, and he is on the sofa in the game room watching Ohio State and USC, and the next he is all over you, humming the Viva Viagra song, and nibbling on your ear. And it is not even halftime!

And now your back is achy from the kitchen floor, and the antique settee, and the chaise by the pool (Gawd, you hope the Tullys were not awake at 3AM), and the dining room table, but you do not care, no sireee, not one bit.

If you’d known this would be the result of taking your youngest away to college you would have considered sending them to boarding school many years earlier.

You know what you need, now…Cavalli!

Cavalli! Cavalli! Cavalli!

Over the top, sexy, beautiful, witchy, snakey, ridiculous, sublime, Cavalli!

Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.

Dear Manolo,

I’ve fallen for a guy. Me: a first year associate at a white-shoe law firm. Him: the lead singer in a emocore band. He’s also educated, smart, funny, and kind. The problem is that I’ve got to emo up my look a bit so I don’t stand out so much when I go to his shows. What would you recommend?

Monica

Manolo says, the Manolo imagines that if he were the first year law associate, submerged in the dreary sub-basement of his firm, buried under that mountain of meaningless petty paperwork which is the diet of the new lawyer, the Manolo would, like Keats, also find himself half in love with “easeful death,” or perhaps Morrissey, which is the next best thing.

And as far as the rock-n-roll fashions go, the emo movement is not the most egregiously offensive, as long as one can ignore the drippy, asymmetrical, dyed-black-hair-in-the-eyes thing.

What is there not to like about drainpipe black jeans and the black t-shirt? It is low maintenance, stylish, and yet dreary enough to satisfy the most devoted lover of My Chemical Romance or Tokio Hotel.

As for the feetwear, the Manolo would recommend the black, Converse, John Varvatos Vintage Court Slip-ons. The Manolo owns three pairs of these, so you know they must be good!

Manolo asked, whose shoes?

Manolo answers, it is the Carol Burnett!

Congratulations to the Manolo’s internet friend, Marryann who was the first person to correctly identify this most amusing person of note.