Manolo says, one of the Manolo’s internet friends has voiced her displeasure in the comments section of the blog.
If the hateful popup ads continue, and the shameless hawking of things to make you money continue as well, I will bid you adieu, as a blogger gone to a salesman. Too bad, really. And the same goes for the fat blog, the craft blog and the other associated now-sales-blogs.
From the start, the Manolo has made no secret of the fact that he is the capitalist and that his blogs are the partly commercial venture, indeed, at one point, long ago, he was even referred to as the God of Blog Marketing. And, at the other point, the Manolo talked about why he accepts advertising for the odious Crocs.
But, what else can the Manolo do?
The position of freelance flâneur is not well compensated.
Nepotism is endemic in the lounging professions; the best jobs traditionally go to the nephews and the young cousins of the most famous practitioners. And unfortunately, the Manolo never joined the trade union (The International Brotherhood of Boulevardiers, Flâneurs, Men-About-Town, and the Allied Loafing Arts), and thus he is shut out of the unionized positions.
And so, the Manolo has had to stitch together his own living, from the leavings of the interwebs, from the tattered corners of the material left over from the fancy sites: the little bit of Salon, the swatch of the Huffington Post, the scrap that fell to the electronic floor of the I Can Haz Cheezburger mansion.
But, this thriftiness has paid off, and now the Manolo is able to devote at least half of each day to strolling the streets, walking stick in hand, fresh boutonniere firmly in his lapel, greeting all with the kindly word and the courteous tip of his hat.
The rest of the time, he is in his electronic atelier, handcrafting blog content for your particular enjoyment. And, despite all the odds, his blog remains, as it has always been, absolutely free, save the small cost of being mildly importuned by the advertising. (And indeed, the recent redesign has actually reduced the number of ads.)
But, of the course, the Manolo is honestly sorry that his blog has the advertising (frankly, he has gotten sick of Jennifer Aniston and her fancy water), but there is really no other choice, not until the magical horn of robotic plenty, promised us by the singularitarians, is finally delivered.
Until such the time, or until the Manolo wins the Powerball, the blogs of the Manolo will have to have the advertising.