Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.
Yesterday, after five days of Derecho-induced darkness, the power in my neighborhood was finally restored. The first thing I did, after turning on the air conditioner, was boot up my computer, check my email, and look at your blog. My question is, after spending almost a week without power, what sort of shoes would you recommend for societal collapse?
Manolo says, that is easy! Whatever you can loot from the burned out shell of Neiman Marcus!
In the post-apocalyptic future, the Manolo expects the survivors to be exceedingly well-shod for the first few years, after which, we will have to make do with old Birkenstocks and burlap bags. It will be like living in the Middle Ages again, only without the benefit of people who are handy with tools.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, much more likely than total collapse will be the sort of disaster that will cause localized damage, short-term panic, and disruption for the few days or weeks. Things like hurricanes, floods, earthquakes, tornados, unexpected visits from Lindsay Lohan.
For this you will need to have the pair of kick-butt boots to protect your feets as you go about your business of rebuilding your neighborhood. (And, if the worst should happen, you need something to help you crawl over the burning wreckage to get at the Neiman Marcus shoe department.)
Here is are the classic Frye 12 R W Engineer Boots, the perfect thing to wear with your post-apocalypse, Mad-Max shoulder pads and leathers.
Manolo says, it is no secret that the Manolo is the fan of the comfort and practical stylishness of the Cole Haan Air line of shoes and sandals. And so when he saw that this flat, summery sandal, the Air Tali JWL Thong was on the sale, he had to absolutely recommend it to his many internet friends.
On the sale? Yes. Available in the black, white gold, and the Manolo’s favorite, the gunsmoke metallic, it is 65% off of the usual price! The deal almost too good to pass up.
Manolo says, here are the few things which may intrigue…
Writing frumpy, lumpy prose is the equivalent of showing up on a first date with unwashed hair and dirty clothes, and then talking about yourself in a way that leaves the other person looking at her watch and remembering she has to do laundry.
For my part, I consider the state of the bride’s hymen to fall firmly into the ‘none of my business, so please don’t share with me’ category.
Vintage in Museum Archives & from Couture Auction Houses
Manolo says, the aged bride wore white, the groom ate your soul.
Manolo says, Ayyyyyy! Finally, the fairy tale has come true!
Manolo says, the Manolo, who is increasingly becoming the cranky old man, made the mistake the few months back of subscribing to the twitter feed of the Cosmopolitan magazine. (It is like the train wreck. The Manolo cannot turn away.)
Since that time, under the near constant barrage of dumb, puerile, misguided tweets from the editors, the Manolo has begun to formulate the few theories about the new Cosmo Girl, or more properly, who it is that might be subscribing to this Cosmopolitan-sized disaster.
The average Cosmopolitan subscriber buys all of her underwear at Victoria’s Secret and all of her books at Wal-Mart.
The average Cosmopolitan subscriber knows who Channing Tatum is, but has never heard of Marie Curie.
The average Cosmopolitan subscriber believes that, somehow, sexting is her ticket to fame and fortune.
The average Cosmopolitan subscriber can’t do long division but knows 15 ways to use baby oil to please the random male found at the sports bar.
The average Cosmopolitan subscriber thinks Lindsay Lohan is the role model for empowered women.
The average Cosmopolitan subscriber skipped over all the big words in Fifty Shades of Gray.
The average Cosmopolitan subscriber dots all her “i’s” with smiley-faces and draws all her “u’s” in shape of vulvas.
The average Cosmopolitan subscriber thinks straight men actually read Cosmo for Men.
P.S. Many thanks to the Manolo’s friend, the Stella, for finding the Cosmo for Men cover.
Manolo says, here is something for the day after the day of the fireworks, the WE2003 from Giuseppe Zanotti, the strappy high-heeled sandal that speaks in sophisticated tones of muted (for Zanotti) joy.
There is something about this shoe that draws the Manolo, something which the Manolo cannot fully articulate. Certainly, it is the combination of everything, from the toering, to the gold accents, to the snakeskin print. There is the harmonious interplay of elements… Bah! Enough with the talking, talking, talking!
It is the object of attraction and desire. What more needs to be said?
Manolo says, here are the few things which may perhaps entertain…
When my son was only a few months old I attended a wedding, and it never even entered my mind that I wouldn’t fit into my old heels.
Fifteen ridiculously patriotic celebrity outfits.
Yowayowa Camera Woman Diary
Let us stipulate that, despite what Boing Boing tells you, if you are over 10 years old and you are building the Sistine Chapel out of Legos, or are recreating key scenes of Anna Karenina using Barbie dolls, you need to get the life.
Our society no longer produces art for grownups, just endless mountains of disposable, derivative, infantile trash, which is then celebrated by disposable, derivative infants on the internet.
“Isn’t that cool,” says the manchild from his mancave, as the interweb delivers yet one more piece of trivial flapdoodle.
Once, men and women produced serious art filled with soul and meaning, joyfulness, fine feelings, deep emotions.
Now, the great genius of our age, hailed by fanboys and know-nothings, is the execrable R. Crumb, whose repulsive drawings offend the senses. To look upon them is to feel your heart sink, to listen to the critics offer them praise is to feel your gorge rise.
But what of the “serious” artists of our debased age?
Let us also stipulate that we hold no affection or respect for those who impoverish us with their lackwit offerings, who reduce the ineffable to the trivial, who hide their inferior skills and empty heads behind the facade of jargon.
Such is the state of our world: We have become trivial peoples who mistake our trivialities for profundities, and pat ourselves on the back for it.
So, what must be done?
The Manolo does not know. He is the creature ill-suited for action, fitted for good-humored epicurean repose, rather than stoic purposefulness; he is the satirist and aesthete, ineffectual in all but words and good taste.
But why shoes, Manolo?
Well made shoes represent honest labor done for useful purposes. Beautiful shoes show us that even the mundane can be elevated to the sublime. Shoes that are both transmute craftsmanship into art.
N.B. Psychologists have proven what we already know, shoes tell us much about the wearer…
The Keen Newport H2, priced at $100.
Manolo says, your name is Rick. Not Ricky, Rick, and you work as the engineer for one of the oil companies doing tolerance analysis, but that is not important.
What is important is that you like to run. No, you love to run, really run. Ten, fifteen, twenty miles the day, much more on the weekends.
Although you run the very respectable marathon times, you have this awkward gait that forces you, when you are in the race, to run more frantically. Thus, it is not unusual for bystanders to shout as you go by, “What’s chasing you, buddy!” (Mark, one of your old running “friends,” would always shout back “Zombies!” People would laugh, which is why you prefer to run alone now.)
You started running again twelve years ago, to combat the onset of the middle-aged spread. And today, you weigh five pounds less (actually 4.65lbs less this morning) than you did when you were in college.
“The best shape of your life,” you like to announce frequently to whoever will listen. Your wife, Debbie, she doesn’t like to run, or exercise much at all, which is why she put on that weight, fifteen pounds. She was not that good looking to begin with, but she was nice to you in your senior year, when the other girls would not give you the time of day. And she has been the good mother to Rick, Jr., taking him to his trombone lessons and making sure he does his homework.
Most mornings you’re up early, four-thirty, and out on the road by five, running. Because of this, you maintain the strict 8:30PM bedtime. Debbie doesn’t seem to mind. She doesn’t like to have people talking to her when she’s watching Mark Harmon on NCIS.
You like these Keen shoes because they’re outdoorsy, and they look cool with your favorite work pants, those khakis ones that convert into shorts by unzipping the legs. So clever. They must have been designed by the engineer.