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.
Manolo says, now that the Manolo has revived his formerly semi-moribund shoe blog, he would like to invite his internet friends to consider contributing the guest post or two.
It does not matter if you are the fashion blogger, or the non-blogger, the Manolo would love to see what his internet friends have to say about such topics as shoes, runway trends, shoes, fashion history, shoes, celebrity misadventure, shoes, indeed almost any topic that is not overtly political, or overly controversial. All the Manolo asks is that the contribution be thoughtful and moderately entertaining to his readers.
If you would be interested in doing this please to send the Manolo the email telling him what you would like to blog about.
Manolo says, the Manolo politely reminds you that he maintains the online presence on several of the most modern social media platforms. For the example…
The Manolo would take is as the great favor if you were to “like” his humble shoe blog on the Facebook.
Likewise, the Manolo shares some of his more ephemeral thoughts through out the day at his Twitter feed, to which you may wish to subscribe.
As you may have noticed, the Manolo has returned to posting more frequently, likewise, the Manolo is working to revive his moribund Super Fantastic Newsletter, which he hopes will eventually send out the weekly news about the Manolo, together with coupons, bargains, announcements, and contests. Naturally, the Manolo would be enormously pleased if you would consider subscribing to these email updates.
Manolo says, behold! Cold Plasma from Perricone, the greatest and bestest $155 per ounce skin cream of all time!
The reviewers all agree, it provides the unforgettable experience!
I got this as a sample. I put it on and my face felt so nice right after, I really wanted to like this but the smell!!! It was so bad it was making me gag. I had to wash my face 3 times to get rid of it. Ever walk by a little fish pond on a hot day? And you can smell the fish in the water? Thats what this smells like.
It’s just disgusting, the smell is simply wrong, but the results are right! I’ll try and suffer through gagging and nausea for the better skin I wake up with using cold plasma. I quickly top with a moisturizer to try and cover up the putrid stench, then I wash my hands. I don’t know if I can keep it up though, it’s a struggle to use.
I couldn’t tell you if this works or not, because I had to return it. I used it a few times, and yes, my face did feel firmer and more moisturized, but it also stinks to high heaven. It’s like some ungodly combination of fish, wet dog and raw chicken. It could be the fountain of youth and we would never know, because this stuff literally smells that bad,
This could have been water from the fountain of youth, and I wouldn’t use it…smells like raw chicken or chicken fat. Disgusting! I threw away the sample after 2 uses.
After using this for a few days, I decided to read other reviews to see if anyone noticed the particularly foul smell of this product. I’m currently a med student and gagged the instant I put this on my face – it smelled distinctly of anatomy lab, something I’d prefer not to revisit on a regular basis. While it DOES feel great on my skin, and the smell gets a little better over time, I would never buy this product simply due to the smell. Whether it’s linked to an unpleasant experience or not, it seems that most find the smell fairly objectionable.
Rarely have product reviews been so amusing, and at the Sephora site there are plenty more just like these.
P.S. Now that the Manolo has thought about it, this cream, it is the sort of little league version of the myth of the vampire, no? The vampire is granted eternal existence, but in exchange he becomes the soulless, undead creature of the night. In the Perricone Cold Plasma version of the myth, your laugh lines are smoothed away, but you smell like afternoon low tide in Mumbai.
Manolo says, and for that we should be thankful.
Whatever it is, most of the 46-year-old ladies of the Manolo’s current acquaintance look much, much better than this.
N.B. In today’s guest blogging, the Manolo’s talented friend, the omgwtf, explains how high heels and billiards have changed her life.
I began playing pool at eighteen. By nineteen, in all my ungainly glory, I had the brilliant thought that I should become a professional player.
I had ZERO skills. In fact, I had problems with the first shot of the game, the break shot.
The break is where you break the racked object balls apart with the cue ball. When done right, it’s as impressive as one of Tiger Woods’ long drives – all power, accuracy, and grace combined in one seamless, flawless, fluid motion. The key words there are “when done right”.
I had power but no grace. When I broke the balls (arms flailing, feet tripping), more often than not, I slammed my hand into the side of the table. Having swollen knuckles on my right index finger became a normal thing until a fashionable friend suggested I try wearing heels – being taller might help my hand miss the side of the table during my swing to break the balls.
I’d been a competitive runner almost my entire life and had never owned a pair of shoes that wouldn’t allow me to flee authorities at top speed in relative comfort (I was somewhat of a delinquent in my younger years). So, I bought a cheap pair of chunky-heeled loafers at a swap meet which made me three inches taller.
Soon, I was breaking the balls successfully without breaking my knuckles.
In hindsight, heels were not the solution. They were only a quick fix. What I truly needed was practice to improve my technique. I did improve to where heels weren’t necessary, but, by then, I was used to playing at a five-foot-four height.
I began to play competitively in tournaments.
Many players dismissed me as non-threat once they saw my choice in footwear. I didn’t blame them. Billiards was a game of finesse and how a player balanced herself (or himself) was very important. Solid footing meant more consistency in the execution of movement. Solid footing also generally meant having one’s entire foot on the ground. No serious player would risk teetering around the table in high heels. I took advantage of being underestimated and translated those instances into wins.
In the often dark-clothed and flat-footed world of pool, more people began to take notice of the “little girl in high shoes”. As more people associated me with my high heels, I took more notice of shoes in general. I became aware of the truly staggering variety and styles of shoes in the world. I no longer bought shoes based on height alone. I looked specifically for unusual, eye-catching shoes that could handle a fourteen-hour tournament day. In a predominantly male game populated by flat shoes, I had stumbled upon a way to be stylishly different.
I got better at the game and began to gamble at it.
The amounts I wagered varied from your average pair of Stuart Weitzmans to a few pairs of Christian Louboutins. Even when four-digit sums were at stake, I continued to play in heels, to the surprise of many. People asked, “Why? Why would you play in heels?” My standard answer: “Why not?” All that mattered was having solid footing and I had that, even in stilettos. Besides, my wins and losses were never due to the shoes I wore, but to me, the player, and how well I played.
Eventually, my collection of shoes became a sort of savings account. When I needed funds for tournaments or a stake for gambling (I gambled exclusively with my own money), I would look through my closet and sell off pairs as I needed. This was a convenient and practical way to thin out my herd of footwear. If I won, then I had room for new shoes. If I lost, then I had more closet room. It was a win-win situation.
In all the long years I’ve played this game, shoes have run the gamut for me. They’ve been practical. They’ve been beautiful. They’ve given me a unique identity in an often boring game and culture. They’ve even funded my adventures. But, there’s one more thing.
Pool has always been seen as a “man’s” game and any woman who plays will inevitably run into sexism about how “girls can’t play pool”. Therefore, I get a certain indescribable satisfaction when I beat a guy who proudly says, “I’ve never been beat by a girl before”, while wearing strappy green suede stiletto sandals adorned with a delicate feather pouf at the toes. That satisfaction increases exponentially when his friend looks at my shoes and tells him, “Dude. You just got beat by Tinkerbell.”
Manolo says, the Manolo has been in the ferociously interesting conversation with his internet friend Eliza Wharton about the matters of beauty, style, and what makes someone the modern icon.
Over the course of this conversation, the Manolo has stated the few of his beliefs, which he will now deliver as the set of provocative Don Colacho style aphorisms:
1. Beauty is not negotiable.
2. If you are not blessed with beauty, change the game.
3. The best way to change the game is by being very different.
4. Great beauty can make you the icon, but beauty is neither necessary nor common among icons.
And now, for the explications:
Beauty is not negotiable
The rules of feminine beauty cannot be changed, no matter how much we may wish that they could be. They are as immutable and as fixed as the stars in the heavens: youth, fecundity, symmetry, and the pleasing hip-to-waist ratio.
We may try to convince ourselves that there are other standards of beauty, but such attempts are pretty lies we tell ourselves to make us feel better about our relative lack of beauty.
As cruel as they seem, such statements say nothing about our worth as individuals, or our goodness, or our merit to our family or the world.
Physical beauty is the gift given without reference to merit.
Although, it is the strange gift that inevitably dissipates with age. And one may still be compelling even into oldest age, but one should not be confused: compelling and beautiful are not the same thing. Beauty is compelling, but often the compelling is not also beautiful.
If you are not blessed with beauty, change the game.
As youthful beauty fades, or was perhaps never fully present, this is where the art and magic of contriving the desirable is found.
Manolo says, our friend, Miss Plumcake gives invaluable advice on how to find beautiful shoes at the great prices.
I get a lot of people who ask me how I manage to have the things I do –particularly my shoes– with the job I have. Now ignoring for a moment that it’s kind of a rude question, I do have a bit of wisdom to share as to how I managed to amass a shoe collection worth more than what I earn in a year without hooking, selling my kidneys or getting into credit card debt. While finding thousand dollar shoes for a hundred dollars is a bit on the ambitious side of things, if you follow my lead (and learn from my mistakes) you will be well on your want to your own enviable shoe salon.
But you must immediately go and read the whole thing.
Manolo says, if you were wondering what became of Virginia…
Virginia O’Hanlon as an adult embraced the recognition and modest fame that came with her part in inspiring “Is There A Santa Claus?” (She once said in jest that she was “anonymous from January to November.”)
The editorial, she told an interviewer in 1959, when she was 67, “gave me a special place in life I didn’t deserve. It also made me try to live up to the philosophy of the editorial and to try to make glad the heart of childhood.”
She occasionally read the editorial at Christmas programs, as she did in 1933 and 1937 at Hunter College, her alma mater. Virginia earned a bachelor’s degree there in 1910 and a master’s degree two years later at Columbia University.
She was a teacher in the New York City schools, and became a principal at a school for handicapped children after earning a doctorate from Fordham University in 1935.
At her retirement in 1959, the New York Times observed that Virginia was “one of those rare persons whose given name alone has instant meaning for millions.”
There is yet more at the New York Times, including this charming picture of the young Virginia…