It was in May, when you first noticed that something was amiss, that Gary had not closed off the garage and converted it into his laboratory, the sort of Halloween DARPA, where he has traditionally begun to test the fanciful ideas for his annual extravaganza. (Who can forget the year when he built the full-sized pirate ship with cannons that fired candy?)

“Gary,” you asked one Saturday in early June, “why haven’t you begun the preparations for Halloween? Aren’t you doing it this year?”

“I thought I’d give it a break,” he answered somewhat morosely.

You did not say anything, you just dropped the matter. And why would you not? In the first place, Gary not doing Halloween would save you several thousand of the dollars in materials. And in the second place, you suspected that Gary was suffering from the mild case of PHSD, Post Halloween Stress Disorder, and needed time to recover from the traumatic events of last year.

In the effort to outdo himself, Gary had built the alien spaceship, from which were emerging the be-tentacled green invaders, the first of whom was busily stripping the flesh from the corpse, with one surprised skeleton already lying nearby (Bony Bob in the supporting role).

Everyone agreed it the greatest display yet, and the sound track, complete with theremin music (recorded by Gary in his makeshift home studio), was indeed most spooky. Unfortunately, Gary had failed to properly ground the lighting system which illuminated the interior of the flying saucer. You know this, because the fire marshal said it was probably the loose wire which had heated the styrofoam to the point of combustion.

By the time Gary was able to retrieve the extinguisher from the garage, the flames had leaped into the autumny leaves of that tall larch by the driveway, and from there, onto the fabric of the car cover Gary had placed over his most prized possession, the 1972 Camero Z28 in yellow and black. (The car had been parked beneath the larch tree because Gary needed room in the garage for his Halloween experiments.)

After the fire company went home around 1:30AM, Gary retreated into the Gary Cave and did not emerge until late afternoon the next day.

All he said was, “Let us never speak of this day again.”

Look, spooky suede Alexander McQueen shoes!


Too bad the Halloween has already past, because these designer shoes could become the basis of your own personal Halloween extravaganza!

The Strass Wedge from the Alexander McQueen, which looks remarkably like the 16th century Venetian chopine.

Manolo says, this news item surprises the Manolo not in the least.

Karl Lagerfeld was obviously joking when he told Hilary Alexander, “I don’t want an intellectual image, I’m a fashion person,” back in January. His latest project – and he is perhaps fashion’s greatest multi-tasker – is to publish the entire works of Friedrich Nietzsche, the 19th century German philosopher.

Lagerfeld told WWD he would be publishing Nietzsche’s work, in 12 volumes, the way the German philosopher would have wanted it: typeset print alongside the original manuscripts complete with hand-written corrections. Only 3000 copies of “Nietzsche’s Nietzsche” will be printed, said Lagerfeld, showing off photocopies of original pages, apparently “dense blocks of small handwriting – some words underlined, others stricken and overwritten – on sheets of pale yellow paper.”
“It’s very easy to read if you understand this type of German,” he said. “I would love to publish it in English, but it would take five to seven years to translate it.”

It is not surprising because the Manolo has long thought of the Evil One as the supremely Nietzschean figure, working his Umwertung aller Werte on the unsuspecting world.

P.S. Thanks to the Manolo’s friend the Anne for alerting the Manolo to this.

Manolo says, and now the 14th Episode of the FN Shoe Star is available for your on-line viewing enjoyment.

And, as it turns out, the Manolo was wrong last week when he predicted that Keena would be sent away for designing the all-black wedding shoe. Likewise, he would not have thought that Matthew would have won yet again. But, such is the nature of these reality show contests in which the punishment and the reward are rarely meted out in accordance with one’s expectations.

And so, it was Shannon, the most delightfully quirky of the designers, who was sent away for her asymmetrical, lace-bedecked wedding shoe, while Matthew was awarded the prize for the third week in the row.

Next week, Fergie!

Manolo says, here you see above the 13th episode of the FN Shoe Star, in which the remaining contestants take their Vera Wang wedding shoes to the judges table.

First, the Manolo is happy to see that, at the least, one of the designers has taken the Manolo’s advice to change the hair style…

Before

After, and After the After

Slow down, girlfriend, you’ll go bald.

As for the shoes that were presented to the judges, which included the Vera Wang, they were generally not the worst, nor were they generally (nor even particularly) the best.

The Manolo predicts that Keena will be the loser. But, what did she expect? Black shoes for the wedding? Is this something that is common in the islands? Of the course, when Keena is ejected, she will not even be able to claim that she did not have the warning, as Vasilios! repeatedly questioned her judgement.

The winner will be Rachel, who was inexplicably the only contestant to make the open-toed shoe. (What were the others thinking…”hmmm, Puerto Rico? Sexy young bride? Orthopedic pumps! In black!”) Her shoe was nothing especially original, but it at the least looked like the wedding shoe.

On the one of the hands, the actual work itself would be made immediately better if most of your coworkers were magically transported back to the Jurassic Age.

On the other of the hands, you are something of the social animal. Who would you eat lunch with if not your friends Jenny and Jane? Who would bring you the gossip from the accounting department circus if not the Brenda? How would you make it through the day if Deadpan Mike did not make his hilarious quips?

And then you get out the piece of paper, draw the line down the center, and write two words at the top of the page, on the left, “Lifeboat”, and on the right, “Sharks”.

You write Jenny, Jane, Mike, Brenda, Nice Greg from IT, and six or seven more names of those who should be allowed to join you in the Dunder Mifflin corporate lifeboat.

On the right, the chum list immediately grows to unsustainable proportions, 30 names in the first instant, and growing. It is so bad that you are reduced to using the nicknames and silly descriptions because you do not even know the names of the doomed: Curly Surly Girl, Mr. Bigshot, The Dinky Dork….

And while you are engrossed in this most satisfying exercise, someone unexpectedly steps into your cubicle.

“Hey, whacha doing?”

You hurriedly flip the page over, and look over your shoulder. Oh, thank goodness. It is just the Deadpan Mike.

“Looks like a corporate restructuring,” he says.

“It was just a, er, um, um…”

“I couldn’t really see. Did I make it into the lifeboat?”

You turn the page back over and point to his name.

“Oh, good. Don’t forget to feed Frankly Fran to the sharks.”

Frankly Fran! This is why the Deadpan Mike has earned his place in the lifeboat, because he both extra observant and extra funny. Who else but Mike would have noticed that Frances the World’s Most Annoying Actuary had the verbal tick which involved starting most sentences with the word “frankly”.

And then you have the unorthodox idea that perhaps it is the aggravating people who make your job somewhat interesting, by providing fodder for amusement.

“Nah.”

Look! Ridiculously tall shoes from the Alexander McQueen…

The Samurai Strappy Sandal from Alexander McQueen with the six inches heel and platform combination that is almost silly, and yet somehow compelling.

High, elegant, in-step curving, vertiginous heels. I want ‘em. I buy ‘em. I can’t wear ‘em.

They line my closet shelves, singing their siren calls of elongated legs and a sexy pelvic tilt, mocking me with the knowledge that nothing about sad limping and oozing blisters is sexy. I fire back with every heel pad and shoe stickum thing on the market, but no. The burning of the balls of my feet beats me every time.

YSL Tribute Platform Sandal

Sure, there are some heels I can manage and even find comfortable. God bless Stefano Pilati at YSL and Alber Elbaz at Lanvin and whomever they have hired to design their shoes…

YSL Tribute Sandals are an absolute staple in my closet – I own four pairs in different colors.

The woven satin Lanvin platforms – another slam-dunk winner.

Lanvin Woven Satin Platform Sandal

So I’ve learned, platforms are important for me.

Thin soles KILL me and the platform gives me height without putting the burden solely (Ha! A pun!) on the pitch and the poor ball of my foot. (Of course, we all know how Maestro Manolo Blahnik feels about platforms.)

So what do I do? Do I limit my purchases to things I know I can manage? I wish that were the case!

Alaia Snow Leopard Hiking Boots

Right now, my closet boasts a pair of Alaia Snow Leopard hiking booties and a pair of Theyskens Theory Velvet Wedge pumps.

I LOVE them! I want to wear them. I want to show them off to everyone. I don’t want to need an orthopedic device afterwards. Neither pair has been taken out of their box. They are each nestled in their tissue lined boxes – taunting me.

Don’t try to convince me that everyone suffers for high heels. I know that isn’t true.

Theyskens Theory Velvet Wedge Pumps

Meet my sister. I swear she was born with Barbie feet. You know, the ones that, even when naked are permanently arched so as to fit only into heels?

I think my sister is more comfortable in heels than she is in flats.

And here is my sister’s other genetic gift. We wear the same size.

I buy these beauties. Ogle them in my closet. Caress them before getting dressed. Totter around my bedroom in them before thinking better of it and returning them to the box. Eventually, the shoes are packed into a shipping box and sent off to live out the rest of their natural life with my sister. I love my sister. I want her to be happy. But supplying her is not why I buy these shoes.

My sister's feet look like this.

You know what? I want a class! There are all sorts of other programs offered to women who want to make changes in their lives. You can take fitness classes, you can take dance classes, you can take life guidance classes, you can take art classes. Where are the heel walking classes? Why is my local Y not offering such things? Can I hire a personal instructor? Hey! My sister is a personal trainer and she can walk in heels. I wonder if she’s ever thought to combine the two.

Seriously, I’ve invested thousands in shoes that have only ‘visited’ with me. I have treasures in my closet right now awaiting word of their fate. I’m an educated person. I’m physically fit.

Why can’t I learn this one thing?

I can’t imagine why people think this troll is so very talented. He’s been taking old, dead, has-been ideas, exaggerating them to cartoon ridiculousness, staging them with massive amounts of corporate money, and justifying them with post-modern pseudo-intellectual claptrap. Galliano’s b.s. has stunk for some time now. Maybe his most recent troll behavior will force people to realize he’s not all that, and never was. In fact, if the old French houses had any brains, they’d dump posers like Galliano and embrace the 21st century. Instead, they remain mired in a ironic nostalgia, as if that were still hip! Meh– it’s not “transgressive,” it’s not even modern. It’s just a boring pastiche of the past, designed by a crew of creepy drunks and junkies– who seem to hate themselves, their jobs, and their customers!

The Manolo does not agree with this, but the stridency of the comment and the fluid manner in which it was expressed made the Manolo laugh.

According to fashion journalist Melanie Rickey, of the Fashion Editor at Large blog and Grazia, for years the industry has pushed Galliano to greater and greater extremes: “All everyone has ever wanted from John is transgressive fashion, and to use his excessive ideas to sell nice handbags and perfumes,” she says. And once you are set on a path to break taboos, it is almost impossible to find new ideas. So how on earth do you shock, when you have already exhausted S&M dungeons for ideas for haute couture? The great taboo in France and Germany is antisemitism. On this ground Jews were murdered or transported to be murdered. Watching the video of Galliano slumped alone at his bar table hurling insults at a woman who evidently asked why he didn’t make clothes that all women could wear, he spits out rage. She is ugly, he loves Hitler, he invokes the gas chambers. It’s a toxic mix of hate-speech, of racism and misogyny. How is it possible to go further than this?

Crazy, Transgressive, or Shitheel?

If you are breaker of taboos, then antisemitism is only another taboo, no different from any other. It’s the saying of the unsayable. It has become the last frontier for those demanding freedom of speech, for whom everything, even the Holocaust, is fair game. Is Galliano an actual antisemite who hates Jews? Who knows what passes through his mind, but by invoking the name of Hitler and gloating about the gas chambers, he is only doing what others have always paid him to do: shock.

It’s Galliano’s fortune and misfortune to have been named as a genius. He wants to go to the S&M clubs of the Parisian underworld and bring back chains and put it over a black leather bag and call the bag Bondage? Why not? Who would dare tell him that he has no idea what he is talking about when he says he loves Hitler, or that there is something the matter with abusing women in bars? Around him are innumerable yes men and women, bowing to his great thoughts.

Perhaps there is something to this notion of fashionable transgression taken too far. It is not as if the Manolo has not been railing for the past half decade against transgressive gestures that no longer transgress. (Here is the Manolo expressing his boredom with the Vivienne Westwood collection filled with the Nazi imagery.)

However, the Manolo thinks that perhaps the cringe-making Woody Allen quote found by the Manolo’s friend Ed Driscoll, is closer to the mark.

“Talent is absolutely luck,” he said one day while talking about his early fear of performing. “And no question that the most import thing in the world is courage. People worship talent and it’s so ridiculous. Talent is something you’re born with, like Kareem [Abdul-Jabbar] is born tall. That’s why so many talented people are shitheels.”

Certainly, this judgment would seem to be applicable in the case of the repulsive little fashion troll, John Galliano.

Fasion guru John Galliano was filmed having a vile racist rant during which he declared: “I love Hitler.”

The British designer – an alleged Jew hater – then tells a horrified woman: “People like you would be dead. Your mothers, your forefathers, would all be f****** gassed.”

Repulsive Little Fashion Troll

His tirade was videoed by a friend of the people he was insulting – who were French and Italian, but not Jewish.

Galliano, 50, was at the same Paris bar where he allegedly launched a vicious verbal attack on two people last week – which led to him being arrested and suspended by fashion label Christian Dior.

After stating he loves Hitler and making the gassing remark, a woman is heard to say, ‘Oh my God’ before asking slurring Galliano if he had a problem.

He said: “With you. You’re ugly.” Asked where he was from, he said: “Your a***hole.”

Dior should fire John Galliano. Such behavior is beyond the bounds of what should be tolerated. Nothing more needs to be said about this specific instance.

However, such repulsive behavior in one so mightily talented raises the larger question: how does one separate the art from the artist?

The sad fact is that great talent is often found in horrible people.

How can this be?

So, how does one enjoy the transcendent clothing of John Galliano without feeling that one is somehow patronizing the bigot?

How to sanction the artist, while admitting that his art brings beauty and joy to the world?

The Manolo, who loves the poetry of Ezra Pound, the music of Wagner, and the clothing of John Galliano, has no easy answer to this question.