I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing cobblers glue.
I’m in Virginia now, and although the worst seems to be over, the whole DC Metro area got pounded like British currency. My fella, Hot Latin Boy, is holding down the fort at Plumcake Cottage in Baja, Mexico where a previously inactive volcano has started to be less inactive as one might hope. Frankly I’m just one Aimee Mann song away from that crazy scene in Magnolia and I’m pretty sure my wiper blades won’t be able to take it.
I’ve got this weird survivalist streak that means my hatches were battened down days ago, and friends, let me tell you: once I batten something, it stays battened, so my best friend and I had nothing to do but watch old movies and wait for the power to go out.
Miraculously, our grid has stayed up and we made it all the way through my All Time Favorite Movie About Shoes: Kinky Boots.
I have been told by people who would know that I was at the American premier of Kinky Boots, but I’m not entirely sure that’s true. I was working for a film festival so it’s certainly possible, and that was the year I discovered the magical hallucinatory powers derived from a heady combination of extreme sleep deprivation and a diet consisting entirely of Chupa Chups lollipops and absolutely unforgivable cheap champagne. Still, I’d like to think I’d remember something.
It’s not every day you see a six-foot tall black British man with a voice for Othello in a wig for Diana Ross, at least not since my circuit party days.
For those who were also chasing the Chupa Chups dragon and managed to miss it, Kinky Boots revolves around Charlie Price whose family has been making high-quality men’s footwear for over a hundred years. When the company hits the skids thanks to an influx of cheap competition, he realizes his factory must change or die.
Enter Lola, a SoHo (the proper one, not the fake Yankee one) drag performer with a penchant for red patent leather, riding crops and Eartha Kitt.
Although it’s based on a true story, it is a bit formulaic, but so was Romeo and Juliet and they didn’t even have cute shoes (well, maybe they did, they WERE Italian) but it’s well worth a watch if only for the soundtrack and the Blue Angel Boys.
(ignore the cheesy American voiceover. Please.)
So what’s your favorite movie about shoes? The Wizard of Oz? The Red Shoes? Or maybe it’s just a scene. Put it in the comments!
Manolo says, the other day, on the Facebook, the Manolo was complaining about the samey-sameness of most of the stylebloggers.
The Manolo must have looked at 20,000 style blogs over the past few days, some of them exceedingly popular, and all of them featuring the same clothes, the same poses, the same washed-out, overexposed style of photography.
Time for the change!
The Manolo decrees: the washed-out style photos are all washed up. Color is the new black!
Out = Identical style bloggers all obsessed with being part of the in crowd
In = Crazy girls who throw on the clothes they love and dare you to criticize them!
Above all else, what agitated the Manolo was the ubiquity of the washed-out, vintage-looking photos, photos that use the Instagram filter to excess, in every possible case.
To which the Manolo says, Death to the Instagram filter!
Happily, however, the trend appears to be abating. How does the Manolo know this? The latest Madonna video, “Turn Up The Radio,” …
P.S. No need to watch the entire tiresome affair. You will get the idea after the first ten seconds: Madonna suffers from soul-wrenching ennui, which she cures with random casual sex and bad pop music played loudly.
Manolo says, the Manolo loves this 19th century work, described as the “Worst (and possibly funniest) book on acting ever written.
Lessons in Acting was first published in 1889 by Albert Webster Edgerly, under his customary pen-name, “Edmund Shaftesbury”. It’s an attempt to teach acting by someone hopelessly unqualified for the task. And it’s hilarious.
And indeed it is most hilarious…
RULE 31—Passionate kissing. This should never be hurried, unless many repetitions are given. The lover puts his arm (the arm nearest the lady), about her shoulders, obliquely down the back and under her arm a little higher than the waist. His other arm encircles her waist. Her hand (the one farthest from him) is about his neck. Her head falls back upon his shoulder, the face being upturned to his, and the mouth ready. If the love and passion are REAL, he does not kiss often, but long. He approaches her rosy lips with gentleness, yet firmness, and the kiss has no force of contact but pressure in its continuance. It is not necessary to practice this much.
And the illustrations are delightful.
More of these marvelously ridiculous lessons may be sampled at the website devoted to the book.
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.