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Manolo the Columnist: Eleni from Pour la Victoire

Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.


Dear Manolo,

For the past month, my husband has been in California working on a business project in Silicon Valley. At the end of next week, I’ll be joining him for a week long vacation in San Francisco and Napa Valley. I’m not really sure what to wear. Please help.

Monica

Manolo says, for the Manolo, who is of the certain age, whenever someone says they are going to San Francisco, the Manolo thinks “be sure to wear some flowers in the hair.”

But then the Manolo remembers that putting the flowers in the hair to go to the San Francisco is like dancing the Lindy Hop, or wearing the coonskin cap to watch the Sunday night television programming; the artifact of the distant past, poorly remembered, and perhaps better forgotten. (Ayyyy! The Manolo just looked it up!, That song came out 46 years ago this week, in 1967, when the earth was still young and nubile. )

Now the days, when one thinks of San Francisco, one is more likely to think of the unpleasant, shallow-chested billionaires–the plague of the modern era–who believe they should rule the world from the front seat of their all-electric Google cars.

If you are going to Silicon Valley

Be sure to vest some options in your stock.

If you are going to Silicon Valley

You’re going to meet some awful people there.

Undoubtedly, you will want to wear the sandals on your feets. Here is the Eleni from Pour la Victoire, which will be sufficiently and defiantly bohemian.

Eleni from Pour la Victoire

Manolo the Columnist: Chantel from Pour la Victoire

Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.

Dear Manolo,

Because of past experiences, which I shall not describe, I’ve come to hate Valentine’s Day. This year, however, I’ve got a new boyfriend who’s romantic enough to do right by the holiday. Can you please suggest some red shoes appropriate for the day?

Nicole

Manolo says, yes, it is true, Dia de San Valentine is one of the most dangerous days of the entire calendar, when the wild passions that bubble beneath the surface erupt in the geyser of candy hearts, red roses, and dime store lingerie.

Woe be to the man, says the Manolo, who ventures forth on that day, forward into the fray of love, armed with nothing but the box of the Russell Stover’s caramels and the risqué greeting card he has picked up at the Wal-Mart while buying the oil filter wrench, and signed, in block print, “Love ya.”

Such paltry tokens of ardor are insufficient to the task of soothing the savage breast of the ordinary American woman, who demands the more earnest evidence of ardor, such as the romantic dinner at the Red Lobster, or the gift certificate, denominated in the high two figures, to the Victoria’s Secret.

And woe to the woman, says the Manolo, who fails to understand that what the ordinary American man most desires on that auspicious day is that the festivities culminate in the most passionate embraces, after which he be allowed to peacefully roll over and subside into blissful slumber.

Look! Here is the Chantel the hot, sexy, hot passion red shoe from the Pour la Victoire/

Chantel from Pour la Victoire

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