Manolo says, in honor of the Manolo’s recent visit to the too precious for words Carmel, the Manolo presents to you these delightful woven leather skimmers by the BCBG Max Azria which bear the name of the Carmel.
These would be suitable for wandering through the fairy-tale streets, looking for your own Clint Eastwood/Prince Charming.
Manolo says, it is Tuesday, time to see what the Manolo is…
Without argument, this is the best radio station in the entire known universe, it has only ever been exceeded by its magnificent and much lamented predecessor.
Manolo says, if you have perhaps been wondering why the postings of the Manolo have been so slow this week, it is because the peregrinations of the Manolo have taken him up the coast of California, through the Big Sur, and into the most beautiful, if somewhat twee town of Carmel-by-the-Seaside.
Naturally, the Posse Manolo (the abbreviated version) did many Carmel touristy things, which included, but was not limited to, the visit to the Mission, the tea at the Tuck Box, and the shopping rampage through the tree-lined streets.
This morning, the Manolo finds himself in San Francisco, where he will be for the next two or three days, visiting with the friends, and doing what the Manolo does in beautiful and vibrant cities filled with restaurants and shops.
Manolo says, for those of you who do not follow the sporting pages, in Eastern Europe July is the month for the sport of High Heel Racing!
In Berlin.
All of it madness!
Manolo says, the Manolo reminds you that he is accepting applications for the two positions at proposed Teeny Manolo blog, the website which will be devoted to the childrens clothes, celebrity babies, and all matters associated with being the parent.
Naturally, the Manolo is looking for peoples who have interesting things to say on the above topics, and can say them in the most entertaining way possible. If you believe this is you, please send the Manolo the note together with the samples of your writings.
Manolo says, in celebration of the Queen Elizabeth’s and the Prince Phillip’s 60th Wedding anniversary, there is the exhibition of their wedding clothing, which includes the shoes she wore on the big day.
The shoes worn by Britain’s Queen Elizabeth II, on her wedding day, designed by Edward Rayne made with duchesse satin and trimmed with silver and seed pearl buckles…
Peep toes? The Manolo would not have expected that.
Manolo says, here are the few links which may perhaps amuse…
Manolo says, all this afternoon the Manolo has been hearing from his internet friends, and from the readers of his column in the Express of the Washington Post, alerting the Manolo to the unfortunate use of the word “kaffir”, which appears as the name of the shoes he recommended.
This letter from the Manolo’s reader Matthews M. is not untypical.
Dear Manolo
I refer to your article in today’s Express, p E3 where you refer to the icon look – kaffir.
You did not name the shoe. Did you know that the word “kaffir” in South Africa is as derogatory as the “N” word is in the US?
Sadly, the Manolo did not know the full extent of the hurtful vulgarity of this word. You may be assured that if he had known he would not have recommended this shoe, indeed, he would have recommended the entirely different designer.
The Manolo must now ask for your forgiveness, and hope that you, his dear readers, will not allow this unfortunate error to stand between us.
Manolo says, little baby children, such as the Violet Affleck seen above, may wear the Crocs. However, if you are the fully grown person you should avoid these ridiculous and childish rubber monstrosities.
“But Manolo,” cry the infantile, the misguided, and the willfully perverse, “the Crocs, they are so comfortable”.
Manolo answers, “so are the cardboard boxes filled with the combination of styrofoam packing peanuts and Vaseline.”
And just as the sensible person knows not to submerge their feets into such things, no matter how pleasant it may seem, so too does the sensible person know to avoid the Crocs.”
Manolo says, now that the Manolo blogs have grown to include five blogs in total, with two more in the offing, the Manolo has decided to do the Friday roundups, so that you may read what you may have perhaps been missing.
And so here is the best from each of the Manolo’s bloggers…
I want to wake up at noon the next morning and sit in the dark eating greasy tacos and watching that scene in Pride and Prejudice where Colin Firth’s Mr. Darcy jumps into and subsequently comes out of the water over and over again until we faint from sheer Regency-era hotness with it only to regain conciousness three hours later and start the whole thing over again.
This sort of artificial food radius is all perfectly fine if you find yourself residing in central California surrounded by the premier fruit and vegetable fields in America. But what about the rest of us?
While I notice that, at first glance, a few of the overweight characters are stereotypically written as “bumbling” or “jovial,” on the whole the overweight good guys blend seamlessly into the good-guy group.
So, let me get this straight. I’m to bring a present to the shower and then send a gift on ahead before the wedding, and I’m supposed to “subsidize the honeymoon?”
There’s a lot of buzz about whether America is willing to elect a black president, but should we be willing to elect a president who wears black suits?
Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.
Dear Manolo,
I’ve seeing a lot of young women wearing short-short sundresses, big-big sunglasses, and heavy boots. What do you think of this look?
Maya
Manolo says, the Manolo’s friend is referring to the I-am-going-to-Promises-right-after-my-next-arrest look, made current by the young but famous slatterns of the popular gossip press.
Naturally, to achieve the full effect you must be wearing no foundation garments below, and you must have in the one hand the designer “It” bag, and in the other the jumbo soy latte frappuccino with extra vodka.
Of course, anything worn by the troubled starlets becomes the mania among the impressionable young women and those who emulate them, which in Los Angeles includes the 51-year-old ex-wives of Hollywood producers.
The Manolo says, do not be these women. Do not imitate the styles of these young flibberty-jibbets. Be your own style icon.
Look here is the Kaffir from the Maxstudio, the golden strappy sandal that would make the average Hollywood hotty spill her Starbucks in envy.
Manolo says, as the Croc empire of evil attempts to impose its hegemonisitic desires upon the citizens of the world, the the tiny-but-valiant anti-Croc resistance struggles under the oppressive rubber heel fighting for all that is stylish and holy. Look, here is one of the Manolo’s comrades-in-arms, the Marcelle D’Argy Smith fighting the good fight in the Daily Mail.
If there is one thing, in my view, which is guaranteed to drive a woman screaming in the other direction, it is the sight of a man who should know better sporting a luridly technicolour pair of shoes which would look far more suitable on a four-year-old girl.
The damn things look like clumsy rubbery clogs with large perforations.
They’re called Crocs because they resemble a reptile’s snout.
Seductive, eh? And yet six million pairs have been sold around the world already. We are drowning in Crocs.
You may understand the quirky nature of Mr Nicholson – but what about the other ten million pairs of Crocs they’re projected to sell this year? Not all of those people can be ramblers, fisherman and ageing beach bums, surely?
I was just listening to Ella Fitzgerald singing Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered and sighing at the line “I’ll worship the trousers that cling to him”. I then tried to imagine the trousers of a man I loved, teamed with orange or bright-blue Croc shoes.
Go on. You try it. Torture yourself at the thought of the man in your life succumbing to this massive manipulation marketing-gonemad Crocs trend. There’s no telling with an Englishman: he might even wear brown socks with his orange Crocs. You’ll leave him,
Crocs of course. No woman could be expected to live with that.
[…]
Perhaps it’s because wearing them makes them feel about 12 again – you know, when they went on that shrimping holiday to Devon and wore those foul beige jelly sandals.
Now, hey presto, with a mortgage and two kids, they can spend £30 and feel as though they are the coolest cats in town all over again.
Yes, the marketeers have done their work. “They’re comfortable; they’re cheap,” they bleat. May they rot in Croc hell. In fact, I find the thought of a middle-aged man wearing them so repulsive that I’m almost prepared to march on this one.
Hell is too good for the likes of the Crocs manufacturers, Comrade D’Argy Smith, too good, indeed.
