La Donna é Mobile

"A woman's dress should be like a barbed wire fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view."

-Sophia Loren

When a woman's body is the carnal equivalent of Mount Vesuvius, she can afford to make such pronouncements with a straight face. No doubt, Sophia Loren is that kind of woman. Nicknamed 'The Stick' as a child, Rome's answer to the femme fatale also once famously quipped: "Everything you see I owe to spaghetti."

Be that as it may, there are two things I know for sure:

#1.  Not all views are created equal. Some female forms wrapped in strategically draped fabric are bound to evoke comparisons to the Grand Tetons, while others are more the topographical equivalent of the Great Plains.

#2.  No matter how much pasta most of us pack away, the molecules will never rearrange themselves into the silhouette of an Italian bombshell. Basta.

I feel obliged to disclose that as a woman endowed with a rather-- hmmmm, how shall I put this... demure bust line-- I am not judging the sisterhood of women whose bodies were built for speed, not comfort. (This, of course, is one way to come to terms with your physique once reconciled to the fact there has not been a push-up, potion nor pumping iron routine invented that can alter what Mother Nature has granted.) But in spite of the curvier woman's distinct advantage in the cocktail dress arena, there is one accessory at every woman's disposal that can level the playing field: allowing us all to float like a butterfly, sting like a bee and unleash our inner-knockouts!

I speak, of course, of the high heel.

Have you ever seen a woman looking depressed, defeated or disgusted with herself while shopping for shoes? Of course not. Because such a woman does not exist. And until the Mad Men figure out a way to get into our heads: convincing us that our feet are too... whatever... you’re about as likely to see a deflated woman at a shoe sale as you are to see a kid crying at Disney World. And that's because a beautifully crafted shoe is nothing short of transformational. 

When cobbled correctly, the alchemy of raw materials like leather, fur, feathers, satin and steel can result in a whole that is far greater than the sum of its parts. And when selected with discernment, a woman's shoe can elevate, elongate and eroticize the wearer's foot-- regardless of what's going on above her ankles. 

Shoe departments are the DMZ of shopping malls: a place where weight, height, body types and age simply do not matter. A place where those niggling voices of self-doubt and impossibly high standards of beauty are banished from our heads. A place where every shopper gets to feel like Cinderella (or, even better, Sophia!) when slipping into a shoe that instantly grants stature, improves posture and changes one's stride. Hell, some shoes can even give you cleavage! Granted, it's toe-cleavage, but why quibble?

Although the great ones always do...

Manolo Blahnik, for example, feels that women "must only show the first two cracks" when taking the plunge. While Christian Louboutin has his eye trained a tad higher, decreeing "The curved inside part of the foot, the instep, is the most sexy part so I like to close the heel and reveal the arch." 

As for me, I'm just happy to be walking the earth in the same era as these geniuses so I can benefit from their wisdom. Which is why I cannot wrap my brain around the self-sabotaging trend women have been going gaga over for the past few years. Namely, voluntarily appropriating  those hoof-like appendages that appear better suited to Sea Biscuit than any two-legged filly.

 

Blame Alexander McQueen, Lady Gaga or her shoe-svengali Noritaka Tatehana if you must, but please don't believe the hype. Any shoe that can do double-duty as an anvil or a doorstop is not fashionable. In fact, it is the opposite of sexy and best left on the shelf.

"She looked like a crippled giraffe trying to walk in high heels."

-Anonymous

If I attributed the quote above to the friend who said it he would have to kill me for messing up his dating game, so I’ll just call him "Bill". 

Bill is the kind of bachelor women love to hate. He is smart, successful, well-traveled, handsome, somewhat mysterious, available yet totally phobic about long-term commitment. Bill also loves women. After sizing up a prospect at his gym recently he determined she had tremendous potential and asked her out. But when this "sharp, confident woman with great style", as Bill described her, showed up for their first date sporting a pair of ill-fitting clunkers (my words, not his) things got off on the wrong foot. And went downhill from there. Hence, his colorful characterization as quoted above.

Now, before you blast Bill for judging a woman based on one sartorial misstep, can I just express my glee? Sexist pig that I am, I have long assumed that the emergence of stripper-heels in polite society was driven by women trying to please men like Bill. So it pleases me to no end to learn that men are also stumped by the on-going popularity of shoes that not only look awkward, but hobble the wearer. 

When did footwear that's pretty, delicate and feminine go out of style? Why would any woman embrace a shoe trend that makes thick legs look thicker and skinny legs look skinnier: as all chunky heels do? Why would anyone forfeit her comfort and mobility for something that's not even cute? This is not to say that's it's rational to do so for a thing of beauty... but a woman's prerogative to suffer for beauty makes a hell of a lot more sense than suffering for the sake of something that makes her look as if she just leapt off a pole.  No? Does fashion-victimhood know no boundaries? Or are women doomed to a monkey-see-monkey-do mindset where trends are concerned? 

Of course, it should come as no surprise to any of us that a shoe which bellows "LOOK AT ME!!!" might be in vogue in the age of Facebook and Reality TV.

But whatever the reason for this temporary insanity, I am consoled by two immutable facts of fashion: 

#1.  La donna é mobile. (“Woman is fickle.")
#2.  The classics never go out of style.

** Illustration courtesy of Alvaro  www.alvaroartz.com

We Are All Witnesses

I don't know what a triple-double is, but apparently it was enough to seal the deal for LeBron James this week as he was named MVP in the NBA Finals.

 After leading the Miami Heat to victory over the Oklahoma City Thunder, King James's crown regained much of the luster which had worn off since he entered the League nine years ago. The fact that I, an avowed non-sporty sports fan, know all this speaks to hyperbole and excitement that's surrounded the Championship series for the past few weeks. But there's a shadow side to all the hoopla. And from my perspective-- where tarnished reputations are concerned-- players are not even in the same league with their fans and the sports media.

For all the lip service the latter two groups give to the pro-athlete's responsibility to be good role models to other people's kids, the torrent of player-hating unleashed after James's long-awaited victory makes me wonder why no one ever turns the camera on the real-life role models populating the stands and press boxes.

For the record, I think the sports-hero-as-role-model fiat is terribly misguided and sends a bad message to youngsters. Most pro-athletes are too young to have distinguished themselves as anything but a phenom in their chosen sport. The mono-focus that's required to become great at anything can come at the expense of developing one's intellectual and social skills, and yet observers across the board have eagerly equated the athlete's talent on the field with the measure of his character off the field for decades. That adults continue to make such a rookie mistake only calls into question their judgement and belies a dual obsessions with wealth & celebrity status. 

That said, let's examine the heretofore unheralded role models and their sideline contributions to the well being of The Children.

While it can be argued that there's no market for jerseys with names like "MOM", "DAD", "AUNTIE", "UNC", "NANA" or "POPPY" printed in block letters across their backs, the fact is that those of us who were not gifted with agility, extraordinary eye-hand coordination and a genius for calculating angles & inches at warp speed are the ones who have the most face time with the little people. And while the sprouts may not go glassy-eyed and beg us for an autograph each time we average Joe & Janes enter a room, the truth remains that the little buggers are watching us to see who we respect; what we value and how we conduct ourselves when no body's watching. To paraphrase the ancient Buddhist philosophy: "Wherever we go, there they are." 

And what a sorry sight...

Setting aside the spectacle of grown-men & women tearing at the flesh of fallen heroes when super-novas like Tiger Woods, Lance Armstrong and Pete Rose fall to earth-- I worry about the hypocrisy of our behaving like jackals while telling kids that the #1 Rule of good sportsmanship that you never kick a man when he is down.

As for that other chestnut from the annals of fair play: what are kids to think when basic tenets like "May the best man win" are trampled by sports columnists like Chris Smith of forbes.com? When I read articles like his "Three Reasons for LeBron Haters To Be Happy" I can't help wondering when the Role Model Police will cry foul, because the shift from a fan's hoping that the player they love will win, to praying that the player they hate will lose is as pervasive as it is troubling. Of course, the NBA holds its members to a higher standard, but imagine the fallout were a baller to tweet something as petty about a sports writer.

http://www.forbes.com/sites/chrissmith/2012/06/22/three-reasons-for-lebron-haters-to-be-happy/

And what of the Fair Weather Friends whose love for a hometown hero can corrode into abject hatred in a matter of seconds? Quick! Somebody cover the kids' eyes and ears because when James had the temerity to state "I'm going to take my talents to South Beach" it immediately became apparent that there's a very thin line between fan loyalty and their feelings of ownership over the individual. "I can never forgive him for what he did to [Cleveland]" whines Cavalier fan Michael Periatt in an article from The Lantern, which begins "I'm a LeBron Hater. I despise him." Nice.

http://www.thelantern.com/sports/commentary-a-lebron-hater-s-reaction-to-the-king-s-ring-1.2878714#.T-YPWitYvvb

To his credit, Periatt does acknowledge that he cannot "objectively discuss anything" related to James, and I gathered as much from his opening salvo. But what I have trouble understanding is why a fan's wishes ought to preclude a player's autonomy. Given America's sordid past with slavery, the parallels between Periatt's thinking and that of Ole Massa's from the Land of Cotton are pretty hard to overstate. Moreover, in light our culture's high esteem for man's inalienable right to self-determination... not to mention a pursuit of fame & fortune... one might think James would have been lauded for making a good business decision at his tender age. Instead, the takeaway for kids was that fan loyalty is fleeting, James's talents would be neither acknowledged nor applauded if he took them to Miami and that the rules of the game were on a sliding scale-- according to what's best for the fan as opposed to the person who has actually ground out years of hard work to make all their hoop dreams come true. 

Talk about forfeiting an opportunity for a teachable moment! As well as missing the boat on giving praise where it is actually due. Am I the only one who believes that the professional athlete's hard work ethic in the age of entitlement is precisely what makes him or her extraordinary? Given the mixed messages, can we blame the child who concludes that the old maxim of How You Play the Game is anything but a bunch of malarkey?

Lastly, while I've only attended games at Turner Field, Madison Square Garden and AmericanAirlines Arena a handful of times, the experience of watching fans berate players from the seats near the floor left me in shock and awe each time. Where do ticket-holders get off addressing anyone with such vitriol? Maybe alcohol is to blame, but between the insensitivity of spewing profanity when a player's parents, wife and/or kids may be in earshot, and the stupidity required to do so while within arms-reach of testosterone-fueled, muscle-bound gladiators-- some of whom, it's worth noting, have anger-management issues of their own-- is really puzzling to me. So when the sports press gleefully drags Ron Artest over the coals for brawling with drunken fans in the stands at the infamous Malice in the Palace  it makes me want to call a time out and demand that somebody contextualize the story and tell kids the whole truth.

For all our claims to the contrary, I don't believe any of the chatter about role models and what athletes owe us have anything to do with kids. But they are a perfect reflection of a terribly flawed value system that comes to light every time those we put on a pedestal (for all the wrong reasons) fall from their unearned perches... which were too high to begin with. Conversely, I can't help thinking of the countless men and women of character we might be overlooking because they spend more time warming a bench than putting up big numbers and posterizing their opponents.

Not to mention the real super heroes who grind it out night after night-- telling their little ones to eat their spinach... do their homework... and brush their teeth before going to bed.

Can I get a witness?

I Beg Your Pardon?

When the latest example of Americans Gone Wild in the presence of our commander-in-chief crossed my radar I had to go to the videotape to see it for myself. And like past transgressions, this one was not pretty.

 http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/election-2012/post/neil-munro-of-daily-caller-interrupts-obamas-speech-reactions-on-twitter/2012/06/15/gJQAEeGPfV_blog.html

In the clip, an off-camera reporter named Neil Munro from the Daily Caller can be heard repeatedly interrupting President Obama during an immigration policy announcement in the Rose Garden. I wouldn't go so far as to characterize the outburst as "heckling" or "racist", as have Munro's colleagues in the press corps, but it was obnoxious.

Here's a brief excerpt in case you missed it:

Munro: "Why'd you favor foreigners over Americans?"

Obama: "Excuse me, Sir, but it's not time for questions."

Munro: "Are you going to take questions?"

Obama: "Not while I'm speaking."

As usual, Mr. Obama maintained his composure and grace in spite of the etiquette breach and brazen disrespect for the Office of the Presidency. This, in spite of Munro's casual posture, literally and figuratively, at a formal affair. And in spite of the fact that the reporter, who is an Irish-born naturalized American citizen, knows better than most that "foreigner" and "American" need not be diametrically opposed concepts (not to mention how incendiary such language can be in an already heated debate) yet willfully chose to play the role of skunk at the garden party.

Unfortunately, this was just another day on the job for Barack Obama. 

Like many, I admire the president's Cool Hand Luke-under-pressure instincts. I really do. By the same token, am I the only person who fantasizes that one of these days the South Side of Chicago will rise up in our leader when provoked? That Obama's less-temperate twin, Barry From the Block, might emerge and open up a can of whup ass at the first sign of impertinence? 

Or, at the very least, that quicker than POTUS could say "I beg your pardon?!" the next time some miscreant dares address the president in a manner not befitting his status the Secret Service would toss them out of the Rose Garden and back under their bridge with the rest of the trolls.


That's not too much to ask, is it?

Alas, t'is...

My juvenile revenge fantasies notwithstanding, I am my mother's child and she instilled the belief that two wrongs don't make a right. Besides, the more temperate part of my brain knows that if the president were to mirror the social cues of South Carolina's Joe "You Lie!" Wilson, Arizona's Jan "I'll Stick My Finger Wherever I Damn Well Please" Brewer, or Neil "Watch Me Make & Defile My Name, Reputation and Profession in One Fell Scoop" Munro, we'd all be damned to life under that bridge. 

And that destiny, dear reader, is one change none of us can afford to believe in.