STILETTO. PUMPS. ON. THE NET.

As a fan of both Marcel Duchamp and Miuccia Prada, I am newly in love with the Virtual Shoe Museum: an art gallery where footwear is functional and conceptual, and broken up into categories for use: Birth, Death, Marriage, Prop. I am particularly fond of the Stereo Stilettos, – already got the beat in my feet, why not make it literal. (And whoever made the pumps that become flats with a flick has almost certainly ridden the NYC subway. God bless ’em.) The guy who sculpts furniture as nude heeled women is interesting – literalizing the “fuck-me pump” and, perhaps, making some feminist commentary about the nature of the stiletto (or not – sexyfurniture.nl?! really? lacks subtlety, but I guess it’s direct). Though as a functional table this flawed – who would want a wooden vag staring at them while they’re having toast? (Don’t answer that.)
Long Michelle Obama feature in the September issue of Vogue – I read half of it and accidentally left it at a picnic in Prospect Park (we took it out my bag to marvel at its size and I believe I left it somewhere between a cucumber finger sandwich and a red plastic cup with cigarette butts and chicken wing bones in it). Yes, back to Michelle Obama – halfway through, I haven’t figured out what’s up with the writer, Rebecca Johnson, who alerted up my “fool meter” by the fourth graff with the precocious/condescending /fake objective language that is the hallmark of certain Vogue regulars – but Michelle Obama is the shit, carried Maureen Dowd like what, and wouldn’t let the Vogue hair guy give her bed-head for the photo shoot, cause like, duh.
I will say something more insightful when I re-purchase the new Vogue, which by the way weighs approx. 800 lbs. and should come with wheels and a strap.