Tag: Oliver Cabell

My big birthday wish list (aren’t I worth it?)

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

My birthday’s fast approaching. Here’s what you can get me (thanks!):

1. The hefty new book “Oscar Wars: A History of Hollywood in Gold, Sweat, and Tears” by New Yorker staffer Michael Schulman. It sounds frivolous, and a lot of it surely is, but it also promises a chunky serving of cultural history about the loved and lambasted Academy Awards, dusted with tidbits, like the similarities between two of my all-time favorite movies, “All About Eve” and “Sunset Boulevard.” Reviews say it’s compulsively readable, if you’re into that stuff, and I am. The damn thing costs $40. 

2. Monkey 47 — A deliciously complicated and original gin that’s out of my price range by a good 30 dollars. I generally wait to get this bottle as a gift. So I say to you: Go for it!

3. A pair of Black Ghost sneakers from Italian brand Oliver Cabell. They run a gulping $270 (that’s with a $68-off promotion code). But these “fashion-forward” kicks are true beauts: top-notch black leather matched with clear rubber outsoles — not white, black or gum, but clear. They’ll probably rack me with flesh-shredding blisters, but what’s searing pain in the name of unspeakable hotness?

4. Dinner for two at four-star, impossible-to-get-into restaurant Le Bernardin in New York, where you can nosh an eight-course tasting menu with caviar and langoustines for a piddling $298 per person. I promise you a doggy bag. Maybe.

5. A round-trip ticket to Istanbul in the fall. Expensive, you say? Hey, economy class is just fine. I like pretzels.

6. Any ritzy anti-aging serum that’s not hawked by Gwyneth Paltrow or Jennifer Lopez, those obscenely compensated airbrushed quacks. I’ve got a couple of crow’s feet that are absolutely mocking me. 

7. I chose seven gifts because my birthday lands on April 7. It’s a neat number, and a lucky one, too. But it’s awfully small. So how about $700 in cash, please. Cool.

Best. Birthday. Ever!

Sole searching

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

Sneaker shopping — it happened. And I’m sore. I have remorse. Yet it was exciting. Like a bar fight. 

About every other year I feel the need for new kicks, specifically sneakers, or, as we called them in California, tennis shoes. 

This year is the year for new ones, as I’ve been wearing out my Stan Smith Adidas (still gleaming white and criminally comfortable) and I put aside a pair of blue Nothing New sneakers, a wincing waste, despite their reasonable price tag and the fact they’re made of recycled materials. (Specifically, water bottles.) I’m just not feeling them.

So, I am lacking. I forgot to mention the retro Reeboks I wore for a year and finally got sick of (they are fugly). And the black Reeboks that sprouted a substantial and premature hole in the toe. So, really, I am, truly, lacking.

I don’t spend a lot on shoes. Until I do. But first: I don’t. For example, those Reeboks I got sick of? $45. The Stan Smiths? $70. The Nothing News? $98. 

When I start grazing $100 for shoes, I quiver. But, as clichés go, you get what you pay for. So I am, so to speak, stepping it up. I have help. One helper is my brother, a well-connected, dedicated, sort of fiendish shopaholic. He has taste. Sometimes expensive taste. But, looking at his feet, it pays off. 

I tried shopping on my own recently, and I tanked. I came this close to ordering a pair of Adidas Sambas, then a pair of Adidas Gazelles. I was being uber-retro, and uber-cheap. Worse, I actually ordered a pair of retro-style Asics sneakers, then promptly cancelled the order, red-faced, shame-faced. 

Then my brother pointed me to a spiffy pair of New Balance that I rather immediately fancied. So I bought them. They were pricey. Like double what I usually pay. But I dig them. (And so does my dentist, who gushed about them, and assumed I was a “sneaker-head,” which she professes herself to be. That almost makes it all worth it.)

I got the bug. A month or so later, my brother showed me some kicks by the Italian-made boutique brand Oliver Cabell — I’d never heard of them either. Scanning the shoes online, I noted several compelling pairs that were unique, unusual, slick, stylish. And queasily expensive. I ordered a pair anyway thinking that will be that for a couple years.

Ha. Once I shelved the Reeboks with the hole in them, I realized I no longer had a pair of basic black sneakers, my go-to style. And there, sitting regal and righteous, were a pair of black leather Oliver Cabells that made my heart race. Now. There. We. Go.

I bought them, but it was a struggle. My brain reeled with drama and guilt. My wallet wheezed. The price, too shameful to share, is stressing me out. The kicker: I ordered them a week ago and they won’t be ready for at least two more weeks. They are “currently being made” in Italy, I am told. A little suspense with my sneakers. I really need that. 

So, for me, shopping for sneakers is more than an act. It’s a procedure, prolonged and painstaking. Like surgery. And, lately, almost as costly. I need to find a better way. I am not waiting for the other shoe to drop.