So we're hanging upside down in the closet, drinking our respective drinks. We might venture out to see Marc's show, but I don't know about that. He's very milk-and-cookies. I bet he has his milk and cookies every night whilst reading this blog, hmm? Thinking: how can I copy Karl today?
And then he doesn't send me tickets to his show. No matter, though. We can just walk on in, and sit down. Maybe we'll sit on the runway and I'll listen to one of my ipods if the soundtrack's not good.
I mean, I'm Karl Lagerfeld. Nobody will stop me, hm? They'll just stand back and look scared as this defrocked priest, this pope of the stylish, this god of fashion walks past. Then, of course, the groupies will occur. They always do. I cannot have a bath without groupies coming up through the drainpipes! This will slow down the show by a couple of hours as I hold court.
I think it's atrociously rude that nobody sent me tickets to this "New York Fashion Week". Although, we all know the reason, hmm?
They're all scared of what the Kaiser will think. It's like a adult's tea party- you call them "charity dinners", I believe. This is really just an extension of this- with a bunch of adults playing dress up, hmm? "Oooh, what will Karl think if he saw this? Would he even allow us to call it fashion?".
So the goal is to keep me away from the hideous atrocities the New York kids call fashion.
This isn't to say all New York fashion is bad. Some of it is quite good, hmm? But since I have X-ray vision behind those dark French-government engineered glasses, I can see your underwear. I see everything.
To quote Rimbaud's poem "Dance of the Hanged Men":