A children's story for the times.

There was once a silly but very powerful fashion editor who only wore Balmain and Margiela and other fashion brands that're not designed by Karl Lagerfeld (officially, anyway. Everybody knows that Margiela and such are simply the old designs of Karl Lagerfeld that he threw out). She was French, yet she did not own much Chanel. Sometimes, she would walk by one of the little French cafes and the ladies who weren't acquainted with methods of Not Eating, would laugh at this very silly fashion editor.

"How come you don't wear Chanel, Carine?", they taunted.
"We thought you were French! French Girls wear Chanel!"

And so on they went; but Carine thought she was better than these ladies who actually ate food anyway, because she edited a fashion magazine that was read only by the goths that exist in the sewers of France, and American fashionistas who assume that their French counterparts read it (whilst in actual fact, the French fashionistas were too busy blowing their noses on Hermès scarves. There was a cold going around France at this point, you see.)

Now one day Carine was walking along a Very Fashionable Street, where she noticed that the Balmain t-shirt she was going to buy had been marked down to Nine Hundred and Fifty Dollars from one thousand dollars.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed in French. There must be a depression! Fashion must be collapsing! It's the end of the world as we know it!

So she went to her little offices, and told her staff:
THERE IS A LE DEPRESSION! ALERT ALL THE PAPERS!

The staff and herself marched down the Very Fashionable Street and met up with a photographer who took pictures of people for "Street Style".
"I am not a street urchin!" shouted Carine. "If you are going to take a picture of me, you better call it something else!....Like "Non-Street Urchin Style", or "Scary Cat People Style," or something."
"Who said I was going to take a picture of you?
"Well, really now. I'm the editor of French Vogue."
"..."
"DOT DOT DOT?! Is that all you can say....to that?"
"...?"
"KARL! YOU'VE USED THE DRAMATIC DEVICE OF DOT DOT DOT (AN ALLUSION TO THE WORK OF FRENCH WRITER COLETTE) BEFORE IN YOUR BLOG, YOU LAZY BASTARD!"
"Fine then. Oh my! How I am amazed to find myself in the presence of such a force of fashion! What can I do for you, scary person?"
"Well, you know that the world is collapsing?"
"No!"
"It is! I saw a Balmain t-shirt for only $950 today!"
"They don't have dollars in France."
"Most of our readership isn't French so it doesn't matter."
"Are you alluding to French Vogue, or Karl Lagerfeld's Guide to Life?"
"We're breaking the fourth wall a lot today, aren't we Gustav?"
"My name is not Gustav."
"Next we'll be calling you Estrogen."
"Are you sure it was only $950?"
"Yes! It's a sure sign of the oncoming depression."
"This is simply shocking!"
"It's a scandal!"
"It's an outrage!"
"We must go and tell more people!"
"We must go and tell King Karl!"

They gathered up all of Paris (even the homeless), and went to knock on King Karl's door.
"Hello", said Karl.
"There's a depression! There's a depression!"
"Who said?"
"Carine".
"I could help with this, hmm?"
"What do we have to do?" shouted the crowd of several million stylish Parisians.
"Actually, you're all too demode. I know a fable like this is meant to have some sort of moral, but you all just bore me."

At this point the sky fell. The crowd, once silent, kept shouting about the depression. Karl sighed and went back into his closet.

Karl Comic, no.2

Letter to those cats who copy my style

Hey man,

A groovy chick I know, told me about all these cats who are copying me on lookbook dot nu. I don't think that's too groovy, man. You gotta be groovy or leave, you dig?

I mean, it's about the truth, you know. I can't tell you the truth. You gotta look truth right in the eye and see it's hopeless desolation and lonliness, 'cause nobody's gonna give truth a pipe to light. It's just all there, sitting on the shelf on it's lonesome. It's about truth and evil and clocks and watermelons. All that kind of thing.

So look, man. And when I say man, I mean this man. There he lies, this poor beggar. This celluloid knight of black and white. It's just not groovy to copy me! It's just, not where it's at. You gotta lotta nerve to be copying me, you know that? You gotta lotta nerve!

Man. Who even cares. You're like Donovan, or someone. You're like a naked person covered by all your lies. You don't even know who you are! 'Cause you're all too busy being pretty being me; and you've lost whatever sort of cat you used to be. Man.

You're not too groovy lookbook. You need a shave.

ipod therefore ipod

There's a new ipod up. It is number 6. Enjoy, hm?

I thought I'd write something about that Kanye West person, who's been acting as my stalker at the couture shows. Everything I go to, he's there. And he wanted photos with me-- as everything does, so I gave him a whole ten minutes of my time and then he blogged about it.
Possible alternate titles for his post:
"TEN MINUTES WITH KARL IS TEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN"
"TEN MINUTES WITH A REAL GENIUS IS A LIFETIME OF NOT BEING GOOD ENOUGH"
"TEN MINUTES: THE BEST OF MY LIFE"
"TEN MINUTES: THE POINT OF MY LIFE"

So on and so forth. He was very nice, of course; and Anna didn't make a go for him. But I can't help being reminded of a little kid in a candy shop. A little kid with ADD and his daddy's wallet. "Ooh Meester Karl, can I have that one! Ooh Meester Karl, what about this one!"
Elegance, boy. It makes people think you know more than them.

What does he do? One of my assistants tells me he does "music", so I listened to his albums. He does rap, you know. And he sings like a robot on his new album-- a kind of "Blood on the Tracks" for the massive egotists of the world.

Example:
"I'm so wonderful/I've got Louis Vuitton/Why don't you love me?/I'm a genius".

Actually, he doesn't sing that at all. Or he might, I can't remember. I was listening to 3 other albums at the same time. It's more efficient that way, hmm? I do the same with movies and with people (the good thing about people is that you don't have to hire them out, and other people don't eat popcorn around you when you're interacting with them).

Anyway, I wonder if he does children's parties.

Karl Comic, no.1

I have decided to create a comic strip, hmm? It will be updated whenever I feel like. You must click to enlarge.

Interview with PAPERMAG

There's an interview with me here. It's about the recent couture collection I put out, etc etc. I suggest you read it, hmm?
Thank you to the darling Julia, who interviewed me. Flowers will be sent to your closet soon.

Mother

Karl, Karl
Lagerfeld, Lagerfeld
Genius designer he:
Took great
care of his mother,
though he was only 70.
Karl Karl said to his mother,
"Mother", he said, said he;
"You must never go down,
to buy some Chanel,
if you don't go down with me."

Karl, Karl,
Lagerfeld's mother,
Put on a Sonia Rykiel gown.
Karl, Karl Lagerfeld's mother,
drove to buy some Chanel.
Karl, Karl Lagerfeld's mother,
said to herself, she she:
"I can get right down,
to the end of the Chanel,
and be back in time for a tree".

Queen Viv
Put up a telegraph,
"LOST OR STOLEN OR FAKE!
KARL, KARL, LAGERFELD'S MOTHER,
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID;
LAST SEEN, WANDERING VAUGELY,
TWIRLING A SILVER CANE,
SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN,
TO SHOP AT CHANEL,
COUTURE DRESS REWARD!"

Karl, Karl,
Lagerfeld, Lagerfeld,
(Commonly known as King)
Told his,
Obidient Public,
Not to go blaming him.
Karl, Karl,
Said to his mother,
"Mother", he said, said he:
"You must never go down to the end of Chanel,
without interviewing me."

Karl, Karl,
Lagerfeld's mother,
Hasn't been heard of since.
Queen Viv said she was sorry,
So did Anna and Prince.
Queen Viv,
(somebody told me),
Said to a man she knew:
If people go down, to the end of Chanel,
well, what can anybody do?

(quietly now, building to a crescendo.)

Karl, Karl
Lagerfeld, Lagerfeld
Genius designer he:
Took great
care of his mother,
though he was only 70.
Karl Karl said to his mother,
"Mother", he said, said he;
"You must never go down,
to buy some Chanel,
if you don't go down with me."

Karl-Fu

Hello, young grasshopper. There are moves which are not in the traditional Karl-Fu lookbook; and they're not in there for a reason. However, today I shall explain them-- too many people who don't follow Karl-Fu are using these moves, and it irritates me. The art is something to be not made a joke of, hmm?

The first forbidden move is "Pigeon Stance", named after the failed shoemaker L. Pigeon, who had the habit of standing in this manner before he was assassinated by "The Sole". Example here.
Note how her feet are turned inwards; as if she is a pigeon. This is not a good stance. You may think it makes you look adorable, but in fact it makes your power very much weaker; and your ability to strut is severely compromised.
Oh, and it makes you look like a tosser. That too, hmm?

The second forbidden move is "Downwards Gaze", a move invented by a very ugly person who was too ugly to look at people. There is another school of thought that believes it was invented by "The Shameful Teenager", or "The Drug Addict in Court". Make up your own mind, hmm?
Downwards gaze looks like this.
Note how she utilizes both "Pigeon Stance" and "Downwards Gaze" at the same time. This person is a student of the dark arts, hmm? We do not do downwards gaze simply because it stops our ability to stare and intimidate people. Use sunglasses instead.

The third and final forbidden move that I shall speak about today is known as the "You Fuck Karl Off" stance (yes, I do swear. It's terribly vulgar, but there's really nothing else to describe this). Here is an example, hmm? Now look at this person. His clothes are too big, of course. But his whole expression, his whole attitude says: "I AM SO SERIOUS ABOUT FASHION AND I HAVE PICTURES OF RAF SIMONS ON MY WALL".
Yes, this person probably has a room lined with pictures of Raf Simons; a room where he practices curling up into a ball, as if he's some sort of portable vacuum cleaner or something. I don't care if this guy wears black and white every day, he takes it too seriously.

I would also like to say that I obviously hate this Lookbook-- AKA the dating site for hipsters. It is demode. We already there's many demode people in the world; do they really need to be put into one place, hmm?

I have outdone myself

It is not often when I say to myself; "My, my Karl, you are a genius, hmm?"; but my latest collection-- the Chanel couture collection, well. It's simply brilliant, no? I've already got more that 500 emails in my inbox telling me how genius it is, but I thought I'd just dictate to an assistant to write a blog post about how great I am.

So anyway. That's that collection. Onto the next one, hmm? If you read as fast as me, the paragraph above probably took you about 5 seconds to read. 5 seconds wasted! Because it is the past! Of course, if you're like me you probably went back in time and reclaimed those 5 seconds doing something useful-- like designing a collection, or something.

There's an interview with me about the collection that I did with Julia, and I'll link to that when it's up. Again; the collection's in the past. I no longer remember it, as of now. Anna may amputate the past with use of large amounts of vodka; I can just do it.

Above is a picture of a flower at the Chanel show, which I have now forgotten. However, the flowers were made by sushi chefs from Japan, who studied in the hills for a decade cutting grass into flowers and painting them with brushes as thin as a strand of DNA, creating the illusion of a flowered hill. I may post more pictures from the show I've already forgotten (what show?) later, hmm?

This is what the demode ones are not getting

The sole point of this post is to make those who're attending the Chanel show superior; and that's just fine. Obviously, the idea is for readers (who are probably invited), to show this post to their demode friends from lookbook, various clubs, etc etc. If you could photograph their jealous expressions and send them in, that'd be great, hmm?

Communist Fever

As many of you know, I'm able to be in two places at once. It's a skill of mine. A talent, you could say. And whilst I was on the moon I was also attending the fashion shows; and one of the shows I went to was the Dries van Noten mens show.

What a show, hmm? It's been said that fashion reflects the times; and that clocks also reflect the times; and that clocks are mechanical or electronic and can therefore break. So, clocks that are slow, fast, or broken can change the times which therefore changes fashion. I believe this is what has happened at Dries van Noten (who also happens to be my garderner), in that Dries van Noten's clock has been replaced with a Cold War era one, or perhaphs a Chairman Mao clock. So imagine Dries' workroom, which is covered with pictures from National Geographic, and imagine this steel clock with font that's slightly too sharp (as if looking at it will cut you sharper than a Dior Homme coat), and imagine Dries watching the clock, and knowing that the economy is in bad shape. He doesn't watch CNN or ADHD or CNS or any of those other random assortments of letters, because he's mostly too busy gardening. But that morning, the cleaning lady who we will suppose to be a rabbid communist, replaced the workroom clock with a standard issue communist clock. And Dries starts getting ideas into his head.

Namely, this collection he put out-- the 2010 collection- is a communist collection. Dries van Noten has been influenced by World Fashion Communism, a force made up of...erm....of. Well. That's exactly it. You don't know who could be a fashion communist. That well dressed man who's knocking your knickers out could be a fashion communist; the Prada woman could be a fashion communist; even I could be a fashion communist.
Actually, I can tell you right now- this is the straight talk catwalk- that I'm not a communist. Because I don't even pretend to think we're all equal. If I wrote Animal Farm; it would be an allegory for Karl world, where everything is not equal. There would be no animals or people because animals and people are smelly. It'd just consit of I making random quotes every few pages.

So, help crush fashion communism-- and help keep elitism in style. Remember, you're better than other people; but if you buy more Chanel that other people, you will be even better and get that feel-good sense of superiority. Ah, isn't it nice, hmm?

WAYS TO CRUSH FASHION COMMUNISM:
1.) Buy fur. The rarer the animal, the better.
2.) Buy Chanel. Couture is best.
3.) Buy a DEMODE t-shirt.
4.) Buy perfume made from the blood of virgins.

That is all.

Back

Hello little tiddleywinks; Uncle is back from the dead, hmm? Actually I was never dead. People would say "Oh, he's copying Yves" if I decided to be dead. They would be all "Ooh, Karl's such a copycat; Yves was so much better; Coco rest his soul*"

So it is my choice to be pro-life; not because I'm some over-weight pink-skinned woman wearing a too tight t-shirt from a team-building exercises she did 10 years ago, and hasn't washed since. Not because I'm this Obama fellow also; or some other positive person. It's mostly because Yves is dead. Although lots of other people are dead too, when you think about it. Most people are dead. So it's a lot more exclusive to be alive, hmm? Well. To not be one of those starving children in Africa who I don't understand-- I mean, I see these starving children in Africa all the time when I walk into a place which has a television. Don't they get paid for these television appearances? It just does not make sense, no?

Anyway. I am back. Not back in black; or back in even black and white. Just back. For instance, if you look at my picture at the top of my blog; I am facing with my back towards you. That sort of back, but present nonetheless.

*How Coco Chanel would rest his soul, I don't know. The woman was the original town bike. Not just any town bike, but a quilted Chanel one. In fact, the Chanel bike we sell is actually a metaphor for Coco Chanel. (Who says Chanel's not an "intellectual" label, hmm? Whilst Rei's busy putting hearts on t-shirts like some insane Pokemon character; I'm busy making metaphors for pretentious art students who can't afford Chanel anyway. Actually I don't, really. I just draw pictures and get my little French seamstresses to make some dresses and such. I'm simply a dressmaker. No, I am simply a producer of disposable goods. No, I'm simply a portable-Jesus maker. That makes me sound akin to a "Juice Squeezer" or "Vacuum Cleaner". I'm simply a genius. Not "Genius Vacuum Cleaner 5000", or "Juice Genius"; because those products sound inelegant and filthy. And I am not filthy. I am in fact, a cat. Yes children, I clean myself like a cat. But cats don't wear suits. And they lick themselves. I only lick Chanel. So hmm.)

Four Short Films about the Moon

There's internet on the moon, so I'm having my assistant hook it up and send my messages.
I'm on the moon, by the way (obviously, hmm?). There's no air here, so the assistants that were human now happen to be deceased. Luckily, my assistant HAL does not need to breath, so we still have one left. (There was another, but let's just say he had...an accident).

Fact one: The moon is not quilted. We are in the process of quilting it. We have shovels and such. We'll get Chanel store assistants to do it; they're a very special breed of human that's so dull that even the air is bored by them. It will have a large Chanel logo engraved into the surface of it, right in the middle.

Fact two: I am now convinced that 90% of the world is brain damaged; judging by the messages I mostly receive on facebook. You people want to be my friends, hmm? I don't want to be your friend! I don't even remember you, from that brief time we allegedly met in Le Sept. I don't even want you to message me! I have lots of friends; and they're not stupid like you, hmm? I'm not in need of human sacrifices, so you're useless to me. Useless!

Fact three: Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie lingers on the moon. He is good at poker.

Fact four: On the moon, leggings simply fly off.

We're going to be flying back to Earth shortly, and we shall land with the moon. Then I will be able to talk to the moonlight again, hmm?

Yes, please.

Dear President Obama (or whomever I need to talk to),

Considering I mobilized the chic and the stylish to elect you as the next president, I would really love it if you could make me the Ambassador to the UK.

I would do an excellent job, as I am British, you see.  I come from a long line of British socialites, obviously.

This is a list of requirements that I shall need once placed in my position at the Court of St. James:

1.  An in-house decorator.  I think your choice is suitable, but I require someone a bit more daring.  Sabrina Bignami works perfectly.  She's expensive, but I'm worth it.

2. A stable of chic, rail-thin assistants.  This shouldn't be surprising.

3. A fleet of these.

4. A credit account at Models 1, London.  They have some beautiful underwear models.  I need a few to stand around my office and... dust.  Yes, dust.

5. A sizable fashion budget.  As an Ambassador, I must look fantastic at all times.  My accountant will tally up that figure and get back to you.  It may take him a few weeks.

All in all, President Obama, I feel as if I would be the best Ambassador to the UK that America has ever had.  I mean, I'm Anna.  I'm already the best.

Love,

Anna

Rei's haiku which isn't very haiku-ish but i'm rei goddamit

Karl's a rocket, man
He don't have no, wife
He's a rocket, man

And I think it's gonna be a long long time, man
Long time, man
Flying to Moonlight not on a jet, man

Write me one instead, Moonlight, man
Wite it on paper and a pen, man
Like Ginsberg, man
Like Dylan, man
Like those 60's fools with their paper and their pens, man

Is there any real poets on the moon, man?
Man, I need some medicines, man
Do they have medicines in space?
Do they have the ones that keep you awake, man?
'Cause Karl don't sleep

Are there polka dots on the moon, man?
Do they know what it's like to be so avant garde?
(So so avant garde)
Can you get tan on the moon?

You can't be fat in space, man
'Cause you'll just explode,
Into a million little pieces
and be on Oprah
Like James Frey, man

Million littles pieces floating through space,
Like Mr. Tamborine man, man
Smokerings and other spacey stuff,
Does Jimi Hendrix live in space?
Is he a rocket man, man?

Send a letter, man, oh man
Send a letter Moonlight to Karl,
He misses you so,
It's like he don't have no collar
And I'm Rei Kawakubo, man

Karl's a rocket, man

Script, part 3

Scene: The stage is quiet; the lights are dimmed; everybody's gone but Karl, who stands alone in a spotlight. Music plays, but it's too soft to really make out whether it's Beethoven or Joy Division. It's not Britney Spears. Karl has a skull in his hand, for no real reason. It is not a Damien Hirst skull. Karl puts dark sunglasses on the skull, and places it on the ground.

Karl: May I say how chic an evening it seems to be; from a casual observers viewpoint. But from my view, I can see; that all is not well and good. For I am trapped in a closet; a closet wide and big. A closet full of many things, but devoid of the moonlight's shining seamless light that passes through and wanes beneath the river. I remember, I remember; the light of the moon upon my lips. I remember, I remember; conversations quixotic and ready to shift. Upon my Germanic brow I frown; for I realize I need something after all. Non, I do not need a thing- but I desire it as I desired Lindsay (now Lindsay is old and demode; whilst you, Moonlight, are as ageless as a stormy blonde sleeping Madonna. Nay, not the Madonna of the records- not the Madonna who pretends to be English but really is as tacky as the house the Elvis built. But the Madonna upon the rocks, the one that sways and swims.
Send a letter to me, Moonlight dear. Write me, Moonlight dear.

Anna: Karl, take me to the moon? I promise not to drink the vodka. For I have heard of your red rocket; and I have heard of moon gin.
Karl: Moon gin! The fabled beer! The fabled alcohol of old. Now I see the goal is two-ply: bring back the moon and obtain it's gold.
Anna: What gold? I want gin. I want 120% alcohol!
Karl: It's a metaphor, my dear. "Old" rhymes with "gold", rather than "gin".
Anna: Yet "gin" rhymes with "swims" which is what I shall do when I obtain my gin.
Karl: How simian.
Anna: I shall swim in my gin like a drunken Quinn and dance the dance of the solid-gold bins; and shout "chin chin", to the cheese-alien fatties on the moon, and pass....
[Anna passes out]

[Rei now reads out a Haiku]

Good Work, Tommy

I really wanted to keep the whole script thing flowing, without any posts in between; but this photo of glorious me at the jak and jil blog is just too tempting.
Even though the habit at jak and kil to TYPE IS CAPITAL LETTERS drives me insane (typing in capital letters must be like heroin to them), I suppose I forgive them (or rather, I forgive Tommy.) Good work, people.

As for the play, Belle and Tavi will be in it. It will in radio form first; so if your voice is as chic as I look in that photo, email me at fakekarl@gmail.com

More of the script tomorrow, hmm? I'd also like to point out that the DEMODE shirts are in unisex. I will be gone for around two weeks after tomorrow. I need to sketch another 70 years worth of collections; and I hope to travel to Qatar and those other forigen countries that buy the joke Chanel products. I'm actually rather fond of Qatar, you know. Their first lady dresses great. All in green. Carla can have her Dior, and she can eat her Dior too. I love a first lady that dresses in green. So grape-like. A....certain, well, a certain someone introduced me to her. So maybe we will hear about Karl's adventures in Qatar and Other Places when I get back, hmm?

Script, part 2.

Moonlight: Let us dance then, let us swim; in the midnight hour. Let us hold our metaphorical hands, and dance under moonlit shower. Shall the foes come upon; and shall jackets quibble. For you and I, we're not of the sun; we are no men of mud. As I sweep upon the ballroom; quilted in white and silver. And as you tango to the thriller; you know Billie Jean's not my son. For when did a moon ever have a son? (Or a daughter for that matter). But Karl, I do claim you're the one.
--

PROPER END OF SCENE ONE. SET CHANGE. KARL IS STANDING THERE, SURROUNDED MY ADORING ADMIRERS.

Scene 2: Karl is surrounded by admirers, and he holds court. It is inside the villa; and everybody is thin. Yet, Karl is bored by their conversation.

Admirer 1: Karl, with your collar so tight: will you drink this gin?
Admirer 2: I must protest, for I believe what Kaiser Karl needs is some railroad medicine.
Admirer 3: Ye cannot mix them, ye cannot hold them; 'less you want a punched cigarette.
Admirer 2: Yet who here holds a cigarette in time? For they're not healthy even though they're slim.
Admirer 3: Young lass, this is true. Did you hear 'bout baby's new rags? I hear they're jeweled and she's got a new fine diplomat.
Admirer 1: Oh, that she does; that she does. An' she's got a leopard skin pillbox hat.
Karl: I don't have a problem with that; as long as I know if it's really the expensive kind.
Admirer 1: Why yes, it is; it cost two gold coins; and a Chanel jacket at that.
Admirer 1, 2 and 3 all together: BLESS CHANEL! BLESS CHANEL! BLESS HER LITTLE BOB.
Karl: But what about me? High collars one, two, three? Rings I count twenty? And red, white and blue shoe strings I count none.
Admirer 1, 2 and 3 all together: BLESS KARL! BLESS KARL! BLESS HIS RINGS AND SKINNY JEANS.
Admirer 2: Ye, the skinny jeans are fine; so very divine. Anna would drink them with her wine.
Admirer 1: Low calories! Low calories! Skinny jeans how no calories. High fat they're not; the fatties dare not wear.
Admirer 3: Look at how I wear my skinny jeans; how I strut upon the ground in them. See how the demode ones run away; as I come asunder.
Anna: Oh did somebody mention gin, my phony friends? Did somebody mention gin. Oh how I crave a drop of the liquor; how I drive for a drink of booze. Allow me to take that gin, and put it somewhere other. Like a magician and his magic trick: I shall make it disappear.
Admirer 1: Vanish?
Admirer 2: Evaporate?
Admirer 3: Cease to exist?
Anna: Why yes, of course! And behold the empty bottle. For I have gurgled and I have guzzled; it's magic liquid out of. But now I must move on, for that magic malevolent maven; that madame of the moors; that alcohol that warms my tum; is here no more.
Admirer 1, 2, 3 together: Farewell dear Anna! Farewell! Travel well, and good, and chic. And may you always be thin; and may your wishes all come true.
Karl: Anna, however will I cope? Without you there is none.
Anna: Talk to the jackets and talk to the logos, and your beloved moonlight dear! For I am not there, I'm drunk. I'm out of it, stone cold.
[Anna passes out]

Karl: Sans Anna, sans diet Coke, sans Moonlight, sans everything. Where am I to go? (I am trapped in a closet with the Parisian blues again.)
I must build a rocket. One not big; or heavy; or fat. A rocket set for the moon; a rocket set to move the moon and to pull the moon, and to set it in the closet.
A red rocket; if I am to see the moonlight again. A rocket red; quilted rocket; set for the stars but bound for my closet.

Script, Part one: Moonlight

Scene: Moonlight sets over a villa in France; we see the moonlight strike the water and shimmer off, as if it were an impressionist painting. In the background a piano plays forebodingly in C# minor, whilst in the distance we can see the silhouette of a Chanel jacket rip through the crisp midnight air. We see Karl come out of the villa.

Karl: Oh Moonlight, beautiful moonlight. How art thou tonight? Doth one twinkle upon the silver keys; doth one stand and start to shiver; shall I sketch a melody? Shall I sketch upon a quiver?

Moonlight: Karl, you fox of fashion; you flightly fever'd bird; you high collared wearing fellow. For I am good and I am fine; for I am sweet and deeper than a river.

Karl: Celebratory chic, I am myself. My collars higher than a giant's liver. For I have sketched a dress of air; and a coat that glimmers and glitters.

Moonlight: Do you dare to dance with me? To tango with the light of Lear? To dance with the funk of a thousand years?

Karl: However shall I dance with thee, for you are not human like me?

Moonlight: It seems to me that you're a god; of the highest order. So dance with me, Kaiser dear; tango but do not tantrum.

Karl: It is only Anna that leads the tantrum; for I posses no emotions. For I am Karl Lagerfeld, and I can walk through oceans.

Moonlight: Then we shall dance and Yves shall sing, and I shall project my rays down hither.
-
LIGHTS FADE, EVERYTHING GOES DARK. THE DEMODE PEOPLE ARE NOW TAKEN OUT OF THE AUDIENCE, IF THEY SOMEHOW MANAGED TO GET IN.
-

end part 1.

Court Poet

Hmph. Karl has appointed me "Court Poet", and I had to write a poem about his feelings for the moonlight. Of course, he can't do this himself because he has no feelings. So I had to "imagine" feelings. Karl himself is busy at work on his play.

--

Moonlight on the river, moonlight in my hands;
Moonlight everywhere and everywhere I go,
Shining on the river, Monet painting down

When darkness cloaks everything in silk;
and the velveteen butlers hold the trees;
Moonlight hold, me and my tears
Moonlight got everything I would ever need

Blackest of rivers, lightest of touch
Midnight hour, tracing through
Moonlight hits me and I just don't know what to do

When daytime comes, and I'm alone
I sit alone and wait for you
Going through, coming through
You keep me keeping on, moonlight I like you

Didn't see it coming, thought it was bliss
Didn't see the weather; the lightning dust
Didn't know how much I'd miss you
The blackest day and it doesn't feature you

I need your touch, and I need your strength
And I need your affection, and I know your pain
Moonlight, I need you
Moonlight nowhere, and I gotta find it before I'm through.

Moonlight, the play

We'll have Chanel build a Children, we'll do this "Royal Karl Company" project. And yes Deline, you may be a part of it. We'll call the first play "Moonlight" and it will play with a PJ Harvey-inspired impressionist soundtrack on piano- like those old silent movies.

PLOT: Karl Lagerfeld was once a normal human being, living in a French villa sketching and drinking diet Coke. Okay, semi-normal being. Somewhat normal. Not really, but whatever, hmm? So Karl Lagerfeld lived in this villa, and had the happiest time of his life-- not with the smelly humans. But talking to the moonlight. We'll have dancing actors here; vaguely happy music by Moby or someone; somebody with a deep voice will go "These were happy days, and I am Gary Coleman."
At one point Karl says to Brad: "Sentimentality! What sentimentality? I could live anywhere and be happy!", and here Karl moves to a closet just to prove his point.

But the days go on, and Karl feels pangings of loneliness. We have dramatic music play here. The set's in monochrome. Russian Romantic music-- Rachmaninoff, etc. Karl sketches and sketches, and pretends to be unemotional. Only 10 assistants will die during this production.

One day, as Karl lies upside down radioing thoughts to Tavi, he hatches upon a plan.

Karl: Ahuh!
Chanel jacket: What?
Karl: I have a cunning plan!
Chanel jacket: Really now.

His plan involves building a rocket to the moon, and bringing the moon back to the closet. We have Elton play "Rocket Man" live here-- then some David Bowie. "Space Oddity", etc. The rocket is built, with quilted interior and many Chanel logos for good luck-- not that Karl believes in that sort of thing. It is powered by diet Coke, with a backup supply of Anna's vodka.

During the journey to the moon Karl meets the ghost of Beethoven, who offers to come with him to the moon. Meanwhile, Kafka sits on a rocket of his own devising fighting with Nabokov.

Karl finally arrives at the moon, where he sings his ode to the moonlight. But how does the moonlight respond, hmm? We may cover this later.

We'll be holding auditions soon. My bookshop in Paris, please. Try and share private jets, because Al Gore's going to be there.

Moonlight

I've been living in this closet for some months now. It's rather spacious, and it's got diet Coke and vodka on tap; as well as a squad of Russian dancing men who are also underwear models if Anna's in the mood for that sort of thing. But one thing has been irking me about it, for as I pretend to sleep, upside down on one of the railings, I can only see the black of the ceiling (for a while I thought about having it painted like the Sistine Chapel- but with Anna and I and other important people, rather than cherubs and such. Cherubs are so fat and ugly, don't you think?). And what's been irking me is the absence of moonlight.

You see, when I lived in the "outside world" I would hang upside down from the ceiling and look at the moonlight longingly. I would have conversations with it, on the river that passed by one of my Mansions. Because everybody else would be passed out/asleep (mostly passed out. Sleeping's a very rare thing in fashion), and the only things I had to talk to were what was not human. That is, the clothes; the floor; the windows; the animals that hadn't been kidnapped by PETA for their super-secret soups which claim to be vegetarian, but are in fact mostly meat that's been convinced to act as vegtables-- all those sort of things. And the moonlight was the most interesting of all those things. No, it was not just interesting. It was love. The grass never had much to say ("Giday mate, nice weather we're having"...it was one of those...non-people. If it were human it'd wear too-high shorts and have a hairy chest.), and the clothes are oh-so bitchy sometimes. Of course, the moonlight was always so far away...

Anyway, I miss it because we don't get the moonlight in the closet. I talked to Anna about installing a moon in it, but she explained that moons are rather large things, and it'd probably do some gravity thing to the rest of the planet. Cause global warming, global obesity (because it's adding weight to the Earth), etc. And besides, it wouldn't be the same moon from which moonlight came from.

To solve this problem at Chanel we're making a rocket. Not a big kind of rocket, just a small one that has ropes attached to put the moon onto. It's going to be red, so it'll be fast. Everybody knows red makes things go faster.
If the moonlight happens to be reading this now, I'd like to ask it to come into the closet by itself, if possible. I really miss it. Or how about a dialogue to the moonlight, hmm? That's rather Shakespearian. I shall give it a go.

Karl: Oh Moonlight, moonlight. Come back to me. My cold heart yearns for your rays of Debussy-played light onto the black screen of my sunglasses.

And there we go. Maybe I'll write a play about it, hmm? We could have "The Royal Karl Company" to perform it.

You were talking so brave

One must be able to cut off from people like Rei cuts the limbs off mannequins. (It's a little know fact that Rei is a trained Ninja. Don't tell anybody, though.) I've never understood this "relationship" business, and I don't think I ever will. (Actually, I understand how to do things perfectly. Some would call this sociopathic. I call it efficient). So somebody thinks they're getting on like fire on a house with me, and then snap. I cut the cord. It may be 10 years down the line; it may be 2 decades down the line. But I don't tolerate disrespect. Coco Chanel was the one who provided dresses to the leaders of the Italian Mafia, after all. I operate Chanel like the fashion Mafia. Apart from we're a lot more dangerous than any old Al Capone, hmm? The drugs we sell are legal. We prostitute clothes. A woman never really owns a Chanel dress-- she is only renting it out. She may lick it, she may masturbate to it; she may bite it; she may do unspeakable things to it-- but she never owns it. We are not slave traders, after all. We are simply pimps. And I am the biggest pimp. No-- I'm a prostitute myself. I'm a whore, children. I'm a whore to Chanel, to Fendi, to the Lagerfeld Bear; to my own label, to this blog. But I'm a high class one.

So, I'm really both a whore and a pimp. The great thing about a Chanel dress or jacket, of course; is that it acts as a drug as well. We've done studies. Proper studies, with doctors in white coats and everything. When a woman sees a Chanel jacket, her brain reacts the same way it might to Cocaine or somesuch-- I'm not sure about the drugs. They're all letters these days, aren't they? P, Q, R, S...etc. They were much better in the 60's. Better names. Not that I took them. Yves didn't really either, to be honest. He thought he did. He was rather like that young girl having her first glass of wine, who then tells her friends about the bottles of wine she had when she really had half a glass. And Yves only took hash and opium, mostly. Stuck in the past, I told him.
"You should be trying these new drugs if you're going to do them at all!", I said. And he just sniffed his nose and punched his cigarette. Very old school, Yves. He wouldn't admit to being a pimp. Non, Yves pretended to be an artist. He would do a little ballet dance and say "Look! I am making ART!". Poor thing was never aware that they were seller mugs with the "YSL" logo on it, and flesh coloured Christs too (don't ask.)

I've never understood normal human emotions such as "love" and "affection" and so on. For instance, one of my assistants committed suicide via blasting himself into space and crashing into a large statue of Richard-Bloody-Branson. I didn't know how to feel. I looked up in this book I've got-- it's called "The Dictionary", and it didn't tell me how to react. In some books I've got, specifically books written by 16th century Spanish authors, the women cry a lot when their men commit suicide. So I played the Madame Butterfly theme (you know the one where she commits suicide? I can't remember the story. Something to do with men, doubtless. It's always to do with men, or underwear models. This is some sort of rule of the universe, I think. And then I saw how I felt. And I didn't feel anything.
After that I called up Anna:

Karl: Hi Anna
Anna: Hi Karl
Karl: One of my assistants committed suicide the other day.
Anna: Ok.

She obviously didn't know how to react either. It was very annoying, because nobody knew how to react. I went back to sketching.

In the Chelsea Hotel

Ah. I see Grandpa Yves has been telling you about "personality" and all these other fuzzy feel-good things. May I remind you that he is dead and I am not. I am still very much alive, even though I do not 1) Breath, 2) Eat-- which they'll teach you in subjects like Biology are kind of important to being alive. Actually- that's not quite true. I do breath; but I breath chic, and only chic. And I eat the souls of people, etc etc....all fairly normal things. (By the way, the devil is a very well dressed man. He does not wear Prada. The only men that wear Prada are security guards. He wears Dries Van Noten and Helmut Lang. I tried to tell him that Helmut Lang's a bit...90's, but he didn't listen. He likes the Nazi-like sharpness of the clothes, I think. He's very proud of WWII, you know. Even more proud of the current state of fashion. He looks upon Louis Vuitton and Gareth Pugh as his own little babies. We play cards every week at Yohji's place. When I say "we" I do mean "Rei, Anna, Yohji, Yves and I"...none of us actually know how to play. We just bought a pack of cards and put them on the table and throw them at each other. Tom Ford once tried to explain the rules of "cards" to me once....he's Texan, so he plays a lot of "cards" on his horse with his other exfoliating cowboy friends, but anyway, I didn't understand them. They seemed silly. So we really just gossip about things. Yves gets on well with Jesus, who comes down to be annoying. Still going on about being nailed to that Cross? My Chanel, it was only a magic trick. But like all magicians, he's incredibly egotistic and will go on about his trick that he did 2009 years ago, because he still thinks it's pretty great. Think David Copperfield, but worse. But Yves gets on well with him. They were thinking of starting a farming co-op, until Yves discovered that it involved smelly animals....Oh, Anna likes Jesus too. "Can you turn my vodka into...more vodka? Please?". )

I don't like Yves making you feel good about yourselves. It is not very fashion. IS BARNEY FASHION, HMM? No. Non, non, non. Nothing personal, of course. I just think that you should buy more Chanel or DEMODE t-shirts and everybody will be happy. Nice to see the old bastard is posting again, though.

I remember you well

Haven't blogged in a while. Being dead is very boring, you know. And I was never that vocal when I was alive..I'm more the passive agressive type, you know. Like, I may be the one that makes you look like a hooker playing broadway in a man's suit that's Russian influenced; but I probably won't say anything about it. I'll be laughing perversely about it, though. I'm very perverse, like that. For example right now I'm wearing fishnet tights under my slacks. And later in the closet, when Karl comes back from wherever he is-- he's always leaving me alone, with only my lego to keep me company. And all that modern art. Lego's tres chic though; I've got a little Yves Saint Laurent-and-Karl playset, and I play out all sorts of fun adventures!

It's all very elegant, the lego. It's not like fashion now-- fashion's so ugly these days. What, with your lookbooks and your sartorialists (I really don't understand this sartorialist man- he takes pictures of people? On the street? Why is he taking pictures of people, anyway? It seems pretty perverse, non? "Let me take you picture, for I am the Sartorialists"...or is there only one sartorialist? Because I see on his blog, he's all around the place. Is he like Santa Claus, only not fat? I met Santa Claus once, you know. He's a filthy slavedriving industrialist. Those poor, poor elves. There's no labour laws at the North Pole for that sort of thing. I mean, there must be zillions of children in the world; and these elves don't get paid anything! But they have to work there, otherwise they'll have to work in Hollywood in some vulgar Christmas film. Thank Karl Christmas is over. I hate Christmas. I want to throttle Christmas with one of my dresses that nobody seems to wear anymore....you're all too busy wearing the "hip" designers, aren't you? Dressing in vintage making fools of most of yourselves. Looking like you're from Starsky and Hutch. Let me tell you vintage-people something: if you look like you're from or look like you're about to burst into singing with a group of ample-bosomed fatties behind you; you're doing it wrong. Fashion isn't about revivalism. Well, it is; but not toe-to-toe copying. Is fashion so dry these days you need to wear the fashions of the past? I wouldn't be surprised- I took one look at the runway once, from this closest. I couldn't actually see the clothes, because my eyesight isn't that good these days, but I'm sure they were 'orrible. Fashion...is about more than just revivalism. You're no better than that good-for-nothing, dirty old rat Marc Jacobs if you do that. Is Marc still designing? Lovely boy. A little on the pudgy side when I first saw him, but so is Alber. Karl seems to think that he's lost weight...Marc, that is. Karl simply regenerated into a new incantation of The Karl....but I tell Karl that Marc better not have, because I wanted a bit of Marc to myself and muscle is too American and vulgar. Can you name a French boxing champion right off your head? No. And that's the way it'll stay.
But seriously, this sartorialist man sounds a bit perverse. And I like that. So maybe he's alright.)

But apparently there's pile-upon-pile of this "street style" websites. So, there's apparently lots of perverse people going around saying things like:
"Can I take your picture?"
"Your outfit is the epitome of my website, may I take a picture to feed to my lord Xenu?"
"Your style is fully formed, young grasshopper. It is often with the young with which future resides....so do you want your picture taken?"

It's all rather creepy. In my day (I am Grandpa Yves now), we cared about the girl, not what she wears. Most of my friends were "it" girls, but people paid attention to their...personality, more. Well obviously the girl was pretty. But she could be naked, and people would take notice too. So perhaps there was a greater proportion of straight men and lesbians in the fashion world back then.
I suppose there's a message in all this (Karl has told me about some man named "Mr. Rogers" who gave lots of people messages.), and the message is that personal style means nothing, unless you have the balls and the personality to back it up. Personal style is an...extension of self, rather than a self itself. I don't think Karl will like me saying this, of course, because someone out there, maybe, might be learning something.

Probably not. But we had a Mr. Rogers moment, there, kids. Kiddos. Kiddos is too American. I'll call you Le Children from now on. I could be like the schoolmaster:

Yves (that's me): LE CHILDREN! COME INNNSIDE!
Children: Yes Yves! Three Chanel bags full!

Uhm. I was telling you about my fishnet stockings. I am bored of that now. I'm going to go mope around Anna and her new boyfriend.

Idiot Wind; Just in from Bebe

One day I was on facebook, or rather an assistant of mine was as I dictated to him. This woman, Susan Peterson- who happens to be a higher up at Bebe, started talking to me. The following is the transcript.

Susan

come do a line for bebe stores

7:06pmKarl

eventually!

7:06pmSusan

is that soon?

they would flip out

7:07pmKarl

well, they haven't asked me yet

7:07pmSusan

I am..let's do it

what would it take?

who should i call?

7:08pmKarl

hmm!

7:10pmKarl

I don't know-- the H&M thing wasn't too long ago

7:11pmSusan

so what..this would be major

7:12pmSusan

fun too

7:12pmKarl

you know, send me a proposal. do you have my vermont address?

7:12pmSusan

give it to me

i will have legal write something up

what will get u excited?

7:13pmKarl

maybe a collaboration with an artist of some kind

7:13pmSusan

love it

7:16pmSusan

barbara hulanicki from biba has been working with us

7:17pmKarl

oh, I remember biba

7:19pmKarl

mm, send me a proposal to the Chanel HQ

29-31 rue Cambon

7:19pmSusan

ok u got it

7:20pmKarl

wonderful

7:20pmSusan

soon then x

7:20pmKarl

good day!

(Eventually, this woman worked out that I am "fake Karl", after I sent her my email address. It only took her 2 days! Note her use of "major"; as in "that would be major". Vicky does the same. Also note the way she talks to me; as if I am some casual BRO FROM DA HOOD, as you Americans say. I am not a Bro from Da Hood; and when you speak to me I expect you to write "you" rather than "u".)

Hope for Fashion/Vote 09

There's this thing called the "Bloggies", and since you're readers of my blog, I think you should vote for me.
No, you will vote for me. Obviously.
However, I have some suggestions for other sites to vote for, if you must:

Best food weblog- Karl Lagerfeld's Guide to Life. (I was tempted to find some pro-anorexia site up here, since food is demode and anorexia is very anti-food, however this blog is even more anti-food since I have not eaten since 1960. Those anorexics weren't even born then!)
Best Fashion weblog- Karl Lagerfeld's Guide to Life- Do you read "weblog" as "we-blog"? I do, sometimes. And it's very demode, because this blog is very much about me, not anybody else. It's a me-blog. So, since I'm the king of fashion and all, and I practically invented Chanel; you should vote for me.
Most humorous weblog- Karl Lagerfeld's Guide to Life- Occasionally, stupid people comment on this blog. And we laugh at them. Some people call this blog "satire" as well, but I don't know about that.
Best writing on a weblog- Karl Lagerfeld's Guide to Life- But of course. Where else will one find The Very Hungry Model, hmm?
Weblog of the year- Karl Lagerfeld's Guide to Life- We'll have a party in the closet with free champagne, hmm?

So vote for those blogs, hmm? You can vote here.
Remember, Hope for Fashion in 09. Vote Lagerfeld.

An Email from A Day In The Life of Karl Lagerfeld

Click to enlarge. This is an actual email I received today. 500 dollars for Chanel? Well, I never.

Richard Nixon should wear Skinny Jeans

I recently saw the film Frost/Nixon. Now, I don't like to talk about politics but one thing was made abundantly clear to me when I saw this film: Richard Nixon should wear skinny jeans.
Imagine how much more chic Nixon would be in skinny jeans. He could stride into the interview, his legs in black skinny jeans-- maybe he's got Wayfarers on too. He'll later post his look on lookbook.nu. Really, this interview wouldn't matter to him because he's too excited about posting his Brand New Look on lookbook.nu and getting girls to vote for him.
"What a stylish old cat I am", he would say to himself, stroking his skin that's more scrunched up than the scrotum of Armani. And then he'd go on his instant messenger-- let's face it, Nixon probably uses Yahoo or something demode, and message his fashion friends who only wear leggings, and nothing else. And he'll say "Oh, I had some boring interview today but ohmigod I have new skinny jeans and the interviewer, well, he was jealous of them. I mean he was damn jealous of them. You know when my secretary- yeah- you know when-- yeah, that thing. He looked like that."

--
Oh, on January the 3rd at 1.00 PM central time Tavi and her friend Belle are doing some sort of video where they'll sing the christmas carols I wrote and other things. I'm assuming you'll want to sing along to the carols, so tune in, hmm?

I love my new nickname.

Thank you, Michael.

I love it.  It has quite a ring to it.  And it's very intimidating.

Why do I look so happy?

I am sure many of you readers will be thinking "why is Karl looking so happy?", especially you fashion people; who seem to be never happy. Well, I'd never be happy if I had secrets like these, too. My secrets are far more interesting. I mean, I think secrets are a very important part of life-- but make them interesting ones. Instead of having an eating disorder; have a disorder related to being scared of eating wedding gowns. Or have a phobia of tall men wielding Chanel purses. Or have some complicated love triangle that might occur on Gossip Girl or Dynasty. Maybe you murdered your Mother in order to get her collection of couture dresses, which would otherwise go to your younger sister (that minx). And then you'll wear the couture like a glorious ipod, until you get too fat and sell the couture to a fellow in a travelling Jazz band; who in turn gives you magic weight loss pills that end up being some sort of drug that make you hallucinate new Pushing Daises episodes, during which time you do not eat because hallicunating takes up a lot of concentration; and then you discovered you've been made a statue in a foreign land and you need to escape before you're sacrificed to the girl in the cigarette box ad. Or something like that.

So, why I am happy in this photo is also a secret. But I have several clues:
1.) That is not a wave that I am doing
2.) Those gloves are specifically for protective purposes.
3.) Someone would be discovered to be dead outside this scene a few hours later. The lifeforce of this poor creature was drained; so that he resembled the physical impossibilities of photoshopped Vogue models, but nothing else.