Critics

It is winter here. Wherever I am. I think it could be Paris. Is it winter in Paris? Well, if it is I'm there. If not, I'm not there. I would like to remind Tavi to go to bed at eleven thirty sharp, for several days ago. Now we can get down to the business, hmm?

The last few days I have been busy talking to Very Important Fashion Critics who I will not name, because they're oh-so very important that they no doubt would get their Lanvin-Knickers in a twist. I had to go down to the fashion ghetto, you see, where they all live. It's not the fashion ghetto where the Juicy Couture people live (I assume people still buy that. My daughter informs me it's mostly demode highschool girls.), but it's the ghetto where Rei plays her harmonica and Martin has a house full of cats (Margiela; of course I didn't need to add that- I expect my readers to be intelligent anyway). This is the ghetto where Junya is in the alley, looking for some food, and Alber's in the kitchen with the cake blues. It's a very hip ghetto.

So, I drove down to the fashion ghetto and pulled over at the fashion critics commune. You've got to wear protection before you go in, because of the vitriol that flies around-- take a step to the left at the wrong time and you might just find yourself getting hit by some, hmm? And no fashion designer wants that.
I surrounded myself with my Le Skinny Jeans society, who cloaked round me, in their jeans so skinny that they could be a shadow; and entered the commune.

Cathy Horyn was sitting out on a deckchair (Marc Jacobs, 2006), which Suzy Menkes was trying to attach helium balloons too. There was a bunch of lesser critics around- some playing with marbles (which explains why they appear to have lost the majority of them), some rapping to the beats that Tim Gunn created ("make it work, guys."), some carrying Chanel beatboxes around. It was chaos.

"Karl!" Cathy said, as she spied me under that hat she wears that makes her look like a rugby supporter (not Rugby, Ralph Lauren, Rugby as in that dreadful sport favoured by New Zealanders; but thankfully, none I know.)
"Ah, Cathy!" said I, making sure Margiela wasn't devising another one of his plans to take over the world ("By recycling!" he claims. Hippie.)
Cathy talked a bit about this and that- gave me a recipe for duc which is now in dear Alber's pockets, and I attempted to convince her to write for me.

"But I am CATHHY HORYNN FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES."
"Yes, yes, I know. Armani banned you. You're a hero! Nevermind Armani wouldn't mind if his audience consisted of corpses..."

So we'll see. I spoke to a few of the other critics, too. You can't be around them for too long, or else they start to say what you're doing's art or somesuch.