Bob Dylan's 6548th Dream

Hey man, so this one cat told me that I should do some writin' on this blog, 'cause I've got a new record coming out in April and I just thought you should all know. And here's a song I wrote, uh, some time ago back when I was raking in those blondes, man. Could say I was raking in the pennies! I was doing more than raking those chicks though, if you dig.

One time I was walkin' down the streets
I was walkin' down your front town
Where I spotted some kids who were playin' ball
And I walked right over to them
To see what kinda game they wanted to play
They said I look like a panda bear
And I said "well panda bears don't have this much hair"
And they said they did, and I realized they were right
So I hailed a train but it didn't have no bite

I said kids, "could I interest you in some visions?"
Some visions of Johanna, someone's gonna get stoned;
They asked me if it tasted kinda like a milkshake
I said yes, and took out some pills
Then a policeman came most hurriedly
And arrested me on account of free love;
I gave him a receipt, the very next day
And I came back to the kids the very next day

I saw them there, with my friends,
I gave them each a medallion;
I stood so straight and tall, you know
And I said "I'm taller than you"
They said "we know"

Now they started moving all funny, you see
I think maybe something started going out of whack,
I said "hey man! you stonned or somethin'?"
They just starred at me funny so I called up the operator of time;
"Call an ambulance! They're stoned, they stunned!" said I
But all the operator did was tell me it was nine o'clock and I hung up

"What do you want to be" I asked one kid:
He said "a fireman" and I stopped dead,
"You know what a fireman does, don't you?" I asked the boy,
I explained that a fireman has too much lace;
"Oh" said the boy, as I gave him a lolly
And offered him a ride in my Cadillac car
(Good car to drive in a war)

Now at this point the boy's mother comes in,
And she's waving and wailing at me like I done something wrong,
I get on my motorcycle, and I start to crash
And I wake up on the psychiatrist's couch
(Luckily it's a chick)

--

I used the rest of the paper to roll a cigarette, man.

Along comes Brady in his Electric Car

I see my darling Jane has met a nice young man, called Kanye West. You will recall he was my stalker at fashion week. We will be having him over for dinner. I am dreading it, because it means that I will have to smell food. Maybe I can have a bubble constructed, where the young Mr. West can eat whilst I stare at him through my dark glasses. Like in that movie about the bubble boy. I will then ask him questions:

1.) What do you do?
2.) Would you consider powdering your hair?
3.) Why do you stalk me at Paris fashion week with my usual hormonal crowd of female stalkers?
4.) Can I take photos of you? I'm going to, anyway.
5.) I see you wear dark glasses too. Is it because you can kill a person with your stare, as I can?
6.) Does this mean looks can kill?
7.) Are you Bungalow Bill?
8.) If X is W, and V is Z, what is why?
9.) How did Coco Chanel trim "down there"?
10.)Could you please stop touching me? Or else.

I think that's about all I want to ask him, though I may think of more questions once he sits down in his bubble. Any suggestions, dear reader?

A Thank You Letter to Fashionista Dot Com

Dear Fashionista,

I would like to thank you, personally, for ratting out this terrible criminal, who is so obviously copying the sacred trademarks of Chanel. Without your help, I don't know if the sweaty lawyers with their terrible haircuts would've found this site! So, let me give you my most sincere thanks.

I would like to remind everybody that copying the Chanel logo is a awful offence. It's simply horrendous. How do you think Mme. Chanel feels when you create those tacky fakes? How do you think all those rich businesswoman in Hong Kong and Russia feel when you abuse my- I mean, Coco's logo? Do you feel guilty now? You should be. You dirty, vile people.

I showed this to the little old ladies who work at Chanel. The seamstresses. One of them- Antoinette- had a heart attack! She is now dead. See what you've done? You've given poor Antoinette a heart attack and she is now dead. This is not very good, because Antoinette was a very good seamstress.

Anyway, thank you Fashionista for informing me of this great wrongdoing! We must remember that it is not within the society that evil grows, but within every person. The single person can be as dangerous as the whole. The magic of capitalism, my dears.

Love,
Karl

RIP ANTOINETTE. 1899-2008.

After Dark

I am really getting very sick of this.
"This", being the so-called recession everyone's talking about.

Let's start at the beginning.
At 1AM I had Heinrich, my computer operator, read out the searches that people find me by. I am slightly disturbed by whoever searched for me using the term "I see you everywhere Karl Lagerfeld." I imagine this disheveled fashionista, probably from lookbook or the fashion spot or something. They're all the same- people who have failed in fashion so bitch about it to other people who have failed in fashion (or if they do work in fashion, it's an unpaid internship at GUESS.) So anyway, I imagine this disheveled fashionista with hair that has roaches crawling through it, cellulite on her thighs, and her face is a mish-mash of various skin-care products that she got for free from taking the "Free Samples" at department stores, until she became too ragged for even a department store; and now critiques Margiela's latest collection on the street with her other failed fashionista buddies (nevermind the fact that Margiela is right- at this moment- on a Caribbean island lounging beside a pool painted white). She writes "KARL, KARL, KARL" on the walls- and stalks anybody who happens to have white hair. She's the sort of person who hides in the garbage bin which models throw up into, just waiting to get a glance of me. A glimpse.
Suffice to say, I'm disturbed. Do you see me all the time like you see dead people? "I SEE KARL LAGERFELD EVERYWHERE."
Of course you do, dear.

By 2AM I was over that. There's probably a million of those crazy homeless fashion ladies. I cannot remember what I did at 2AM.

3AM I found Anna passed out- regular readers will know that this is no surprise. I found a draft Vogue article on her chest. So I read it. And quelle horror, it was about the recession! It's very sick, I think. All these people talking about losing money. Let's be serious here: I blow my nose on Balenciaga blouses. Where is this recession? It must be some sick sort of joke, I thought to myself.

At 4AM I saw lines of people pouring out of some place with "UNEMPLOYED" stamped on their foreheads. Hmm.

I decided to take part in this joke- and it's obviously a practical joke. I went out on my balcony, papal-like; began to join in:
Me: Ohhh look at me! I am so unemployed! And unfortunate! [I wave around a Chanel jacket at this point]. Oh boo hoo! I was just fired at now I can only afford five butlers!

They are starred at me strangely and I went back inside.

The Best Damn Magazine Ever

I've been getting a lot of whiny letters from a lot of you lately complaining about Vogue magazine. American Vogue. AKA Anna's magazine.
I go out to my mailbox, everyday (yes, I personally check my mail), and there's a bunch of letters- maybe 20 of them- all complaining about Vogue.
"What is this shit?" you tell me. "Why is it so demode?", "Why is it not cutting edge???"

First of all, I don't know why the hell you're sending letters to me anyway. Do I look like Vogue magazine, hmm? Am I even an employee there? Are the Conde Nast head offices located at my little house? Did they relocate?
I'm not too interested in your letters, and most of you are boring. I know I'm a genius, I know I'm the best designer in the world-even-better-than-your-friend-who-goes-to-Fashion-School.
Tell me something I don't know, hmm? Be interesting, for a change. Stop being little snivelling toady tools who wouldn't know an insult from a Margiela boot.

I have a theory to why you lot hate American Vogue: The Best Damn Magazine Ever. You hate it because it's too good!

Month after month, Anna faithfully produces the greatest magazine ever created. I don't know how she does it! Fantastic issue after fantastic issue- each one better than the last!
What I'm proposing is that Vogue has gotten so good that you ungrateful little sods can't handle it anymore. It's gotten to this point where it blows your mind- like a child on a swing that's swung right over it, onto the next level. It's like that swing in that most people aren't aware that it's swung right over the top- they didn't see it; so how do they know? They simply believe what the newspapers tell them. What their bitchy little friends who can afford one Miu Miu shoe but not two, tell them.

The amount of depth that goes into the photographs is simply spectacular. Yet in your letters you write "Every month Vogue is the same! It's just people jumping! Jumping! Jumping!"
Again, why do I care about this? I am not your father. I am not your sweet, rosy cheeked mother. Yet you insist on sending me letters. I don't do prayers, hmm?

So, please, stop whining about Vogue. Actually- take out the please there. It just makes you seem very childish, hmm? I mean- has American Vogue caused any deaths?
-No?! Goodness me. And let's look at Paris Vogue- how many deaths-related-to-bludgeoning-with-fashion-magazine has it caused, hmmm?
-100% of deaths-related-to-bludgeoning-with-fashion-magazine?! Goodness me. That's quite a few. So not only is American Vogue better, it is safer too!

Shirts and Barbie, quelle horror

Mr. Vidal Wu had a most excellent idea yesterday: all you readers who have purchased DEMODE shirts should send pictures of you wearing them, and I will post them on the blog. Of course, I had this idea about 24 hours before Vidal Wu was even born.

There will be a few rules about sending me pictures of you wearing the demode shirts. You may not be fat, you may not be ugly, you may not be stupid- the usual. I don't need to go over it all again, do I? Non, I don't.

I've been wondering why I did that Barbie thing. I designed clothes for Barbie dolls. I am terrified of dolls, as you'll note from interviews and posts that I've done in the past. So this thought has been going through my head: "Why did you design clothes for something you are terrified of?" I said.
"Because it is keeping your enemies closer, hmm?" I said.
"Yes- but why did I not put them in straightjackets? They wouldn't be able to move and try and invade my houses then, hm?" I said.
"Oh Karl, who would buy Barbie dolls with straightjackets, hm? Can you imagine the little girls and dapper little boys playing with Straight-Jacket Babrie?" I said.
"Karl- I realize this. People like Yves would buy Straight-Jacket Barbie." I said.
"Straight-Jacket Barbie: Barbie goes into a mental institution after a breakdown! Go to therapy! Have pills! Electric Shock treatment! Melt her plastic!" I said.
"I think Rehab Barbie would probably be more relevant, hmm?" I said.
"Uh oh! Barbie's got an addiction! Take her to an exclusive rehab clinic! Get a new addiction! Find love with a fellow inmate! Escape from the clinic and go back a second time! Go on a b-list TV show to revive your flagging career!" I said.
"Mm, that's a good idea. I mean- there's a market for that kind of thing." I said.
"Voodoo Barbie." I said.
"Rei would buy that." I said.

Even Mrs. Wooten well as little Nitty

Good Morning Paris and Vermont. And other parts of the world.



Anyway, on your screen you should be able to see a picture of the above young man. He is pretending to fly or something, I don't know. Maybe he really is about to fly. He certainly looks very enthusiastic about it. You will also not that he is wearing a DEMODE shirt, which is very edgy and cool and hip. And whilst I am bolding those to be sarcastic, it really is the bee's knees. The cat's pajama's. The elephant's weight watchers. The crocodile's handbag. The lion's cooperate suit. The ant's pants. The moon's Yohji blazer. The hippopotamus's' dress made out of bedsheets. Or, as one of my nieces, Belle, might say, it is the sex.

It is the pope and a nun. It is god and Mary. It is Yves and Pierre. It is more sexy than Jimi Hendrix and Cat Power in a sack of Chanel dresses. It is more sexy than Julie Anne making out with her lover (almost). It is even more sexy than Lou Reed, a box of Valium which Anna has drunk, and Alber feasting upon pancakes cooked in Quinn the Eskimo's pancake house, as Donatella looks on- her lips actually bursting with collagen as she purses them in jealousy.

Anyway, the point is, is that the man in the picture is extremely, deliriously happy. (More delirious than Prince converting somebody- finally- to being a Jehovah's witness*). In fact, he may even be able to fly because of his deliriousness- because of the t-shirt. Not that I am saying my DEMODE shirts make you fly. Disclaimer, etc etc. You can always try, of course. But not at home!

So now I'm going to point out that beside you, to the right there, is a button that allows you to purchase said shirt. It may just make you fly. Like drugs but you'll be able to remember things, hm?

In other news- I've decided I want a band to wake me up in the morning now. Berlin Philharmonic bores me- they're just so German. "Ja! Ja! Ja!" they say. Such Ja-men.

*After he spent the best part of this decade trying to do so. He can now become Taoist, hm?

Note: I didn't bother having an assistant convert the young man's photo to black and white. That requires talking to them....and I don't like talking to assistants these days. I snap my fingers at them and sometimes they understand. They're just so simpering and boot-licking. You'd think I was paying them to be like that.

Interview with "CLIVE" magazine

I was interviewed by one of those magazines in one of those places where there isn't many Chanel stores. Download it here.

So this morning...

As per usual, I woke up this morning. Actually that's a lie. I pretended to wake up this morning. I closed my eyes, waited for my butler to come in, then opened them again as he clicked into the room. I even rubbed them- I've heard that's what people do. My butler reminded me I needed to be in my bed rather than reading and sketching to make the illusion of sleep authentic. We're working on it.

As well as the usual papers and printouts from the internet, medical journals (they make me feel superior), and such, there was a manuscript. As in, a novel.

Ah, Gothe. Ah, Nabokov. Ah, Murakami; I thought to myself as my fingerless gloves handled this novel. I started to read it.

By the way, I noticed Chan Marshall is in Paper magazine, or is going to be, or something like that. I'll get an assistant to sort it out, no? Chan is the only woman I ever found sexy. Ever. I think I just may give up on being asexual if she wanted to do the sex. Email me, Chan. fakekarl@gmail.com

No really. Go on. Email uncle. Hmm?

Anyway, I started reading this novel and it's rather good. I would like to publish it. I mean, not on my own label- I'm already busy with that. Autobiography, memoirs, and biography-about-autos-I-ride-in. A few photography books. So email me if you're interested in publishing the novel I received, hmm?

I feel there should be music playing in the morning. Where is the orchestra? I need an orchestra. That's what I'm going to do today, in that case. Find an orchestra to wake up to. Are the Berlin Philharmonic doing anything?

On making love to every woman (ever)

If there is one thing I have learned from when I was alive, it was that you cannot make love to every single woman.
"What?!" you are thinking, in shocked muted tones. "Uncle Yves surely cannot have made love to a woman?"
I've never made love to a woman in my life, not in the sordid little way you're thinking about. I've been something of a Cassanova in matters of lovemaking, too. If you're a woman who's ever bought a dress by me, I have made love to you. I've seen your nether-regions, I have felt le breasts (if you're endowed with such- throughout my career as a designer I witnessed the breast size go down until the models had the breast size of a double bass player). I have made sweet, French love to you and poured your wine and kissed you on the neck, my lips cushioning into your lovely flesh. I have done all this. I have done it to millions of women. And oh, some of these women are very adept lovers. Very adept, indeed.

Ah yes, light of my loins. Fire of my soul. You women make me quiver with passion. My knees get positively weak with anticipation as you put on one of my dresses, and put your lovely delicate feet into my muddy heels. Mm, I feel your breath on my French neck, every hair (washed in olive oil) alight. Passion of passions! My passionfruit is a mountain, and your back the sun. Let me rhapsodize about your painted toes, and sing about your painted face! O moon, O pancake factor number one!

Now anyway. The point being you can't make love to every single woman because uh..
Have you ever seen High Fidelity? It's this movie about this music person who breaks up with his girlfriend or something...I can't really remember. He had lots of music though. I don't understand why the movie couldn't've just focused on him selling music. So uh.
Have you ever listened to Blood on The Tracks? It's by Bob Dylan. I'm not sure what it has to do with this.
Well- uh. Don't do drugs like me or else you'll end up being slapped by Karl. You'll also make some pretty amazing collections that people go on about even though most of them weren't even born.

Girl: Oh, Yves Saint Laurent was a genius!
Other girl: He was like a totally important designer
Girl: Like GUESS.
Other: Yeah, GUESS is a totally important designer.
Girl: Soo post-modernist how his name is spelt like, in capitals. And only one name, like Madonna.
Other: Or Jesus!
Girl: Oh I don't think I've heard of him. Was he around with Balenciaga.
Other: Before Balenciaga.
Girl: Woah.

But drugs are bad. Elvis says so! And so do I. I'm having some hash right now and I'm sketching and typing. I wish I'd have someone type out these like Karl does. So I'm also typing. I'm thinking of doing skirts......yes, skirts and......and.......some colours. Everybody likes skirts. I'm wearing a skirt right now. I feel pretty.

About that Carine Woman

Many people have asked me: "Karl, why do you dislike that French woman?"
They mean Carine Roitfeld, of course.

It all stems from this one incident where I walk walking outside my Paris apartment, quite (dare I say it?) content. Well. As content as I can be. I wasn't yelling at anyone anyway and that's an improvement. I was walking there, surrounded by only 20 or so people- not a big entourage. The Roitfeld woman comes up behind me, and tickles me. I let out a Germanic laugh- "HA! HA! HA!", like that. Imagine Kraftwerk. It's not a real laugh, hmm? It's more automatic than that. It's more automatic than these publicist people who cower around show rooms and seem to think that you want to whip them. They're a very automatic sort of people. They utter loud strings of laughter, like a machine gun. But no, my laughter was less made-to-order and more couture. I'm getting off-topic. The main point is that I do not like to be touched. At all. So when this woman comes up behind me, and inserts her hands down my side as if she's some sort of robot that's had it's wired crossed- well- I just reacted how any sane person would. I did Karl-Fu.

I did Menacing Glance first. All I do (silly me, I was about to dictate "all you do" in there when I remember you're not me! I'm actually making this journal accessible to the public! How strange. Obviously you could never do Menacing Glance, unless your name is Humbert Humber-Humer Humberdick the 1st. If that happens to be your name, I am not quite sure what you're doing because you're dead.)

The French woman reacts to Menacing Glace with a wince away. Her black fingernails actually come out, like those of a cat. It was not very effective.

So I try Bish Please, a move I perfected when I was a rap-artiste back in the 60's. It requires a puckering of the lips, something that not just anyone can do. It's a very specific sort of pucker. You must have the right cheekbones to do it. The right skin. The right sunglasses. This move was super-effective. She recoiled in horror.

What was poor Karl to do? Here I was, attacking a vicious cat-lady, and she was not knocked out yet. So I grabbed an umbrella, and drew a the Chanel logo in the clouds. A perfect logo. At this cat-lady is stunned, and falls to the ground. The jacket she wears, perched above her shoulders, falls apart. It's Balmain.

I'm Perfect

I was just thinking to myself about how much better Christ would've been if he wore couture. I mean, if I was around in those times, I could've done something about it! We've got some draping going on, of course- very Madame Vionnet. Hippy hair. It's all very nice, hm? But wouldn't he look better with a haircut and a nice Tom Ford suit? Think about it for a second. Seriously. He would've been immensely more chic, hmm?

You know, I don't design much menswear- it's boring and I prefer females anyway- at least socially. I think I could design some clothes for this Jesus fellow, though. He is pretty important after all. He'd look better in skinny jeans. Maybe give him a record deal- Jesus and the Stoners (everybody must get stoned, hmm?).
And of course, if I was born back...in the times before demode even existed, I could introduce Chanel no. 5. It would be more important than farming because everybody would smell good. In fact, if I was born around the time of Jesus, I suppose I would've became Jesus, given my god-like powers. Dressing well is better than being a good person, anyway. I know celebrities. Does Jesus know celebrities? Can he design clothes? No, I don't think he can. All he can do is these magic tricks- water into wine (wine contains calories anyway, and we can blame this little magic trick for Anna's, uh, alcohol problem). Magic tricks are demode. Of course, if I was born then the religion of Chanel would be a great deal older!

Alas, it seems being chic was not important then. Alas, it seems I was not born then. Alas, it seems magic tricks were all the rage then.

Actually, when I was little my mother (Coco bless her little cold clockwork heart) took me to this fortune-teller. Dior's fortune teller. Dior being the fat man that ate too much Italian food (not the current faux-Frenchie who hasn't designed anything new since 1999.) So my mother took me to this man, and he told me I was going to be a priest. My mother- my parents- could not have that! Those nuns that taught them at school were terrible people. Crazy people. Demode. So I became a priest of fashion instead. The priest, but anyway. My mother used to make fun of me, though. She said "Karl, you could've been God with a capital gee!" and I said "Well, I am God of Fashion." She would reply with "That's okay, but where are the lightening bolts?" She was very Greek, that woman. I'd tell her that it was all about love and compassion these days: "The craze in religion now is love, Mother!" I would say. She would slap me.

I found this....

...wedged in my new Chanel bag this morning.

Apparently I stole it from Karl's bathroom during the Chanel afterparty.

There was a lot of Moet.

Love,
Anna

Concerning that Catfight

I was hoping to have a nice relaxing day working on my autobiography (King Karl, Better Than Yves. 7L Press, release date unconfirmed), and then maybe sketching a collection and doing some photos for something shoe-related. But no! Rumor got out of of the catfight between two certain models. Those web logs that people write have posted about it, so hmm. I suppose I better set matters right.

It's a little known fact that many models are world class fighters. Not simply cat-fighters, but world-class blood-and-guts fighters who could knock out any brute on the street. Under what you may perceive as "thin" frames, these models pack a mean punch. I'm serious. With one clenching of their well-kept fists they reveal more muscles than Alber's eaten cakes- there's some muscles there that the Body Part Naming Institute hasn't even named yet! (And by the way, did you see the article about darling Alber in the New Yorker? Delicious)

You have to be a good fighter when you're a model. Photographers, designers, hairdressers- they're all so very very dangerous. Photographers will screw you, designers will screw you over, and hairdressers will screw up your hair. If you're not careful all three will happen to you! I feel sorry for those poor models, about as young as a fetus, who don't know how to fight yet- when they're here for their first Fashion Week or somesuch. Of course, they will soon learn.

My problem with the catfight mentioned- (it wasn't much of a catfight, more of a tigerfight where the tigers are famished), was that it was in public. This is simply rude. Vulgar. Unacceptable. The first rule of model club is that you don't talk about model club.

A couple of blows were debt, a tooth or two lost. Hairs fallen out of place. Once I saw I broke it up. I simply put one fingerless-gloved hand in the air, and said "enough!".
And it stopped. They went back to their respective posses, to bitch among themselves.

Anyway. I will deal to these two errant models in my own way. I will not reveal their names, for their careers don't need to be ruined- I'm actually fond of one of them. But be reassured, public, this offence will not go unpunished. I am not a forgiving man. Forgiveness if for hippies with long hair who ride on donkeys for lack of a love bus. I ride on a broomstick.

Radio Friendly Unit Shifter

Time to serve the servants. And what shall I serve you? Perhaps this invite, hmm?
It's just a little tidbit from the show yesterday. If you were there, you'd have one. A lot of people don't like the green I put in the collection- of course they wouldn't: it's the green of jealousy. Year after year, season after season I simply display how people are. Well, this year there was a lot of jealousy in the audience.

Look, people- you simply cannot have beauty every season. You're not beautiful people. You've all got problems- skin problems, weight problems, money problems. You're terrible and fascinating. You know that, though. You can't stand yourselves in the mirror! Don't you see- the collection was you.
It was brilliant as always anyway.

Anyway, now you can pretend you went to the Chanel show too! Just print the below invite out and you can play "Fashion Shows" with your friend. Put on your best vintage Chanel and walk down the runway!



I'll discuss more of the collection in my next interview with Jules, no doubt.

Rushing off to Chanel..

One is not born woman, but becomes one- Simone de Beauvoir. But how does one become a woman? The answer, my reader, is Chanel. One becomes a woman with Chanel.
This poses a couple more questions though- how much Chanel must you buy before you are a woman? And what if a baby has multitudes of Chanel- le Chanel baby- are they a woman, hmm?

I will not give you some hogwash about the answer being, say...blowin' in the wind. I do not go in for this sort of vague politically correct namby-pamby-wishy-washy-my-mother-didn't-breast-feed-me rubbish. It's very simple: get a measuring tape out and measure yourselves. If you're a woman, it will obviously say "woman" on the measuring tape. If you are 165 CM, it will say "165 CM" on the measuring tape and that is what you are: one hundred and sixty five centermeters. If you are a terrible person, it will say so. And so on it goes. Then you will know your place.

Today I have Frida somebodyorrather coming to see my show at Chanel. I was only aware of this yesterday, when she turned up at my studio. I asked her who she was and she said she was the woman from "Slumdog Millionaire", and invited her to come on in. She didn't look homeless or anything. I thought the people in "Slumdog Millionaire" were poor? She was wearing a Chanel jacket- and it wasn't fake. I inspected the stitching itself- licked it, whispered to it in my sensual voice that no jacket can resist. It's a real pity animated characters can't attend fashion shows- I would love Coraline to attend tomorrow's show.

Saw Cathy at the studio today, too- I was relieved to see she didn't eat anything this time! She seemed hungover from that hack Alaia's place last night. Anna was there too. She's upset about that fellow at that place. Nina Ricci? I gave up the 80's in the 80's. Dynasty does not screen in the cinema of my mind.

I suppose I'll see you all at the show anyway. Tea at Colette afterwards.

Paris II

Paris is almost over, thank Coco. It's all so doom and gloom, you know. People are losing their jobs. Too bad they weren't doing anything in the first place.
Just the other day I was talking to this young man who was telling me about this credit crunch- he was rather attractive, actually. Anyway he was very "Le horrors! I am out of a job! It is the end of the world!" until I asked "Do you have a job, hm". He had never had a job in his life. I think that's very poor form. He would've made a good prostitute.

It's the only thing they talk about here- where's the jokes? (Oh, the joke was the Margiela show. I did have a diet Coke with Margiela afterwards, though. He wasn't actually at the show- I don't know who's designing it now. Some Eskimo, perhaps.)

I just don't know. Who are all these designers? Dries Van Noten? He's a gardener! Nobody knows what he looks like! How is one meant to design when one does not know what one looks like? What about this TAO girl? One imagines that she dresses like an overweight lolita who does quite a bit of knitting. Who's this Ackermann chap? He sounds like a dentist. "Ackermann and Associates" has a certain ring to it, hmm? I thought so when I thought of it watching his show. I went to backstage after and I told him he should be a dentist.

"You should be a dentist, young man."
"...uh"
"No, really, you should. You have the last name of a dentist"
"With all due respect, Karl.."
"Don't argue with me! I'll even pay your fees. What do they go to these days? Dentist school?"
"Man."
"Or do you need to be apprenticed? I can do that too. I knew a dentist in the 60's. He might not be dead."

Paris

Today I showed a new collection. I don't know what all the fuss was about. Afterwards, people came backstage and wanted to talk to me. Aren't people strange? I don't even have tea with these people, they just came backstage.

I had Lolita to re-read backstage during the show for Karl And Julia's book club. So I did not get bored. I feel like Paris is a place for lovers to watch movies in bed.

Whilst I was in bed I wrote this poem:

Paris
White lily thrown over sunset river
Shoehorn lightly 'cross glades of blue
Metronome modem tabletop glue

And then I wrote this:

Aliens Approach
Because I'm Rei

Finally I approached my subject in a way that would not scare it:

Paris. By Rei Kawakubo

Paris I have not particularly given you much
Paris multi-thousand dollar dress
I can't stand my own hairdo
Paris when will you end the fat people?
Go fuck yourself with your berets that aren't from secondhand stores
I don't feel good don't bother me
I won't write my poem til I've banged my gong
Paris when will you be delicious?
When will you take of your Lanvin clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the Chanel Boutique?
When will you be worthy of me?
Paris why are your cafes full of tears?
Paris when will you send your clothes to India?
When can I go into The Louvre and buy what I need with my gong?
Paris after all it is you and I who are perfect. Well-
Your king is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this refrigerator.
Margiela is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's demode.
Are you being demode or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the house.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
Paris stop relaxing I know what I'm doing.
Paris the chic are falling
I haven't read a singer's lips for months, everyday Cathy Horyn stalks me and tries to make me eat pie.
Paris I feel lamentable about that Yves guy
Paris I used to be a jet plane fighter when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke his eyelids every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the floor and bang my gong.
When I go to Tokyo I get bored and never get food poisoning.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me designing PLAY
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm his mother.
I won't say anything to Journalists.
I have mystical visions and an H&M line.
Paris I still haven't told you what you did to Junya after he came over
from the toilets.

I'm staring at you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Vogue?
I'm obsessed by Vogue.
I read it every month.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the Yohji store.
I read it in the closet.
It's always telling me about fashion. Models are fashion. Fashion designers are fashion. Everybody's fashion but me.
It occurs to me that I am Paris.
I see dead people.

America is rising against me.
I haven't got a Yank's chance.
I'd better consider my little black book.
My little black book consist of instructions on how to operate my gong and how to not scare people it isn't working.
I say nothing about my shows nor the millions of Comme des Garcons slaves who live in their blogs under the light of LCDs.
I have eaten the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to build a pear with my own two hands despite the fact that I'm god.

I wrote a little more but that's the general idea of things. It's time to stare at the floor again.

Paris- Balenciaga and Balmain

You know, Balenciaga should be very sorry for themselves. Yves just saw the Balenciaga collection and it made him cry. He's most upset. He doesn't understand that now he's "dead", and recently "dead" at that people are going to reference him to death (oh, haw haw). Currently he's in a corner, muttering things like: "Why couldn't they do Star Trek? Why couldn't they do it? Why not Karl? Why Not??"
I gave him a good slap for that.

Of course, Ghesquière claims his new collection is "Parisian". Bob Dylan's new unreleased album is more Parisian than this, hmm? Paris is not so...vulgar. Or maybe it is, but I'm not going to admit that. Non, I am giving young Mr. Ghesquière a B+ for effort. Do better next time, hmm? Really now. From futurism to this? Beam me up Yves?

Of course, at least it wasn't the awful mess that Balmain was. I do not care what the awful French woman says about Balmain: it is simply a look, and a very tired one at that! It is so cheap! So nasty! I always advise prostitutes to wear something other than Balmain. Wear a nice Chanel jacket and some Ann Demeulemeester boots. There's no point in paying so much money to look so cheap, as you would with Balmain, hm? If you really must look like a vapid socialite just go naked. Wear a shower curtain or somesuch. Wear a bra if you happen to wear one.

Actually, I think I'll start a new charity in order to give out bras to former models. They start to develop breasts once they become fat, like that Kate girl.
We'll call it "SAINT KARL DE BRAS." I'll get an assistant to do the details.

Shall I even mention Gareth "so avant garde he couldn't change a Rick Owens lightbulb" Pugh? Terrible, as per usual. When I worked at Chloe, Mme. Aghion would screw up about half my sketches. She was a wonderful woman. It appears that Mr. Pugh's backers have gone one step further- and are screwed up in the head. Delusional.

Vulgar Italians

So. We will not talk about Milan. Actually, we will- there was this dinner Donatella had last night, and I was invited of course. You will remember that Donatella is the one who tries to imitate a Greek monster of some sort- a Medusa with very large lips (one look at those lips and you'll turn to leopard-printed stone). She has little assistants that make clothes in the style of her late brother. I never saw much of her brother, because that was in the 90's. I never saw anybody in the 90's really. Anti-social was very chic then. The dinner itself was very boring, and nobody ate anything. I mean- nobody ever eats anything anyway, but the restaurant didn't even bother with the pretense of having food out. There were two buffets: one marked "FASHION" with nothing under it at all, and another marked "VEGANS" with under it a cross (the religious kind, the one they put that fellow on- John Lennon I think), a Buddha, a Star of David and all manner of religious items. There was also a pear that was made by Julie Anne. If you went outside you'd find a trashcan marked "FOR PEOPLE WHO EAT". A certain well-known fashion personality was found there.

Off to Paris now- where the only vulgar Italian that roams is that dreadful socialist Prada woman.

The Electric Karl Test

I woke up this morning in Milan and the specially made hotel that I designed for myself and Brad to find these human-like creatures gawking into my imported-from-France windows. And there I was thinking I'd drawn the curtains last night. I rubbed my eyes with my black fingerless gloves; all leather but no bondage (quite the absence of bondage, rather), and starred back at these creatures through my dark sunglasses, which I had not removed from the previous night- you never know when you might have to run off to a fitting!

I was starring at these creatures; their funny noses and red lips, and it struck me as they glared through my window that all these creatures were women. Of the female persuasion. You know- a bunch of Eves. I put my glasses down my nose a little- like bank tellers do in movies- and I furrowed my brow- these ladies were throwing their underwear at me!
The ones that wore underwear anyway.
I shook Brad's shoulder and slapped him around the face- just a little slap, mind you. A little of that never hurt anyone; why, my mother used to do that to me all the time! And it never did me any harm, hm?

Brad woke up- "OH DON'T HURT ME UNCLE KARL!" he yells at me; and I give him a gentle push and ask him what in Coco's name all those women are doing outside my hotel.
-At this point they're taking off their bras. The things that sort of, uh, support their breasts. They're like sort of half-cups made of fabric that they attach to their chest...or something. Models don't tend to wear them so I'm not too familiar.
Brad has no idea, of course. He shrugs and says: "Well Karl, you're simply incredibly attractive."
-"You mean really really good looking?" I say.
-"Oh, the Zoonlander reference. It had to come some time or later", says Anna who just happens to be coming out of the bathroom- underwear model in tow.
-"Not only that Karl, you're insanely sexy. It's the gloves.."

Here I look down at my ugly hands that could never hold a cigarette, and the leather that covers them. As I do this, I see one lady faint outside the window.
She simply topples over, like a very thin tree.
I then open my hands up, like a five year old might. Like, they're in a fist and then-- they're open!
I hear screaming from outside. Gosh, have I killed someone? What is all this commotion?
I glance around at these women- who are all now naked, by the way. I wonder where their rib-cages are-- and those things protruding from their chests- they're far, far too big. Is this some sort of practical joke?
I move my hand up and down- a kind of queenly wave. Mass screaming.
What have you done, Karl? I ask myself. What on Earth have you done?

Magazine? What magazine? Oh, that one.

Hello adoring public.

Karl and I were having a delightful lunch with Julia (the one Karl loves, you know, at that other magazine) and someone brought up Carine again. And by lunch, I mean a bottle of Evian. I snuck a slice of lime into mine.

Oh, Carine.

Do I have to show all of the other Vogue editors demode faces again? Do we really have to talk about this little French demon? She looks like she needs a weekend at a Swiss medi-spa. And by 'weekend at a Swiss medi-spa,' I mean intensive plastic surgery. Karl even offered to pay for it (Karl doesn't pay for things as money is demode, and I just get everything for free), and she told him:

"Ay am French, sankyouverymach."

What does that mean?

GET ME A TRANSLATOR IMMEDIATELY BEFORE I THROW NEXT SEASONS BALENCIAGA STILETTOS AT YOUR MAKEUP-CAKED VISAGE.

Anyway, Carine is demode. She wanders the streets of Paris, trying to look bourgeois and hip. Karl and I often drive around looking for her so Karl can yell out,

"HOW MUCH?"

Anyway, devoted peons, I must be going. Andre Leon Talley is trying to get back into the Vogue offices, and not only has he broken the lift, but his demode outfit has actually blinded twelve of my assistants.