Chanel Treehouse

Last night (or in the morning if you're that way inclined), I started directing my assistant to "tweet" to Madame Julia Frakes- I dictated, of course. We planned a Chanel treehouse- which will be white, and quilted. The following is a transcript from those "tweets." (Yes, Uncle is up-with-the-play! I am "tweeting" like the chic kids, hmm?).

fakekarl I'm going to build a Chanel treehouse, it will be white and have a quilted roof. Care to join me @bunnyBISOUS?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Oh yes! Is Zaha Hadid consulting? Otherwise it may be couture quality- but topple faster than models in Miuccia's fall '09 heels!
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Yes, Zaha is consulting! It may have hot air balloons attached
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl How incroyable- and so Uppity! What shall be the capacity? We must compile our guest lists! It will be nouveau Prada DoubleClub!

bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl What kind of vibe did you have in mind? Shall it be like your Paris bookstore & be our planned book club locale? Or more Regine-y?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS A capacity that's rather intimate- only a few of the chicest people in the world. Who will you invite?

fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Oh, bookclub-ish. Music not so loud one can't speak! We will meet there for the bookclub, yes. And fly around the trees!
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Perhaps we can build it across rue from 50GP- v. private under lock&key in Gramercy Park tree. Maybe Ian Schrager can consult too?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Yes! It can be just across from my place at Gramercy park...near you, too. Perfect.
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Sounds sublime! BTW, old but ADORE http://bit.ly/dOvUt. Now about that guest list... who do you think? Shall Brad man the ladder?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Brad? Brad who? Brad is no more, but I can't remember the name of the new one. Hmph, the cut won't be invited! I am not one of
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS these "hipsters", hmm? I am beyond. I'd like to invite my nieces, obviously, your cousin, Bob Dylan, Connie, Leonard Cohen..
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS ..The usual. And who would you like to invite? Woody Allen? Larry David?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Oh yes: @AskMrMickey, Sarah @coletteparis, Lynn Yaeger, Olivier @purplediary, @henryholland, @dreelovechild, @fiercegrandma...
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Who else? @leithclark, @jaxwheeler, @vfillolcordier, Luke & @MissKellyO, @karlie_kloss, @ITSJEREMYSCOTT, @MeenalMistry, @mwtsnx...
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Wonderful list. I can't wait for it to be built! Add @lavendrdisastr to the list too, as well as my daughter & @ArchiveSociety
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl & now on to circumventing silly red tape compliments of the Trustees of Gramercy Park! In the meantime, shall we daydream details?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Mmhm. Where to start? Which books? Colours, lights, interiors?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl The phrase "building castles in the air" seems especially ad rem. Or rather-"treehouses". Ideas on lighting, furniture, DJs, food?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS chairs, tables? food (that place you frequent- one lucky duck?) (not that I eat)

bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Oh yes! @PureFoodandWine is only 1 block away! Plus they cater http://bit.ly/7a0jJ >parties. Hm,anyone have inspiration proposals?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Maybe some candles, hm? Maybe Zaha could design furniture? Live bands as well as as DJs- DJ Rei?

bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Rei CdG! Or perhaps @AndrewAndrew, @THEMISSHAPES, @samantharonson, @alexa_chung, @STAGEMOMZ, @MikeNouveau, @HarleyJustice can DJ?

fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Yes, Rei CdG! And Yohji has his band, if he's not shy. And all those you mentioned..I might even do some rapping!

fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Heh, treehouses in the air indeed (now I'm thinking of Le Mis..Castle, clouds). Warm lighting- which designer?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl I forget who designed this fixture in my bedroom, but it seems especially apt for treehouse? http://yfrog.com/5koh9j
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS It's rather brilliant, isn't it? Could have vines running throughout the treehouse; on all the lamps and lights, hm?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Achitecturewise, a few notions: http://bit.ly/xuOqG Which do you prefer? I like Kobayashi & Duke North.! Feider & Sybarite= very Zaha
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS I'm quite taken by Kobayashi! It's very natural. How about art for the walls and such?

bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Hm... if Ian is consulting, perhaps in keeping with GPH? Schnabel, Warhol, Basquiat, Hirst, Richard Prince, Haring, Klee, Rothko?

fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Mm, also Richard Colman. Hm..what other details?

bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Colman, for sure! Perhaps Picasso too? Should we have an "executive committee" of members? A co-op of your contributors, perhaps?

fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Mm, Picasso too. Throw some Klimt in there too. An executive committee; wonderful- I have Rei on the phone now
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS And furniture! Suggestions? Comfy, not modern, yet not old. Hm
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Furniture – well the hotel has lots of Martin Baas http://bit.ly/14eJS7 – but as treehouse, added antiques + John Derian curios?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS We'll go antique shopping once you're back in NY (in London now?), yes?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Sounds like a plan. Thankfully – and exceedingly conveniently – ABC http://bit.ly/sm26p is literally one block away!

fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Rei bangs her gong. And how perfect about ABC! We can just float over there, powered by hot air (balloons)!

bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl J'adore! This pie in the sky pipedream of amazing magnitude is ever more stupefying! Let's keep rolling – who shall man ladder?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Hmmm, man ladder- Baptiste? http://bit.ly/2YdmZs Who for maitre d'?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl I forgot about Maitre d'! Perhaps Abbe Diaz?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Divine! I just realized- how will people climb into the treehouse w/ their Viviers & such? Heels can cause quite a ladder palaver!
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Yes, fantastic. A doorman? Who for doorman? He must be able to wear Austrian doorman's jackets convincingly
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Maybe they will need to swing on a rope-Tarzan style to get to the treehouse.
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Or if they're wearing THOSE Prada shoes, they'll already be at the treehouse!

bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Oh golly– the dreaded S/S '09rs! http://bit.ly/fPN4l Apropos of nothing, I think we've seriously confused followers w/ treehouse!
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Heels will soon be designed by architects of skyscrapers; come reinforced with steel. and yes, we have. how chic!

bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl My fave architectural YSL Eiffel Tower heels may do the trick in that dept.! (not veg - a gift) http://yfrog.com/5epnoj
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS You'll have to wear those to the first treehouse bookclub meeting! Which bands to play?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Perhaps Baptiste can swing w/ patrons? Along way we can snap their photos together (like a roller coaster pic)? What photographer?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS The bookclub rollarcoaster! Nick Knight?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Brill! Or in keeping with treehouse aesthetic, perhaps Tim Walker or Wendy Bevan? Though Daniel Jackson is a ball to shoot w/!
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Although since this is a club, Mark (Cobrasnake)? If I were a more dishonorable bunny, I'd suggest bribing patrons w/ bad photos
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Have all four photographers! Position them at different parts of the treehouse, like a crack security squad, hm?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Golly Coco, why not 10 photographers? Mark included. And patrons' bad photos will go into top-secret files, for.....security,no?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Oh yes! And perhaps we can eventually make a book of said photos (when it dies down) like http://bit.ly/MJN8T?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS A book and maybe even an exhibition, mm? Have a resident artist sketching away in the treehouse

fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Which bands to play?

bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Lissy Trullie http://bit.ly/17RzVq or Citizens Band could be a ball! Or my BFF @rachelantonoff's brother Jack's band @steeltrain!

Cafe Wonderland and Forever 21

Today as I was sitting in the only cafe in Paris that does not serve food, a skirmish broke out between the two tables beside me. It was just me by myself; I like to be alone. It turned out that these people were arguing about stores such as "forever 21" (whoever'd want to be 21 forever is a mystery to me- it kind of reminds me of those people who have a mental age of 6 or 5 or whatever, even when they're 40. What do they call them? The handicapped, I believe)- they were arguing about stores such as this "21 forever" copying designer's designs. One girl- dressed all in black and carrying a black bracelet, was arguing that people who dislike clones of designs- inferior copies, are snobs. On the other side sat a few more people- a man in dark sunglasses and a dark green hat, a couple of girls- one wearing the most fascinating leggings. Of course they were arguing against this, saying it's simply a matter of protecting a designer's creations. I heard words like "artistic integrity" being thrown around (and out the window, I assume. I sometimes wonder how much money those cafes in the earlier half of the century here in Paris spent on window repairs, what with all the arguments and such.)

One can guess which side I was on, hmm? In fact- I wasn't on any side, until they got so loud that they infringed on the sonic-walls of my ipod earbuds. I stood up, and the room went silent- they all seemed to become very, very small before me. It was an Alice in Wonderland situation- I was a giant Alice- in skinny jeans. I said "How would you like it if people passed Beethoven's music as their own, hmm?"
The opposing side piped up; claiming that fashion and music are different- you're not selling music.
"I think you'd find that many people sell music" said I. "Have you heard of concert tickets?"
At this my crowd- by this point they are my crowd, cheered. It was a very hip cheer. Very angular. Very black and white. None of this yellow-fuzzy-cheering that most people partake in these days.

I get very, very, very annoyed at these hipsters who claim that a fashion designer does not have the same rights as an author or an artist. Black civil rights are so 20th century, hmm? It is now all about designer civil rights. We deserve the same rights as any other creator. Many of these hipsters say that the people who buy the "forever 21's" clothes wouldn't buy the original designs anyway. I don't care! Many people who liked "Eve of Destruction" don't like "A Hard Rain's a-gonna Fall, hm? Some people prefer the inferior product, yet it is my design that's being made inferior. A Karl Lagerfeld design can never be made inferior! It makes me vomit! It makes my entourage vomit! It makes the world vomit! How would...oh, let's pick on Picasso (I never liked him- his daughter is a delight, though.) How would Mr. Picasso feel if somebody came and spraypainted a work of his, and sold it as a Picasso? Knowing the egotistic bastard, he'd probably throw a tantrum.

Until the last piece of chiffon flies with pride, until designers walk down the street fingerless-glove-in-fingerless-glove with artists, and with the same rights as artists; until we can be free from this oppression from the no-good copycats, the uncreative who cannot design for themselves, the teenage whores the these forever-and-ever 21's who think fashion comes out of magazines. Until then, I, Karl Lagerfeld will tirelessly fight for the rights of designers the world over. Or at least myself.

Winter in Paris

Ah, Vincent Van Gogh said “winter is snow with black silhouettes.” Isn’t that lovely, do winter days make you weep? Of course, it is not winter, it’s the beginning of summer, birds can be heard on the breeze. Oh, maybe you are very clever and say but Yves, in some parts of the world it isn’t summer. Yes, il n’y pas de quoi, Yves doesn’t care about these places.

Today I walked from Passy, dans le 16eme, to L’isle Saint Louis, along the river. It took me hours, and it was lovely. Paris en silhouette is lovely. Lift your brain well above your shoulders, and see around you only in sihouette.

See the blocks, the individual buildings, the towers, the trees, can you see the patterns the landscape designer was dreaming of when he plotted out planters and boulevards? So much in bloom, look at the trees in silhouette, then approach the tree and gently examine its details, its fabric, and zippers.

Beautiful people look great in silhouette. Symmetry is what nature loves, and that is what makes beauty. That is why a well cut skirt and t-shirt, a linen blouse over not much at all, can look lovely on the right person. You poor people, next time you walk past a plate glass window, don’t look at the cell phones on sale in the window, or at your oversized vulgar handbag, look at your silhouette.

If your silhouette doesn’t please you, create space between your shoulders and your ears, between your ribs and your hips. Remember, the rest of the world must look at you, so you have an obligation to try to look nice, or at least not dégôutant. Shoulders over hips, and pull in your stomach. You are much too young to look like you just had a baby. For lunch.

Moi, for lunch on Ile St. Louis I had bib lettuce with walnut oil, pommes frites, and an omelette, aux fines herbes. In heaven, you learn God is in the details. To make a perfect omelette, beat the yellow of the eggs, separate from the egg whites, then put the two together. Tell your mother to learn to cook, and to throw away her microwave oven. If she argues, fire her. You can replace her with a Balkan immigrant from a local church who can cook better.

There was a lovely couple in the bistrot, and she was very au courante, but still she had lovely posture, and crossed her feet at the ankles. Not sprawling around like you do in front of your television. Really, you must get rid of your television, it is not chic, it makes Yves cry, it is so lonely, so tawdry.

Soooooo, I am looking forward to le week-end. I am going to Menton, in the south of France. Eleanor of Aquitaine was from Menton, and she had a 90-carat diamond, that made its way to Diana Vreeland. This weekend, you must read her book Allure, and learn about this diamond. Eleanor of Aquitaine was Empress of the south of France, married Louis I, the King of the north of France. She cheated on him with Geoffrey D’Anjou, and then married his son, Henry I.

She was very chic, and lived in the 12^th century.

You will never be chic reading blogs, you need books. I want you mes enfants to chant, ensemble, books not blogs. Yves weeps for you. You must read a book this weekend, not blogs. Then write to Yves, and I will weep with joy. …oh, I can hear you, encore! books not blogs...books not blogs…. Oh, mon dieu, où ce trouve mes tissues..

Still Not Dead

Purple and red purple and red, Yves’ not dead

That has been running through my head. Oh oh oh, en anglais, that rhymes!

Anyway, you people are whining. I have stopped in Paris on the way to Morocco, and you must do what I did. Go see the fashions from 1940 exhibit, a côté de Gare Montparnasse. Ask when you get near. Why? Because even during hard times these people were chic, and on a budget. You people only know how to buy fashion, to consume. It needs to be considered, and thought where the thought comes from. There a long winded German, no, not that one, another, Goethe. He said if you aren’t drawing on 2000 years of history you are living hand to mouth.

And that is why, mes enfants, you are all whining is the midst of ridiculous plenty.

Be creative. If you inherited your grandmère’s jewels from the Klondike Gold Rush, be glad of it. Wear a pearl necklace as a headband, if you think middle management has ruined pearls. Oh oh oh, wrap them around your wrist as a bracelet. If a simple blouse doesn’t look parfait, then pensez. Oooh, peut-être you need more exercise, not more clothes.

Appropriateness, another reason you are miserable is you where shorts to town, and you look stupid. And beach clothes in the city make other people uncomfortable. It is a compliment to others to dress properly for the occasion. Take a cue from the wonderful Mme. Sarkozy, always right for the occasion and manages to look comfortable with herself. She looked a perfect lady to meet the queen, and cotton blouses for Egypt. Not like that ghastly American politician’s wife, bare arms always, to distract from that face. That poor creature looked so foolish wearing an Easter ensemble for a January event. Je sais je sais, you will get whiney and defend her by saying oh, she’s the first. Yes, mes pauvres, she is the first in history to ask to have her inaugural clothes comp’d, gratuite, gratis, like some PR chippie. Mais bien sûr, she doesn’t know better.

It saddens others to see a badly dressed and poorly groomed woman. It brings joy to the angels, to see someone dressed simply and properly. Form follows function, oh, Pierre and I had so many lovely books.

I have read that I said all a woman needs to be chic is a black skirt and sweater and a man on her arm. It’s true. Wash your face, put on half your normal maquillage, and keep your hair looking something like it was found in nature.

If you can only stagger like a tipsy chameau in heels, then walk in flats. Oh oh oh, chic.

It is easier than you think, but you need to think, not shop so much. We’ll talk more later, but I must walk to rue de Passy and watch the sunset. Watching the sunset is le dernier cri.

Bonjour from Heaven (out of the black, and into the blue)

Bonjour, it is Yves! Yes, heaven is well past divine. The angels wear made to measure wings, everyone is so well dressed and well mannered. I made God a suit, it fits comme une reve. It’s a Prince of Wales check, horn buttons, and slim cut, with him name sewn in. Oh, going to mass here is so beautiful, it makes me weep, and the communion wafers are little sables from Boulangerie du Ranelagh. We have Faberge eggs for breakfast, and for lunch today I had truite aux duxelles, it was Julia Childs turn to cook. More about that row between her and James Beard later.

Oh, oh, so, I called Karl the other day, “Ich mochter mit Karl sprechen bitte,” because I loooove to pretend his French is so thickly accented I can’t understand a word he says, so I treat him like a German tourist trying to find a Metro stop. Of course he was, comme habitude, barking about being busy designing collections. Which of course means he is on his way to hide at a fat farm. Sometimes it’s the one in Arizona where it is all wheat grass colonics and yoga for a week, sometimes it’s that place near Lausanne where he tries to dress all the rock stars. The neighboring clinic is for anorexics, and they make them go group walks everyday, all pale and self conscious, so so so funny as they parade past the fat farm, eating the UNICEF diet, a bit of tea and lentils.

Oh, but in Lausanne, the high school girls wear furs and hangout at the Beau Rivage and in the cafes, sooo chic, the way it should be. Oh, the cream for the coffee comes in little chocolate cups. Glossy hair, jewels, nice legs and voices, ohhh. That silly American television show, chattering cows, or whatever, oh they look like amateurs.

But I was thinking, ooooh, kaftans would be a good look for the angels. So I think if Karl can go en congee, to his fat farm, I might en vacance to my beloved Morocco for the summer. I do get so inspired by nature, and God likes it, as this reflects well on him. Ooh ohh, then I was admiring some gardens, and I looked down and saw this plaque, on a boulder near some bearded iris:

Tall gladiola and feathered poppy

Fill the yard with purple and red

Colors God put together off the top of his head

A Frenchman too loved purple with red

YSL is in the garden, he’s not so dead.

It reminded me of a window I did for Dior, so long ago. It was ciel et ble, sky and wheat. It was a wheat colored pencil skirt, with a sky blue silk blouse. It was so beautiful, a young lady stood in front of it and wept. I saw her and went and wept with her. To be honest, it was after I had left Dior, but I went and wept with her. Weeping over beauty is a form of communion. I like to think of people looking over wheat fields and high deserts in, on clear days saying, “oh, that is so Dior”, or seeing moi in their gardens and tulip fields. Of course, when Karl looks at a pink shimmering sunset, he sees underdone roast beef.

White Roses on the Shadow of Soon

I interviewed a young person named Rachael Please. I am enjoying interviewing these young people. The youth today! So feisty! This young person has an album coming out, on the 30th. One may obtain it by emailing rachaelplease@gmail.com or going onto this young person's "Myspace", I suppose. I don't email- I only write letters. By the way, a young woman emailed me about where I get all my nieces from. I generally find nieces in garbage bins of gold and silver, or in record stores where they sell only polka dot shirts. I like estrogen, hmm?

Karl:
Where do bees come from?
Rachael Please says:
Bees are the living perspiration of our lord and saviour Jesus H. Christ, sent to punish innocent people, in classic Christ fashion. It's horrible really.
K:
What about honey?
Rachael Please:
You don't even want to know... lets just say there is a lot of "manual labor" involved. Clothing is generally not an option.
K:
If a chessboard is on a table, where is the nearest castle?
Rachael Please:
Somewhere in the future...
K:
What about Hamlet's Rose?
Rachael Please:
I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about... This is the 21st century, I'm pretty sure anything that came before the 80's got thrown in a landfill somewhere in Orange County. Sorry.
K :
So you're an 80's fan? Where's the leggings, hmm?
Rachael Please:
Oh me, no, I'm not an 80's fan, I'm speaking objectively. The world forgets things pretty quickly, art in particular, if you can't fuck, eat, or dance to it, it's not worth remembering. Haven't you heard?
K:
I only remember things that you can eat to not eat them
How do you feel about the 90's?
Rachael Please says:
I think the 90's were great, a lot of innovation took place, people started making really different things, probably more then than any other time in history, and I don't just mean in music, but music especially underwent serious changes, unfortunately those positive innovations had a negative effect on music as a whole being that they spawned millions of unoriginal counter-artists, most of which still plague us today. Turn on the radio, you'll shoot yourself. It wasn't always like that, and I don't think it always will be. I mean, they'll have to play my music eventually.
K says:
Do you feel like the Indian of the group?
Rachael Please:
I feel like the Jew of the group, if that means anything... good music has been systematically slaughtered in favor of cheap auto-tuned money machine bullshit, I'm like the one that survived, everybody else got tired and quit, or sold out. I'm just getting started with these people, "These People" of course meaning every fucking one.
K: How scary! Would you like a mint?

And now I have some questions for all of you:
Where is the harlequin's castle?
Who owns the farm, and how many geese does it take to get there?
How many doves do you posses?

Modern Love

As I was walking home this evening- yes, I walk home- it was just down the street and cars have that smell to them. That sort of enclosed, meringue smell. I was walking home, down the glass boulevard where I spied a couple making love in the alleyway. The man took out a notepad, and I heard: "Let's begin this negotiation." The woman, in her red dress and diamond-glass earrings said: "I believe this will last for twenty minutes." The man said "Yes, but could we make it another 5? My sexual organs are out-performing expectations today." The woman lent against the wall, like a starlet on cyanide- she pursed her thin lips, eventually saying "Hm. I suppose that would be acceptable, however efficiency is key." For a moment I was confused- lovemaking has changed a lot since my day, I was thinking. Then another thought passed my mind: "Ah, we are witnessing prostitution. How interesting." I called to one of my ninja-floral-pants-assistants, who was hiding under a pothole. I scolded him for the cliche of his hiding place, and asked him to get a chair. I sat outside the opening of the alleyway, watching this act of lovemaking. It was all very efficient and mechanistic. I eagerly awaited the transaction of the money- wondering Just How Much it costs for a prostitute these days (and which one is the prostitute, hmm? I believe that's what BRAD'S GONE INTO YOU DESERTER. Brad who?)
Yet there was no transaction made. I went up to the woman afterwards*, as I helped her zip up- in all honesty, she could lose a kilogram or two. Not too bad, though- not a model, either. I asked the woman: "Did he pay by credit card?"
"Non Karl" (because everybody knows who I am), "we were making Modern Love."
"Ah.." said I, remembering why I went into asexuality.

*Frankly, I prefer to be surrounded by women. (Hi Belle, Tavi, Lady Amanda, etc). Men want to be me; women simply envy me. It's terrible when somebody wants to be you- especially if they're not paying for the privilege. Imagine if somebody created a fake me? Mon dieu! Mon Coco! Mon Chanel!

Live in Bars and Danced on Tables

Most of you will have seen Anna's bit on 60 minutes by now. If your name is Cathy "Ohio" Horyn, you are probably flabbergasted by the fact that Mr. 60 Minutes dared call me a vampire; or the fact that he suggested John Galliano needs a better tailor. I imagine Cathy sitting at home, eating yet another one of her chicken pot-pies and wearing her hockey hats and lumberjack jackets- writing her post with a dirty pencil and yelling at the neighbours: "WHY AREN'T YOU LIKE MY SYCOPHANTIC COMMENTORS?" she screams, going back to her CRT computer screen to eat her 2nd chicken pot-pie of the day and read her commentors (all of whom are in their 40's and out of work). I do wonder whether Cathy possess a sense of humor, or that too, like her fashion sense, is long gone. It's the truth that I'm a vampire- I told everybody that in the 70's and they thought I was joking.

If you are the possibly-once-alright fashionista dot com, you would've written a post in where you call the delightful (if in need of skincare) Mr. 60 Minutes "snarky". Children, let's have a think about what it means when an industry where to be snarky is valued as highly as being able to breath- let us think about what it means when a fashion site calls somebody out on being snarky. Just let that sink in for a bit. Mm. This is what happens when you get college girls with frizzy hair writing posts, hmm?

The other thing making all the news stands at the moment is a book written by a so-called former assistant of mine. He was never an assistant of mine- assistants of mine do not survive once they are fired. They're like some endangered animal that's under protection by the horrible environmentalists, that if they are released they cannot survive in the wild. My assistants do not survive in the wild; simply because I kill them first. Given that we're on a National Geographic kind of slant here, we'll say that I eat them, as a large worm with eyes might. Of course, I do not really eat them. I just decapitate them. I stole one of those Chanel guillotines this artist created, and I use that. The artist sent a telegraph to me regarding the fact that it the guillotine in question is "art" and "not for use". I replied saying it's a demonstration of art ending life. That's rather philosophical, isn't it? "Art ending life." Someone should write a thesis on that.

Let me tell you this, Fashion people: nothing in this book is true. For one, I drink diet Coke, not Pepsi. What sort of book gets an important plot-point like this wrong, hmm? Can you really imagine I, Karl Otto Lagerfeld, drinking Pepsi? It defies the imagination, frankly. This fraud of a writer alleges other things- I'm egotistic, I have no understanding of the human mind; I designed the H&M collection in two and half days. I designed it in half an hour, not two and a half days. What sort of slob do they think I am? As for my ego, I think my nieces and daughter will testify that I am not egotistic in the slightest. Yes, I am brilliant and the greatest genius ever; yes, I, by myself- moi and only moi- revived Chanel; yes, I designed every collection worth a damn ever. That's no reason to call me an egotist. I'm just brilliant.

Letters to the Dressmaker at 11.57 AM on a Paris Morn

Today I deemed two whole letters to me worthy of my attention. The following are the letters and the replies.

"DEAR KARL,
PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME THE RATHER LOOSE REFERENCE YOU MADE TO NABOKOV (WHO, BY THE WAY, WAS AN EXPATRIATE FOR MOST OF HIS LIFE AND QUITE, I DARESAY, REMOVED IN HIS PROSE STYLE FROM TRADITIONAL RUSSIAN LITERATURE) IN THIS POST. ONE SIMPLY DOES NOT FEEL LIKE NABOKOV. NO ONE CAN SULLY HIS MEMORY BY FEELING LIKE HIM. FEELING LIKE NABOKOV IS LIKE SAYING YOU FEEL LIKE THE RESURRECTED CHRIST. LIKE SAYING YOU FEEL LIKE GOD. LIKE SAYING YOU FEEL LIKE THE GREATEST GENIUS THAT EVER LIVED, EVER. ACTUALLY, THAT IS SOMETHING YOU WOULD SAY, BEING KARL. THIS TRAIN OF LOGIC HAS LED ME TO THE SOLUTION TO MY QUESTION.
LOVE,
JULIE ANNE (yes it is truly I. although, as you have probably surmised by now, I'm normally way too cool to comment on your dear lovely little blog, I simply had to stoop to it this time. I can now be satisfied, having made a complete fool of myself. the end.)"

Dearest Julie Anne,

As you are aware I'm sure, I am German by birth. Wiemar German, if we're going to be specific- not this new Germany, what with all the done up blouses and such. Why! In Wiemar Germany, my mother, who was a very beautiful woman you know, used to walk around topless most days. All the beautiful women did. And the men dressed in an incredibly dapper fashion; far more dapper than today. Now of course, that terrible woman runs it- one wonders if she's ever been kissed, hm?
My point being, darling dewdrop, is that Nabokov is far more Russian than I shall ever be- even if he lived elsewhere for most of his life.
Of course, the reference is twofold- I was changing tense, something Nabokov is rather fond of, as I'm sure a certain boy is fond of your neck, no? However, I must admit that I felt like Nabokov at that moment. I suddenly felt the urge to write on index cards, so I went to the nearest library and discovered that they have no books, only computers. I then remember that I have my own library, so I went there and got distracted by reading Pynchon's Vineland and Dylan's Chronicles, Volume 2. Eventually- after remembering what I was there for, I took exactly two hundred and thirty eight index cards and sketched a collection upon them in a car. I felt that Nabokovian. Do I feel like the resurrected Christ? Non- Christianity is terribly unfashionable these days. But of course I feel like God, I am God. You then imply that Nabokov is the greatest genius ever; yet if this was the case the entire world would explode in a fit of confusion, as everybody knows I'm the greatest genius ever. Even Cathy "Ohio" Horyn thinks so, and she makes pies out of meat (boo! hiss!)
You end up realizing that I am indeed the greatest genius ever, therefore purging yourself of the sins you created. See me afterwards.

Love,
Karl

Dear uncle Karl,

Don't you think it's demode to lie about your age? If not, it's a mystery that you clasmates are older than you.

Kiss

Dear Person,

Why must you sully a kiss upon my skin? The short answer is: no. I never had classmates because classmates implies equals, and I have no equals. Therefore, they're not older than me as they don't exist.

..Love,
Karl

Salut d'amour

"Are you wearing four jackets?" I said to the young man who walked into my office today.
He stuttered and mumbled a bit.
"You're wearing four jackets," I repeated.
He stuttered and mumbled some more, appearing to be confused as to how many layers of clothing he wears in the morning.
I took the very long metal rod which lies behind my desk, and poked the young man. He said ow. I proceeded to attach the hook at the end of the rod to his first jacket, and ripped part of it off. Under it, of course, was another jacket. I did the same to each of the four jackets until I finally reached a shirt, dirty and unwashed.
"Do you wear this shirt every day, without taking it off?" I asked the man.
He hesitantly nodded. I brushed my ponytail.

"Well. What do you want."
"K-k-karla told me to get a job."
"Karla?"
"My w-wife. I mean, m-m-my partner in l-love, that's w-what she calls i-i-it."
"And why do you need a job, person?" I asked as my eyes drifted down to his skinny jeans, where I saw an Animal Collective album poking out from his undone fly. "Ah", I said, before he had a chance to reply.
"A-ah-h?"
My eyes wandered down to his new balance shoes, where his laces were replaced with tiny wayfarers, melted and stretched out.
"Ah" I said again.
My glorious olfactory organ smelt the smell of week old instant coffee, record players, American Apparel, Mexican fedora hats and lookbook dot nu.
"Ahh," I said.

He's muttering and stuttering again. I whack him with my silver cane, which I keep within my tie, and he speaks a coherent sentence.
"K-arla said i-i-if uh, we don't get m-money she can't-t buy her thr-ift shopping."
"So the hipster lifestyle caught up with you, hmm?"
"ALT! THIS J-JOB WOULD BE ALT!"
"Dear boy, I am not offering any jobs."
He then takes off his shirt, revealing a tattoo of Thom Yorke and a terribly filthy chest.
I yawn, as Karla, his "partner in love" comes in. Barry White sings as she opens the door. She screams "KAAAAAARL!", where I duck under my desk at her rich-girl shrillness. I can just feel the walls of my office being contaminated with GUESS and Louis Vuitton germs. Yet, no self respecting hipster wears Louis Vuitton- on her body she wears leggings and a white t-shirt, like a impoverished aerobics instructor. But I know that underneath it all, she's still a rich girl. I can smell it on her.

Golly goose, we got into present tense there for a bit! I feel like Nabokov, except not so Russian.

I leapt out of the window at this point, and apologies to the woman who had her jacket damaged by my fall. I heard Karla yelling out the window, some terribly sad story about her young lover needing a job because otherwise they would not be able to afford the electricity.
"Use candles" I yelled back.

Everybody's Having Those Same Old Dreams (Or, My Day was Just Wonderful, Thank You Very Much)

The other day, I was walking around Hyde Park. I often do this: it's a very good park for walking. There's plenty of interesting people there: gynaecologists, gourmet butter importers, lords whose kingdoms have dissolved into sand and the like. Just a month ago I was there and a man with small glasses and a green jacket came up to me- his name was Ozymandias, he said to me. I said hello to Ozymandias. It turns out that this fellow is in fact an Egyptian, used to be an accountant in Egypt. A sort of king, I suppose. He and I ended up discussing J.G Ballard, who you will know died the other day. We ended up going down to Hades to visit Mr. Ballard- we also visited my soul, who rests upon a pillow of silk and tweed. I've always rather enjoyed the river that one must go down to get to Hades- Anna's done some fantastic fishing in it. It's black and shiny, much like the remaining the umbrella I designed in 1947.

Anyway, I was walking around Hyde Park and everybody's looking at the sky. Even the doormen, in their Austrian jackets were looking up to the sky. Every single living thing in Hyde Park- plants included- was looking up toward the sky.
"What are you doing there?" I called out to a man in a tweed suit, with tweed shoes and a tweed pencil. He did not reply, his eyes mimicking the relationship between a child and a television.
"Hello?" I called again, stunned by the collective necks straining upwards.
"Twitter." was the lone response from a man with no face, but a bowler hat.
"Hmm?" I hmm?-ed.
"Twitter," he repeated, as if a wind-up toy.

The crowd in Hyde Park moved their arms up toward the sky, as if they were worshiping one of those religions, and started to say "Twitter. Twitter. Twitter. Twitter."
"Is twitter not an internet service?" I asked the man who had no face.
"Twitter is the sky. Twitter is the sun, moon, sky, and Earth. Twitter is you, Karl."
"Hippie." I retorted.
The crowd began to sing "Aquarius"- that awful wishy-washy-my-mother-didn't-breastfeed-me song, you know the one? I won't even link to it here, for fear half of you form a commune and never bathe again, but you know what I mean.

I walked away from Hyde Park scared a little, to be frank with you. As I walked a way, the crowd grew louder; now singing "give peace a chance". I wondered if I had stumbled into the 60's by mistake.
I talked to my watch, which by the way, there is only two of in the world. I muttered generally, as old men do. "Nein nein nein" accelerated at the speed of a Franco-Prussian bullet train. As I went further away they had stopped singing "give peace a chance." They were simply singing "Twitter's what we need, 140 characters' all we need, can't read no books, but hell, we can read twitter."

As I was on the outskirts of the park, the song had devolved once more, into something that wasn't even English, French, German, Swedish, or Russian. I could smell the smoke of fires, as people threw each other into the air, hoping to catch a glimpse of what-? -Ultimate Twitter Nirvana? A world created from 140 characters? Ultimate knowing of what somebody had for lunch? Mm, obviously that. I walked into the empty streets, and had diet Coke with a deaf, dumb, and dead old lady from 1840, who did not know what twitter was. I saw Shakespeare in the alley, writing a new play. One hundred and forty characters long.

Mothers Day

This is a poem I wrote for my dear mother.

Mother, Mother, Oh so dear,
Telling me my hands are ugly,
Smoking with your hands so fair,

Mother, Mother, I shall not bore you,
With my childish talk,
And my whitened hair,

Mother, Mother, I design Chanel now;
Yes Mother, I will not talk of work,
I know how it bores you so

Mother, Mother, I will wear my glasses,
My glasses so dark in the night,
To cover up my evil eye from you

Mother, Mother, how is hell?
Is the devil treating you well?
Does he let you play his fiddle?
Does he have the fire turned on well?

Anna Wintour has a wine (or two), or: the Met Gala

This terribly demode Met Gala was held once again, a couple of days ago. It's Anna's little party, though I overheard a little bird wondering whether Anna has gone lesbian; what with the model as muse theme and all. Of course, that's if we define "model" and "muse" by excluding those more unconventional muses- Rebecca Alperin, those of Yohji, Rei, and so on- eventually we end up with a very glamorous...barn of sticks who appear to be impersonating drag queens. So it's unfair to say Anna is a lesbian- she obviously has a thing for drag queens, which is fine. Very J.G Ballardian.

I did not go to the Gala because I don't like parties as a rule. I am not a party person. I am more of a by-myself person. However, I feel that the Gala has outstayed the welcome fashion throws out to it: it is becoming the Fondue Party of this decade. Frankly, the only interesting thing about this ball was mon amour, Jules- she wore a dress by me. Fendi, spring/summer, 2009- look 35 I believe. I got the telegram from her around last month requesting a dress. I tried to convince her that maybe it wouldn't be the best idea; that these balls and galas are terribly demode now; it's incredibly vulgar to stage something like this when people are losing jobs, no? Not just any jobs, but the jobs of seamstresses! If there's anybody almost as important as a designer, it's a seamstress. I was just outside the Chanel headquarters the other day as a seamstress sat homeless on the street, her dress like rags and her eyes a vortex of blazing desperation. I laughed at her, because it was I that fired her. I'm only worried about the good seamstresses.

My driver drove me past the gala, once. We were going out for a late night high-collar feast and people stalking session anyway. Now if this was Yves, we'd be hearing about "Oh how I regret not going to this ball of balls!" I, on the other hand, was stuck by the circus that appeared to be congregating outside- what appeared to be a large yellow bird was smoking a cigarette. I heard snippets of conversation: "Where do you insert a tampon?", "Do you think he's straight?", "I heard Alaia had an affair with Anna."

Oh yes, Alaia! Readers of other media will note that Mr. Alaia pulled out of this little ball. Commentors on say, Cathy Horyn's blog have been positvly enraged by this! Yes, because a designer pulling out of a meaningless ball is very enraging! My Chanel, I feel my ice cold blood rising a degree. Nevermind that our Mr. Alaia is a noted prima-donna (much more than Nigel Barker is a noted fashion photographer) , and what probably happened was someone insulted his shoes. You know, a lot of people praise Alaia, calling him a genius and such. Nevermind most of them haven't seen Alaia's work; he's, like, a totally important designer! It's mostly the critics who like him, of course, because He Has Wine.

I had to go to the gala in the end anyway, Anna passed out. By the time I arrived half the guests had passed out, actually- it reminded me of a gas chamber, but with pretty dresses.

Karl Lagerfeld: The Twitter Interview

fashionpirate@fakekarl i give the best advice, don't I, Uncle? Yes, yes I do. You should get Rei to send me dresses as a reward

Yes niece, you do. Your advice is as delightful as a summer's day, in which I throw things at the fatties, watching in amused yet icy silence as the things I throw dissolve into the fattie's fat. I will speak to Rei, hm? Only because I l- lo-. Well. Anyway.

latto@fakekarl Have you still got your hundreds of 1st generation iPods? If not, which do you own now & how many?

Yes. I also throw them at fatties. I have about 5687 ipods. Which you'll note, is the amount of protest singers around today.

lurex@fakekarl when you will do a new hair cut?
Never. When are you getting a new hair cut? You see, my hair is very long so my brain can function better. Otherwise it grows inwards and clogs up the brain.

teenfashionista@fakekarl What's your favorite way to spend a lovely Saturday afternoon?

Anna is generally hungover from the last night, so I take her to the hospital and they pump her stomach out. This is a weekly occurance. At least. Then she gets drunk again. Repeat process. It'll be worse at the Met Ball, much worse. She used to never drink at those things, but with that Donatella person....oh dear. Here's some dandruff-free advice: don't get drunk with Donatella Versace. Ever.

annabananafish@fakekarl if you could be any dinosaur, what dinosaur would you be and why?? (and don't just answer with "none, dinosaurs are demode")

I tried to find a dinosaur which does not eat. I ended up finding the Weimarosaurus, which you probably will not have heard of. It died at as soon as it evolved, as it refused to eat. But at least it was very chic for the 5 minutes in total that it existed, hm?

queengilda@fakekarl so how many collars do u own and can I get some? :)

78,089,986. If you go outside my Parisian apartment, and if you fight with the Le Skinny Jeans mafia that patrols outside it, you may be able to get some old collars of mine that I throw out the window of the lady who lives above me. Her name is Esme.

jmcleod@fakekarl Might you suggest a reading list or a sequence of events for a young person wanting to become a superlative designer?

And what exactly is a superlative designer? How about a "young person"? It took me a lot of time to get young! I can suggest reading a lot of Nabokov though. And Murakami. Nabokov and Murakami, and maybe a little Pynchon on the side- as for poetry; Dylan Thomas and T.S Eliot. Do not fight in the captain's tower. And don't study fashion at college; it seems to me that the vomit-rate induced by college fashion designs is actually higher than vomiting produced by alcohol consumption at college. Something's wrong if this is the case, no?

Coco_5@fakekarl. Est-ce que vous aller faire une autre collection en partenariat avec H&M?

Non.

idratherbuyshoe@fakekarl how does a lover of fashion, not working in the fashion industry, get tickets to a Chanel/KarlL show?

You purchase them at the ticket office, like everybody else.

lookcloserblog@fakekarl what do you wear to bed?

Exactly what I wear during the day. I'm like the super-man you Americans have; I must be ready all the time, every time! There are no excuses for being late to a tea party. Fashionably late is the domain of teenage girls and their proms.

lavendrdisastr@fakekarl I SHOULD GET CREDIT FOR THAT I AM CALLING YOU OUT THAT WAS MINE ALL MINE

See the note above. (But please dear, save the hysterics for the bedroom, hmmm?)

lucasvarga@fakekarl I think your comment about old people is so stupid.

I think you are incredibly demode. I am nearing 250 and you don't see me in a "home", hmm? That is because home is where the heart is, and I have no heart! I'm incredibly confused to why you think I care about what you think. The good thing about bars is the the barman pretends to care about what you have to say; I suggest using one.

glamour_puss@fakekarl thank you for validating my existence.

You're welcome. Welcome to the world, Descartes II!

latto@fakekarl You promised to answer us on your blog Haven't seen anything about your famous collection of iPods 1G That's not right...

Oh dear, you'd better write a protest song about it. "Lord have pity because Karl didn't answer my question soon enough."

Judas!

I don't believe you.

sweetarchivia@fakekarl What do you think of shows like America's Next Top Model? Do you think these girls could walk your Chanel runway?

Tyra Banks was once a decent model, before she cheapened herself with that show. It's a terrible show; like the cheese in a McDonald's burger. If you want to be a model, don't go on America's Next Top Model. You'd be better off making sexual advances at me, and I'm asexual. Have we seen an artist emerge from American Idol? Non. And I don't think we're likely to see a model emerge from a reality-show-for-the-plebes anytime soon, either.

CommeTuMeVeux@fakekarl Are grey t-shirts demode? Besides Diet Coke, which other beverage is okay to indulge on?

They probably are. I wouldn't know, because I have never worn a t-shirt in a day on my life. What is wearing a "tee-shirt" like?
Champagne is okay to indulge in if you're Anna. Otherwise, water. It's good enough for the dolphins.

aydapadi@fakekarl Hi babe.

I'm asexual you know!

Variations on the Death of Blogging

Dear Twitter Followers,

I am very, very, very disappointed in you. You are the most demode people that I have ever encountered. I have seen your tweets. I do not care that you are having a shower. The mere fact that you are having a shower implies that you were at some point dirty, which I find repulsive. I do not care that you think so-and-so is the "coolest" person ever. I do not care what you had for lunch. Why are you eating in the first place? Why do you have a twitter anyway? Do you really think anybody cares what you are doing right now? I certainly do not care what you are doing right now- you bore me. Yet what I am most disappointed in is the fact that you appear to be a bunch of coffee-addicted, hyper-active, ADD children. As I dictate this most to an assistant, I am told I have 1577 followers. But, how many of you actually read this blog? The answer is: less than that. "But oh! We follow you on twitter because it is the hip and cool thing to do! All the celebrities are on twitter now, not blogging." Non non non, the real reason so little of you 1577 cannot read this blog is because you cannot read! You people cannot read any more than one-hundred-and-forty characters at a time! Your short little attention spans can only grasp these little messages of 140 letters, hm? Novels, I am sure, will start to be 140 characters. Short stories will become 75 characters; and songs will be just 15 characters. If we keep going this way, "ABBA DABBA ZAPPAA" will be the hit song of 2010!

Blogging is dead, hmm? Long live twitter!

Love,
Uncle Karl

Letter from Yves

It's been so long! It's been so long since we last kissed, since we last held pale hands together as it rained outside the window, since we last talked. It has been so long since your eyes trailed up the vines and into the veils presented by the trees. Ah, yet it has been longer still, since your voice trailed softly into the distance, a cadenza and a diminuendo. Yet I yearn for you, my heart grows fonder even though I realize the past; in it's crystal clear wine bottle.

Oh, I've missed you. I miss you still- even as we speak- even as I write this on the page. What else can I say? Karl and I, the difference between us is that he has no heart. Our great con-artiste claims to have one- a frozen one, yet certainly a heart. This is a lie. If he ever had a heart, it was ripped out years ago and eaten by his mother. You see, I'm capable of emotions. When you left, my dreams were turned asunder- "what dreams?", I hear a member of the audience say- after all, I'm supposed to be dead. The problem with being dead is that one still has dreams. I don't know where those dreams are anymore: perhaps you have seen them? Are they in an alley some place, or in a cafe drinking?
I wish somebody'd hand me a rose.

Upon the treetrunks which I drew as a boy, I now cry upon. I walked past a willow yesterday, and it wept for me. I mutter to myself, in that adorable French accent of mine: I wish I was loved. I do not mean "Yves Saint Laurent": The Brand. I don't even own that, anymore! Gucci owns it, or someone. Some company that sells pharmaceuticals. I am not a pharmaceutical, lovely and forlorn reader. I am not a plastic pill meant to be popped by peroxide-blonde housewives; nor a cure for athletes foot. Pharmaceuticals disgust me. They are not glamorous. You cannot get excited about toothpaste. Non, I am talking about Yves, the person who's meant to be dead. Yves who wants to be loved. Yves who walks the broken boulevards alone.

Yes, dear reader. Time has passed, seasons have withered away, yesterday's news ceases to even be fish and chip wrapper. Yet I am here, once more.

Love,
Yves