Transcript

Karl asked me to post this transcript. Regards, Brad II.

Bob Dylan: Cathy Horyn saw Karl in the kitchen/can't say nothing, but nothing didn't happen
Karl: Boys who wear cowboy hats end up lying on the mat.
Bob: Cathy wore her beanie/And her knee highs too/Someone said "girl, you look like a hag"/She gave them them the evil eye
Karl: How do you even know who Cathy Horyn is? She's just some hockey mom.
Bob: Karl saw his models/All in a line/Cathy said "Karl, why don't you grab something off the shelf?"
Karl: Models don't go in lines. They go in gaggles. Actually, I'm not sure if there's a proper term for a group of models. What's the term for a jar of toothpicks?
Anna: A pickery.
Karl: Oh! There you are. I wondered where you'd gone.
Bob: And Anna's getting some medicine and gin/in the infirmary.
Anna: For once he's right. "Voice of a generation", ptf. That generation was so stoned up a rock could've been the spokesman for it.
Karl: Or a pen.
Allen Ginsberg: What, you don't like Bob?
Anna: Dirty American. It takes a lot of effort to work at American Vogue, you know. But nobody reads British Vogue. God. Coco. Pynchon. You might as well work at Cat Fancier's Weekly.
Spokesman for Cat Fancier's Weekly: Hey now! Look here, we at Cat Fancier's Weekly have been getting a lot of flak- since about the beginning of time. Even Jesus used us as a joke.
Karl: How'd the joke go?
Spokesman: Erm..um..
Jesus: Oh man, I remember. It was like- "I could hardly be God's son if he worked at Cat Fancier's Weekly."
John Lennon: Oh yeah! That was a good one! Bigger than Jesus, that joke.
Jesus: Bigger than Jesus.
Spokesman: It's just not fair. We've been going as long as Christianity! Surely we're doing something right if we're still going. Right?
Sir Edward Elgar: Surely sir, you realize that you're only in existence because of the continuity of this joke? In fact, this conversation right now is keeping your alive.
Spokesman: So..?
Karl: So you would not exist if Anna hadn't made that joke about you.
Spokesman: Am I supposed to pop out of existence at the appearance of logic here?
Anthropomorphic Panda Bear: No.

tree

don't tell anyone
but my tree died
it was small
bonsai, in fact
and it was green
i trimmed as a bimbo at the beach
(oh einstein)

i wept a silent tear
my hair resembled a picture of my own
i told you about it
i think

"Current" Things and So On

It's not often I do a post to do with a "current" issue, because this blog is a sort of escape from doing something directly involved with fashion design and shows and all that. Designing the ballet costumes was like that too. I could easily be a full time costume designer, you know. I have this vision of pancake makeup and the deep thick fog of perfume and the velvet of the curtain; the hustle and bustle of the actors and dancers frenetically moving like trains crashing into lights. I, standing at the center of a yelping crowd of women wanting to be dressed. That's a bit like fashion, you see- yet it has that certain magic. With fashion, you need to create the magic. Everybody assumes that the magic's already there, but the fact is that my high collar does not magically come on every morning. I have to put it on. Maybe I will be a costume designer. Oh ho ho, that'll freak out the fashion people. I can't wait to read the "obituaries" the mindless magazines write, those magazines that like the look of their own ink so much (not so much the content). I suppose Ohio Horyn would write an obituary too. And Menkes. And all the bloggers, but they're not exactly Ohio Horyn, hmm?
It's like that musical, Oklahoma:

Poor Karl is dead
Poor Karl Lagerfeld is dead
All gather round his quilted coffin now and bitch
He had no heart at all
And he wasn't very old
Oh why did such a feller have to switch to costume design?

Oh, I'd love that. Reading the self-congratulatory drivel that these "journalists" write makes Yohji and I chuckle. Yohji drinks his beer. I drink my diet Coke. Here, I'll write a sentence for you:

"Fashion legend Karl Lagerfeld retired yesterday, saying he was going to design costumes. He claimed there was no more glamour in fashion, and costumes were a greater reflection of the zeitgeist than fashion."

Now, if we're Ohio Horyn the paragraph will start with:

"I was making my chicken pot-pie yesterday, after cleaning out the barn, when I heard that Karl Lagerfeld was retiring to design costumes."

I'm not going to do that, though. I have no intention on retiring because I'm a stubborn bastard, and retiring would give too many people satisfaction. Anyway, I can design costumes on the side. I always have. I'll simply have some pancake makeup installed at Chanel. An entire closet full of it. There's a wonderful TV show called "Imagination Movers". It is by Playhouse Disney- a child wearing a tuxedo introduced me to it. They have rooms full of every sort of thing you could imagine. A "cold" room, a "noise" room and so on. Most commendable.

Anyway, I remembered why I was writing this post. It is to congratulate the Rodarte sisters (Kate and Laura) on their CFDA win. I'm very proud of you, girls!

On British Vogue and other things

A couple of days ago a letter arrived on my desk, interrupting my reading of Dance Dance Dance. I read most of the letters that come upon my desk, as they go through a rather stringent process involving an old woman who braids the envelopes, a former food critic who licks them, and a perfumer who smells them. The letter was from "Alexandra Shulman", who is apparently the editor of British Vogue. I've always thought of British Vogue as this dusty little outpost, where there's one sheriff in town and electricity is a recent invention. We have the interns deal with British Vogue.

Now, this Alexandra person writes that it's the designer's fault that we have size 0 as the size for a model. Or size negative 0. Dear Alexandra fails to mention that it was her and her magazine which introduced heroin chic. Here she is, complaining about "size 0" and she is the one who introduced the trend that set this all off. I smell a hypocrite! She goes on to complain that the samples that houses like Chanel send out are too small. Oh, diddums. The fact is that people like Alexandra have been requesting clothes in That Specific Size for a long time. Take note that these samples are free as well- half of them don't come back because there's an awful lot of kleptomaniacs at fashion magazines. (At least when the samples are smaller, less people can steal the clothes- which is probably Alexandra's real reason for this letter- she won't fit into the samples that she wants to steal because she is too fat!)

As for models being too thin, this is the magazine's choice. I do not get some girls, package them up and send them off to British Vogue (nor any other magazine, with the exception of Parisian Vogue, which I did send a couple of models in a box, along with a couple of dress to. The models were meant to model the clothes, but unfortunately the idiot that unpackaged the box failed to see the models and they had to hitchhike back to my house in New York.) It's the choice of the magazine to use these models, no? It's them placing skinny girls on the cover, and between the covers.

You know, this is all just publicity whoring. "Oh look at me!" Alexandra seems to be saying. "I am anti-size 0! I am the fat lady's friend!" This lady is no friend of the fat person, and I don't believe she's genuine about this letter anyway. She's in fashion, hmm? Her magazine has the thin girls on the cover, not mine. As per usual, we fashion designers are the victim here. Discriminated against, once again.

What I propose is that people like Alexandra model the clothes. You know, normal people. Let them model the clothes and I will send them the samples, tailored to perfection. We'll see how well they do as models, hmmm?

Vanity Fair

Apparently Vanity Fair has reached new heights of sophistication, captioning photos of I and the new boy at a party. Oh Vanity Fair, you are so sophisticated! You are so witty! Your biting social satire is more biting that Oscar Wilde and Dorothy Parker in a bathtub together. I do not say "What went down." I never say "What went down." You will never see me say that phrase unless it is in quotation marks. That awful, awful phrase. What moron wrote this caption? Was it Pernet, continuing her rampage against me? Her little vendetta of rumor? Nobody knows what's going on under her veils, you know. I don't even know if she has a face. Maybe it melted off years ago.

Anyway, Per- Vanity Fair's witty captioning continues, where I am quoted as saying "Let's blow this joint." I also never say that phrase. I am not the wise-talking-black-man. I am not even the "wigger." I will not be your black man, Vanity Fair. Golly.

feminist

i am not a feminist.
some bra burners on tavi's blog say i am
a feminist
i am not
i am a journalist
with my pad and pen
presenting the news

i have ten potatoes
and one plate
and ten gongs

feminists offend me
i prefer polka dots
hug a polka dot today
adopt one,
too

feminists do not have gongs

and my bra is in tact
they're expensive
models wear none

(are models feminists?)

Yves Yves Yves

Oh, it is Yves, and yes I am still in les Alpes Maritimes. We walked after dinner, and there were little fireflies at dusk darting along the garden paths. Then we had cognac and sugar cubes, and watched the sunset and the sky turn beautifully dark. We heard crickets, chamber music crickets.

Go out at night, and look up, it is very toning for the muscles on the front of the throat. Oooh, you are seeing for miles. And depending on where you are, you feel as though you can touch them.

Oh darlings, when is last time you looked up at the stars? When it is very dark, and you are away from noisy, vulgar, grimy cities, you can see thousands of them. They look like Austrian crystals on black velvet, but of course, there are informed minds who are certain they look like little lamps carried by deities. Of course, to people with no imagination they look like …stars. The word uranography, charting the skies, is a pretty word. It comes from uranos, Greek for heaven.

Stars near the equator look so big, at the 48^th parallel, there are different groupings and smaller to the eye. And to let people know you have sailed in the Caribe, gush about the Southern Cross.

Ooooh, but still sort of the same, like anything universal, it’s just the perception is changed, depending on where you are and how you take it in. One man’s pashima is another man’s shawl.

In Germanic languages, all but English, the word ‘constellation’ translates literally into star picture. Oh, that is soo heavenly, so divine. Van Gogh loved stars, oooh, Arles is not far from here. The stars are so overwhelming, my lip is quivering. I am so touched by this beauty, and to be able to share it with you. When I return to Paris, I will have a lovely diamante broach made, to remind me how special this was, to share it with you. Oooh, the stars.

Have your driver take you far into the country tonight, to drink in the stars. Anything you dream is possible. And when you have a dream come true, you feel so alive. Drink in the possibility of the stars. Oooh, this is so lovely, and it makes Yves sooo happy to share with you.

About those Rumors

So. Recently, there were some rumors from a certain Diane Pernet that I was leaving Chanel. I was notified about the rumor when I was supervising the construction of my treehouse over at Gramercy Park. I had an assistant look up who this Diane Pernet is.
Me: Who is this Pernet person?
Assistant: The one who wears black veils and all that. Dark glasses. Copies your style, with dark glasses and all.
Me: Oh, I like her voice.
Assistant: Should narrate movies.
Me: Since when did a stock character come up with suggestions like that?
Assistant: Uhh..
Me: It's okay. You weren't aware that you were a character. Just breaking the fourth wall again.
Assistant: You always do that.
Me: Now you're getting it! Anyway, we're annoyed with Pernet.

I was rather bemused with this woman. I am immortal, and Chanel is my bride. I'm Karl Otto Lagerfeld. Why would I ever stop working?

Me: She said that Alber would take over my position.
Assistant: But Alber's Lanvin.
Me: Exactly. It's like saying...it's like trying to wear an untailored suit.
Assistant: Square pegs in round holes.
Me: Why're you putting square pegs into round holes?
Assistant: I don't really know..
Me: It seems a pointless task. Why are people putting pegs into holes anyway?
Assistant: It's a metaphor, I think.
Me: It's just unimaginable.

Anyway, we ("we" being Chanel) issued a statement denying this horrible and perplexing rumor. I just felt like writing a post to express my confusion at this sort of rumor- it's just impossible. You might as well claim that I'm a woman, all models are obese. Really, I am Karl Lagerfeld. I don't care how good your sources are, Ms. Pernet. I'm the only one to design Chanel. I'm not dying anytime. Being retired is boring- have you seen Valentino? I do believe that your "shaded view of fashion" is so shaded you can barely see anything anymore, hmm? In any case, the rumor interrupted my construction of the treehouse. And I love the smell of building sites.

Back from the Ashes

I really do wonder if many of you can read. I write in English most of the time, and I gather most of you speak English- so one would hope that you can all read the entries on this blog. Yet, a few of you apperently cannot read English, as evidenced by delightful comments such as "this doesn't sound like you" in reference to Bob Dylan's post. Of course Bob Dylan does not sound like me, because I am not Bob Dylan. Obviously someone cannot read bylines.

Yet another "reader" said that I wrote a poem about Rei Kawakubo a long time ago. Again, there is this wonderful thing called "bylines", which if you had bothered to read you'd realize the poem was by Rei Kawakubo. Golly goose. Are you all morons? How do you even breath, hmm?

Thank you to You Know Who I Am for her comment. I love you too, dear. Even if you're also creepy (and have tourettes). And thank you to Ronald and R- is there something about the R's today? Your comments entertained me.

So! Where have I been? I've been busy with a swan, to be honest. I'm sure you've all read my quote about how a swan captured me- I think one of those British newspapers published it, I don't really pay attention to their names. I pay attention to how they smell.
Anyway, after I talked about the evil swan who captured me as a child, I decided to go find that swan. I went back to Germany and went to the pond where that swan lived, and there it was- white and mean looking. It must've been 80 years old by then, yet it was still alive. It glared at me. I glared back. It glared harder. I glared even harder, until I realized that he probably couldn't see my glare very well since I was wearing my dark sunglasses. I took off my sunglasses.

"It's young Karl!" the swan exclaimed.
"It's you," I said.
"Where are your lederhosen, Karlie?" the swan said, in that silver-white voice of his.
"I do not wear lederhosen! I wear suits!" said I.
The swan leered at me.
"What business do you have here, young boy?" said the swan.
"First of all, I am not a young boy anymore. I am certainly not old, yet I'm not this young boy you are talking out. I don't even like children. They're obnoxious. I have a daughter, you know. What sort of young boy has a daughter? Apart from those in the British tabloids, of course. She's chic like me. And she's not a swan."
"I would hope not", says the swan haughtily; his head held high above the water.
"How have you been?"
"Not bad- but it's such a horror- every time a swan dies, they play a swan song. It is always the same one. The one by Saint-Saëns- on cello. All weepy and so on."
"I know the one."
"It simply gets repetitive- frankly, I loath the fact that Saint-Saëns wrote the piece in the first place! Before that swans just died like normal creatures- no music or anything. Then that dreadful man wrote that dreadful piece of music."
"I'm not a big Saint-Saëns fan myself."
"Oh, if you were I, you'd want to hunt the man down and throttle him with your beak."
"He was very clever though, no?"
"Oh yes- virtuoso kind of music. Violin concerto, organ symphony, and so on. But so emotionless. I mean, that's the only music swans play- Saint-Saëns. I do wish for...something else."
"Mozart?"
"Sounds the same."
"Schubert?"
"Non, non!"
"You're meant to be a German swan."
"Ja"
"Why not Schubert?"
"Too many fat German ladies sing him."
"Paganini?"
"Show off."
"Ysaye?"
"Belgian."
"Beethoven?"
"Oh dear...I actually rather like Beethoven. Drat."
"What were we talking about anyway?"
"Don't worry about it, you're only a guest star."

In other news, I've been recording vocals- sounds like I'm a singer- for the "Totally Spies!" movie. I play the villain. I thought to myself "Now Karl, if I were a 12 year old French girl, would I like this movie?" The answer was "no", because I'm better than everybody else, but maybe if I was normal. Actually, maybe not, but I did it anyway. I like villains, who doesn't? They get better outfits.

I'm So Free

Hey man! How do you feel about that exclamation mark? Does it excite you cats? Man, it sure excites me when I see an exclamation mark just prodding itself outta oblivion like that, like Ma Rainey or something. Risin' from the ashes like some one-eyed phoenix, in this age of Charles Atlas and swine flu. Man, I've been away a lot; travelin' the road, playin' shows, diggin' chicks. I dig chicks a lot man! Who doesn't? I dig chicks so much I dug myself a hole, and I jus' didn't know how to get outta it for a while there! I was trapped. But man, I built myself a sorta ladder to get outta that hole. All you cats with holes dug by chicks should do the same! 'Cause man, I ain't doin' it for ya. I can't do it for you, even if I wanted to. Those are ladders and stairways, snakes and ladders, that only you can make, and dice only you can roll. I was with this one chick, and she was makin' me an old man and I ain't even 25! But she had the sweetest little pussy. With proper protection that is! But I ended off taking my protective gloves one day, and man- I fell into some hole. I got dragged down by demons and dogs and devils and dentists. Dentists- dentists are the worse. They'll grab you with their sterilized hands and put you to sleep you with their needles and their bows. I don't dig dentists.

So who have I been diggin' lately? I dunno, you're all so flattering and fake, you chicks and cats. How am I meant to lay an egg with you all lookin' 'round? You used to be cool, man. You used to make me laugh. But now you're like- you're like a shadow. Actually you were never cool, with you comments on this blog. "Oh I love you Karl!" you say, whilst piping everyone your blog address. Who gives a monkey's ass what you think? Oh, do you think I care what you think? Oh man, what are you even doing here? I don't even care that you're reading this. You- you're just all shadows man! I've been diggin' my new chick, that's what. I've got multiple new chicks! Monogamy is old. It's for squares. I ain't a square. I ain't even a triangle. Man, what sort of person digs triangles? A hipster, that's who.

I'm free. None of you know what it's like to be free! In your square, four-by-four lives, with only one girlfriend or boyfriend, with your "no drugs" rules. It's medicine man. And your colleges. Only old people go to colleges! I'll tell you...by the time you're in college you'll be in a retirement home. Man, I'm so free that I have twenty six chicks in my attic. I dig it.

rei poem

i carry you softly
(within my triangle)
i carry you softly
(within my shoe)

i
carry a folded piece of cotton
to bend
and
fold
(within my ark)

i hold my gong
i bang
it
i bang it
and i bang it on the fritz
such as einsten & philip
eating bread

i love you even though i can only bang on my gong
(more than shoes)
i am a lizard

it is not in order to escape
in making simple things

utility is the concept
(i love you most of all)

Yves Yves on the Fallen Leaves

Bonjour mes petites, it is Yves, still on the ferme, near Menton. I slept an entire day. It is soo lovely. Can you smell the lavender and santolina on the breeze? Ooh ooh, it so lovely and peaceful, and watching the cook’s golden haired daughter playing with the cat. It is the type of morning that gives the Devil migraine headaches.

You need to get out this summer. If you have no money, go to the bus or train depot, find a prostitute or drug dealer, they always have cash on them, and sell them your silly iPod. You won’t miss it. You people need to unplug more. That lovely man Gandhi, so svelte and tanned, he used to never speak on Sundays, to rest.

When I was un garçon, like you, in Algeria, we would always go to the piscine municipale, my lovely sisters and I , and swim and splash, and then go right across the street to the biblioteque and check out books. This library had a summer reading program, with a darling theme, such a stars or dinosaurs, or flowers, and when you filled out your card, you got a prize. Well, Yves loves books not blogs, and wants you to have an elegant summer, so we are having a contest. Send in your best reading list at the end of summer, and there will be great prizes. Oh quelle surprise, we will shop Karl’s closet for prizes!

Oooh, I see tomatoes sliced, and can smell roasted garlic, so it must be time for luncheon. Read mes amis, it makes you original, and that is very chic. Ooh, I am so happy here, it will be a few days before we leave for Morocco. Bon Voyage!