Well, Peta and all of the rest of them- the vegans, the fake vegans, the fake fake vegans, the Mormons, etc, have been getting on my back about the use of fur. Actually, they've always been getting on my back about the use of fur, but today I decided that I had enough of it. I decided to come up with an Ethical Solution (TM).
I began by ringing up John Q Lightening, the famous explorer (unfortunately his name has led to him being cast in a few B movies, none of which I recommend you watch.)
He's an explorer of the old school- he wears khaki and carries a saber, whilst wearing one of those peculiar white hats.
"John," I said to him, "would you mind going into the jungle and getting attacked by a tiger?"
"It's what I do!" he said.
"Wonderful! Make sure you're in mortal danger!"
Of course, John Q is a very good explorer, so he made sure he got in mortal danger. He was genuinely attacked by a tiger. It almost killed him (but like a good explorer, he didn't die. He fought the tiger and won, killing it in combat.)
Since he killed it in combat, and since the tiger was going to kill him, I figured it was okay to use the tiger skin for clothes! It's incredibly ethical, since John Q had no choice, he was attacked.
So this is the strategy we here at Fendi and Chanel are perusing. We hire explorers to go out and get in mortal danger. It's rather hard to get in mortal danger with a Mink, of course, but if we hire- say- children explorers, or ant explorers or something. It's all perfectly ethical.
By the way (unrelated to all this), Laurelle Gilbert at Elle needs to learn how to write sentences in English. She writes "Karl Lagerfeld is like to keep busy." What on Earth does this mean? I expect articles about me to be written with perfect English. Perhaps the writer should try learning another language, hm?
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
The Sartorialist is Dirty and Depraved
This Scott Schuman is an awfully short person. I was walking along the street today- I ended up crashing the motorbike into the Dior salon- and an incredibly short man wearing a suit came up to me. "Karl, could I take your photo?" he asked. His eyes were beady- little black ball bearings. He peered up at me like I was some god- as well he should- the top of his face becoming almost horizontal with the ground as he struggled to see me. I said: "who the hell are you?"
The man was taken aback by this. "I, well, I am The Sartorialist" he said. "So you're another one of those superheroes?" said I, "we've got enough of them, you know. We've got Batman, and Superman, and Spiderman (although I think he mostly does office work these days)- all of them. Anyway. What is your magic power?"
"Shouldn't it be super power?" the little man said.
"Whichever- what is it?"
"I can take photos."
"You can take photos! My my my," I said attempting to put on a southern accent whilst sounding like rubber bent around a tree.
"Not just any photos. I take The Sartorialist (TM) photos."
"And what is special about Sartorialist photos?"
"Uh..they're Sartorialist."
"What does Sartorialist actually mean?" quirried I.
"It means I'm a really good photographer."
"Photographry is not a super power unless your name is Nick Knight or something."
"But I'm The Sartorialist," he said. He rather reminded me a petulant five year old speaking to his five year old friend- "but I'm being the fireman today." Or more aptly- "but I'm being Superman today." But in this case, the child really does believe that he is Superman.
"I don't care whether you're The Sartorialist or a sociologist, to be quite frank."
"The Sartorialist: Selected as one of Time magazine's top 100 design influences."
The man actually quoted this- as if quoting something, word for word, will make it true.
"Pray ask, which designers are you influencing?"
"Uhm," he uhm-ed, the h being very audible.
"So?"
"It was in Time magazine though. It must be true."
At this point Bob Dylan came along and said this:
The littlest photographer seemed not to have been moved. He kept saying, over and over, "But it was in Time magazine, it was in Time, it was in Time."
"You have American Apparel ads on the side of your blog."
He couldn't really reply to that.
"Would you like to come back to my house", he finally said.
"Why would I want to come back to your house?", I said.
"I have...biscuits."
"I don't eat."
"I'll take your picture...at my house...we could play dominoes."
"Dominoes?"
"And then maybe we could go for a movie."
"You know Scott, you're a bit of a creep."
"Hello Clarice." He did that Hanibal Lecter tounge thing- where he sort of slurps.
"Dominoes," he said once more.
And then- and then he said this: "I would like to dress you, Karl, in a little schoolboy blazer and take your picture"- I was incredibly creeped out by this, and ended up walking out. Creep.
The man was taken aback by this. "I, well, I am The Sartorialist" he said. "So you're another one of those superheroes?" said I, "we've got enough of them, you know. We've got Batman, and Superman, and Spiderman (although I think he mostly does office work these days)- all of them. Anyway. What is your magic power?"
"Shouldn't it be super power?" the little man said.
"Whichever- what is it?"
"I can take photos."
"You can take photos! My my my," I said attempting to put on a southern accent whilst sounding like rubber bent around a tree.
"Not just any photos. I take The Sartorialist (TM) photos."
"And what is special about Sartorialist photos?"
"Uh..they're Sartorialist."
"What does Sartorialist actually mean?" quirried I.
"It means I'm a really good photographer."
"Photographry is not a super power unless your name is Nick Knight or something."
"But I'm The Sartorialist," he said. He rather reminded me a petulant five year old speaking to his five year old friend- "but I'm being the fireman today." Or more aptly- "but I'm being Superman today." But in this case, the child really does believe that he is Superman.
"I don't care whether you're The Sartorialist or a sociologist, to be quite frank."
"The Sartorialist: Selected as one of Time magazine's top 100 design influences."
The man actually quoted this- as if quoting something, word for word, will make it true.
"Pray ask, which designers are you influencing?"
"Uhm," he uhm-ed, the h being very audible.
"So?"
"It was in Time magazine though. It must be true."
At this point Bob Dylan came along and said this:
The littlest photographer seemed not to have been moved. He kept saying, over and over, "But it was in Time magazine, it was in Time, it was in Time."
"You have American Apparel ads on the side of your blog."
He couldn't really reply to that.
"Would you like to come back to my house", he finally said.
"Why would I want to come back to your house?", I said.
"I have...biscuits."
"I don't eat."
"I'll take your picture...at my house...we could play dominoes."
"Dominoes?"
"And then maybe we could go for a movie."
"You know Scott, you're a bit of a creep."
"Hello Clarice." He did that Hanibal Lecter tounge thing- where he sort of slurps.
"Dominoes," he said once more.
And then- and then he said this: "I would like to dress you, Karl, in a little schoolboy blazer and take your picture"- I was incredibly creeped out by this, and ended up walking out. Creep.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
A Terribly Verbose Interview
This is the full text of an interview I gave a while ago, but it seems the magazine never launched. I posted a couple of my answers here a bit back- here's all of it, in its full, monstrous entirety. I think long things are important- especially long pieces of writing. It seems recently people have became more and more ADHD and can barely read a 200 word post. It's terrible. It's foolish. Nobody's going to condense War and Peace down to 200 words for you. Nobody's going to condense Nabokov down to 200 words for you. Ridiculous. Go read a book, you lazy urchins.
..You also once mentioned inspecting a jacket to see if it was fake including licking it and whispering to it in a sensual voice. Is this something other people can do?
It really depends on how good of a lover they are. I see, these days, that most people only make love to humans, but this is a very new idea. In the 60's they made love to everything. Actually- that's not true- I see people making love to all sorts of things these days, but they're very boring things: treadmills, cellphones, spatulas. Who wants to make love to a spatula?
A long time ago, a friend of mine was travelling down the line- the telephone line- where he met up with a mule who carried him safely into a little town where he met a girl. The girl wore black, and she was very chic. She carried heels with her wherever she went, in a wooden luggage box. The girl was just standing there, looking over his shoulder, her scarf over her mouth but her eyes looking into his. They fell in love, once they got over the logistics of her looking over his shoulder whilst he somehow twisted his head in her direction in order to lock eyes. This friend of mine, it was another time really, he sent me postcards on the pony express, which would get to Paris about once every month, give or take a couple of days. They were madly in love. They decided to get married, and all those other sort of lover-ly things. Personally, it made me vomit quietly in my mouth; but I couldn't do a thing. They had dreams together, and dreams don't die so easily- they're about as immune to death as I. One day, the girl wasn't wearing black anymore, and she just broke his heart. A sad story, don't you think?
That's what I think of lovers. I think they're just a setup to heartbreak, hmm? It's better to have not loved at all and be a genius, than love and be mediocre. Or love someone who's mediocre- that's just as bad.
But what about these lovers in Paris? Are they any different? Oh, I wish they were. They just make my heart freeze the more. Yes, those with their little berets and such; their little trimmed moustaches and little black dresses. Yet it happens all again- somebody drinks some medicine, and their heart changes, like an old grandfather clock. It's a very ineffective piece of equipment. And it's very fragile.
I'm actually convinced the very act of eating creates calories in itself. And of course, Diet Coke is not food. Food implies eating and eating implies calories.
What sort of things does one cook in a book? Expect figures, of course. Figure skaters are very good material for a cookbook. You can buy it at all good bookstores (which these days seem like a dying breed. You'd better catch one before they're all dead.)
Chanel does have a ultra-ladylike drag-queen clientele, and the larger sizes cater to them. Margiela is just lazy. He's about as active in his company as Colonel Sanders is in KFC.
What about King Kong? Was there any time when he wasn't King Kong?
Most of the people I know are not so unknown, hmm? I could spend all day talking to you about the celebrities I know. They all are part of a secret clubhouse, though. It's in the biggest tree in the world, and requires a silver-plated invite (we got rid of the gold plated invites when we heard about this crunchy credit thing. They're in a dumpster somewhere, I imagine.)
I actually suggest sending them directly to the models themselves. For instance, you could buy Kate Moss a bra or two- I hear she's a b-cup now. There's also the "Cindy Crawford Time Travel Foundation", which is a foundation Cindy created to transport the models who require bras to the 80's and such, where models were allowed breasts. Thus, many of the models of today are also yesteryear's models.
Personally, I find the heart redundant- the ancient Mayans used the heart to make love to their gods, yet these days that sort of practice is frowned upon- the ripping out of hearts out of human beings. I can't imagine why.
I make love by whispering sweet nothings into the wind, when the evening is spread out against the sky.
Yves wrote that, actually. I give him a good slapping every now and again. You know, I think it's a brilliant label without actual clothes. I could just have a store with no clothes, that people pay to come to. I would do that if there wasn't already stores like it- "Margiela" comes to mind.
Her therapist says blogging's good for her. She's convinced alcohol's good for her. The two go together, as I'm sure many a blogger will inform you. Anna's a little friend of mine, if you know what I mean.
Am I? Maybe I'm the second coming. Maybe Bob Dylan's the fourth coming, or the sixth coming. Maybe John Peel is the seventh coming and Steve Albini is the 12th coming. There's all these comings and goings, you don't really know who's supposed to be the messiah and who's the tea boy. Perhaps the tea boy is the second coming.
Brad who?
I started looking down a suburban street for jealousy. I saw mothers in zoot suits, and fathers in polo shirts, and children in brown suits and flowery dresses. Over the road the family wore the same thing- zoot suits and such. Yet each family looked over the road at the other family like the had something the other didn't have. This confused me. I walked to the next house, where a 40 year old woman with blonde hair trailing down her back had her dress unzipped by a fat man with grey hair. I felt like I was in some TV series. I went to the city with it's metropolitan metal, and I found lawyers hanging off highrise towers: I asked them if they knew what jealousy was, but they just shrugged and directed me to the nearest white house. So I got into the white house, where they were serving sixteen white horses on white plates, and all smiled. I had heard that people who smile are not jealous, and I went elsewhere, toward the heart of the middle classes- the workplace. Yet, I saw people smiling here too. I wondered to myself: Is jealousy something which people pretend not to have? After this...epiphany, I wandered over to the Met ball, where I finally found jealousy by lifting up the wigs of the ladies who go there.
A corporate Eskimo. He wears a very warm suit to work.
Non, I don't just mean Chanel. I also design Fendi and my own line, Karl Lagerfeld. I don't go on the internet; I hear it places your tracks in concrete, and I always tread in snow. With a big stick.
For a very long time I was confused to who this Emmanuelle Alt is. I would be at parties, and if they were in France one of my people would tell me that this Alt person was also there. Yet I was never sure what this person looked like- are they are boy or a girl? Emmanuelle sounds like the name of a bad Spanish chef. Eventually I saw Emmanuelle's photo on a dart board in Anna's office at Vogue- "who's that?", asks I, "Oh, that skunk Emanuelle" Anna told me- or rather spat at me. Now, I am still not sure whether Alt is a robot or some sort of brainless, trend-following moron. The terms are not mutually exclusive, of course.
Carine, she is one of the "cool kids" who thinks she is oh-so-chic in her Balmain jacket. One wonders whether she was stoned out of her mind for the entire period of the 80's- it's not hard to imagine. She's trying to replace the Chanel jacket, it's clear- but the Chanel jacket is timeless, something nothing by the horrible smelly homeless man can only dream of. Frankly, I'm not worried- French Vogue is only read my American French students, anyway. Everybody in France reads a magazine which is far too chic to dictate here. But it exists.
..You also once mentioned inspecting a jacket to see if it was fake including licking it and whispering to it in a sensual voice. Is this something other people can do?
It really depends on how good of a lover they are. I see, these days, that most people only make love to humans, but this is a very new idea. In the 60's they made love to everything. Actually- that's not true- I see people making love to all sorts of things these days, but they're very boring things: treadmills, cellphones, spatulas. Who wants to make love to a spatula?
If there is a real Fake Karl, is there really a Real Karl?
If a is b, is c harmonica?
You wrote, “I feel like Paris is a place for lovers to watch movies in bed.” Can you tell us more what you think of lovers in Paris?
A long time ago, a friend of mine was travelling down the line- the telephone line- where he met up with a mule who carried him safely into a little town where he met a girl. The girl wore black, and she was very chic. She carried heels with her wherever she went, in a wooden luggage box. The girl was just standing there, looking over his shoulder, her scarf over her mouth but her eyes looking into his. They fell in love, once they got over the logistics of her looking over his shoulder whilst he somehow twisted his head in her direction in order to lock eyes. This friend of mine, it was another time really, he sent me postcards on the pony express, which would get to Paris about once every month, give or take a couple of days. They were madly in love. They decided to get married, and all those other sort of lover-ly things. Personally, it made me vomit quietly in my mouth; but I couldn't do a thing. They had dreams together, and dreams don't die so easily- they're about as immune to death as I. One day, the girl wasn't wearing black anymore, and she just broke his heart. A sad story, don't you think?
That's what I think of lovers. I think they're just a setup to heartbreak, hmm? It's better to have not loved at all and be a genius, than love and be mediocre. Or love someone who's mediocre- that's just as bad.
But what about these lovers in Paris? Are they any different? Oh, I wish they were. They just make my heart freeze the more. Yes, those with their little berets and such; their little trimmed moustaches and little black dresses. Yet it happens all again- somebody drinks some medicine, and their heart changes, like an old grandfather clock. It's a very ineffective piece of equipment. And it's very fragile.
You wrote, “Diet Coke, of course, goes with everything. It is the new black.” Is diet coke food? Can you eat anything that doesn’t have calories?
I'm actually convinced the very act of eating creates calories in itself. And of course, Diet Coke is not food. Food implies eating and eating implies calories.
Do you have a cookbook and where can I buy it?
What sort of things does one cook in a book? Expect figures, of course. Figure skaters are very good material for a cookbook. You can buy it at all good bookstores (which these days seem like a dying breed. You'd better catch one before they're all dead.)
If you don't like fatties, how come Chanel offers big sizes (2, 4,....6)? Do you think that is why Margiela puts spandex in everything (complete with face cover), because they like fatties?
Chanel does have a ultra-ladylike drag-queen clientele, and the larger sizes cater to them. Margiela is just lazy. He's about as active in his company as Colonel Sanders is in KFC.
Were you ever a German Ja-men before you were King Karl? Maybe when you worked at Balmain? In reference to your recent autobiography “King Karl, Better Than Yves”
Non! I was born before Germany even existed. I was born in Prussia. Let us not talk about Balmain...I would hate to traumatize you, child.
Was there ever a time when you were not King Karl?
What about King Kong? Was there any time when he wasn't King Kong?
I noticed you were a rap-artiste before rap was invented. Can you tell me more about this?
It's very simple. I speak so fast it ends up sounding like a rap, and one day I was walking down hell's kitchen and Bob Dylan heard me, as well as Louis Armstrong. That ended up being the geniuses of rap, before it was desecrated by the so called "rappers" of today. Gosh, back in Germany we used to have fast-talking competitions (when I was a child), and I would always win. Nowadays one would call it a "Rap Battle" or something equally inane.
You mentioned, “Dressing well is better than being a good person, anyway. I know celebrities.” Can you tell us more about the celebrities you know?
Most of the people I know are not so unknown, hmm? I could spend all day talking to you about the celebrities I know. They all are part of a secret clubhouse, though. It's in the biggest tree in the world, and requires a silver-plated invite (we got rid of the gold plated invites when we heard about this crunchy credit thing. They're in a dumpster somewhere, I imagine.)
Where can we send money to support ex-models who got fat and now need bras?
I actually suggest sending them directly to the models themselves. For instance, you could buy Kate Moss a bra or two- I hear she's a b-cup now. There's also the "Cindy Crawford Time Travel Foundation", which is a foundation Cindy created to transport the models who require bras to the 80's and such, where models were allowed breasts. Thus, many of the models of today are also yesteryear's models.
You wrote, “It's like one of those useless parts of the body- like the heart or some such.” If you don’t use your heart, how do you make love?
Personally, I find the heart redundant- the ancient Mayans used the heart to make love to their gods, yet these days that sort of practice is frowned upon- the ripping out of hearts out of human beings. I can't imagine why.
I make love by whispering sweet nothings into the wind, when the evening is spread out against the sky.
“Karl has just informed me that this morning he promoted himself from "demi-god" to "Kaiser H. "Coco" Lagerfeld ", a bit redundant, would you say?-- well I wouldn't... don't feel like getting slapped)” I believe that was written by Anna. Does this mean there will soon be a Kaiser H. “Coco” Lagerfeld label? Where can we buy?
Yves wrote that, actually. I give him a good slapping every now and again. You know, I think it's a brilliant label without actual clothes. I could just have a store with no clothes, that people pay to come to. I would do that if there wasn't already stores like it- "Margiela" comes to mind.
Why do you let that American girl Anna blog for you sometimes? She’s not Paris ( Note: Bob Dylan we are sure has no address, or passport)
Her therapist says blogging's good for her. She's convinced alcohol's good for her. The two go together, as I'm sure many a blogger will inform you. Anna's a little friend of mine, if you know what I mean.
Speaking of...you wrote, “Maybe give him a record deal- Jesus and the Stoners (everybody must get stoned, hmm?). “ Are you implying Bob Dylan the second coming? Explain.
Am I? Maybe I'm the second coming. Maybe Bob Dylan's the fourth coming, or the sixth coming. Maybe John Peel is the seventh coming and Steve Albini is the 12th coming. There's all these comings and goings, you don't really know who's supposed to be the messiah and who's the tea boy. Perhaps the tea boy is the second coming.
Where is Brad these days? Why doesn’t he blog for you?
Brad who?
Did you ever find out what Jealousy was? Did it end up being from the middle classes?
I started looking down a suburban street for jealousy. I saw mothers in zoot suits, and fathers in polo shirts, and children in brown suits and flowery dresses. Over the road the family wore the same thing- zoot suits and such. Yet each family looked over the road at the other family like the had something the other didn't have. This confused me. I walked to the next house, where a 40 year old woman with blonde hair trailing down her back had her dress unzipped by a fat man with grey hair. I felt like I was in some TV series. I went to the city with it's metropolitan metal, and I found lawyers hanging off highrise towers: I asked them if they knew what jealousy was, but they just shrugged and directed me to the nearest white house. So I got into the white house, where they were serving sixteen white horses on white plates, and all smiled. I had heard that people who smile are not jealous, and I went elsewhere, toward the heart of the middle classes- the workplace. Yet, I saw people smiling here too. I wondered to myself: Is jealousy something which people pretend not to have? After this...epiphany, I wandered over to the Met ball, where I finally found jealousy by lifting up the wigs of the ladies who go there.
Can you confirm Martin has an Eskimo designing his last collection?
A corporate Eskimo. He wears a very warm suit to work.
You wrote, "Fashion is not a translation of the street, nor is the street a translation of fashion." By fashion, do you mean Chanel? Also, have you ever been on the Internet?
Non, I don't just mean Chanel. I also design Fendi and my own line, Karl Lagerfeld. I don't go on the internet; I hear it places your tracks in concrete, and I always tread in snow. With a big stick.
Do you think Carine is a part of a secret plot to replace the classic Chanel jacket with the new Balmain jacket? Do you think Emmanuelle Alt is a decoy robot of this movement who has been built to take some of the pressure off Carine?
For a very long time I was confused to who this Emmanuelle Alt is. I would be at parties, and if they were in France one of my people would tell me that this Alt person was also there. Yet I was never sure what this person looked like- are they are boy or a girl? Emmanuelle sounds like the name of a bad Spanish chef. Eventually I saw Emmanuelle's photo on a dart board in Anna's office at Vogue- "who's that?", asks I, "Oh, that skunk Emanuelle" Anna told me- or rather spat at me. Now, I am still not sure whether Alt is a robot or some sort of brainless, trend-following moron. The terms are not mutually exclusive, of course.
Carine, she is one of the "cool kids" who thinks she is oh-so-chic in her Balmain jacket. One wonders whether she was stoned out of her mind for the entire period of the 80's- it's not hard to imagine. She's trying to replace the Chanel jacket, it's clear- but the Chanel jacket is timeless, something nothing by the horrible smelly homeless man can only dream of. Frankly, I'm not worried- French Vogue is only read my American French students, anyway. Everybody in France reads a magazine which is far too chic to dictate here. But it exists.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Motorbikes and Streetcars and Modulations
I have a new motorbike. You can see it to your right there. It goes "vroom vroom", just as I imagine a motorbike to go. That's Lara sitting on the motorbike, and the new boy- I still can't remember his name- standing behind her. I put him in pants because I don't like his legs as much as Lara's. I ordered the motorbike a few months ago- I decided that I need a motorbike, to go with my fingerless gloves. So I had the ChanelBike made. It's rather chic, no? Actually, I shot a campaign with it too- I suppose those images will be out at some point, although it's really just an excuse to get the bike. I'm going to be like Marlon Brando on that bike. You know, I look pretty good with my shirt off. Not that I'm going to show you. I'm too old for that- I did it when I was younger. I do intend to ride around the streets on my motorbike, though. Cruise through, as the kids say.I wrote an ode to my motorbike:
Oh Motorbike,
The feel of the wind sweeping through my hair on a cold Parisian night with Lara behind,
And the swept streets and the mute lights and the storming gravel,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas
'Neath sunken skies,
And the clattering chatter of onlookers,
Highwayman Karl,
High collar and suit and gloves,
Shirt doused as Jil Sander at the Opera,
Highwayman Karl
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Spring Cleaning (A FAQ of sorts)
Though my assistant Jean assures me that it is not Spring at the moment, I'll ignore him. It's Spring tonight. Anyway- I was looking through a printout- on quilted paper, of course- of search terms used to find my "blog." Some of them are particularly amusing. I am not a compulsive list maker, but I made a list. It's a FAQ of sorts. By the way, there was about two million search terms asking if my daughter is my daughter. I won't dignify them with an answer:
1. "Jane Lagerfeld."
I am afraid that my daughter's name is "Jane Aldridge", not "Jane Lagerfeld." Actually- she was recently featured with her mother in that magazine of Anna's recently. I'm quite proud of her. Anna's trying to make friends with Jane, because Anna thinks she is "cool" and "hip"- she's been looking up this "David Lynch" trying to work out who he is. It's vaguely cute, in a middle-aged way.
2. "Karl Lagerfeld no glasses."
You abomination. It's sheer blasphemy to want to see me without my sunglasses! What sort of sicko would want to do something like this?
3. "Anna Wintour Lesbian."
My Coco. How many sickos and weirdos read this blog? I can already imagine them- their fantasies of I, Karl Lagerfeld with my glasses off and Anna making out with Cathy "Ohio" Horyn in a bikini. Sick.
4. "Juicy Couture Ghetto"
Go away from my blog, please.
5. "Women making love."
You know, I used to think that gay men read this blog, but I'm more and more convinced that 90% of my readership are actually lesbians.
6. "Diane Pernet is creepy."
Not nearly as creepy as you, you lesbian-glasses-off-Juicy-Couture-Ghetto-creep.
7. "Don't mess with a feminist."
Well now. Who said I wasn't a feminist? Is this a threat, hmm? Chanel can track you on the internet, you know. I have lawyers. Lawyers carry guns these days.
8. "Does Karl Lagerfeld speak English."
No.
9. "Does Karl Lagerfeld fear someone else can design better than him."
No.
10. "Every woman I couldn't love."
Maybe you're gay, hm?
11. "Hannibal Karl Lagerfeld."
Why hello there, Clarice.
12. "How to make love with the girl of my uncle."|
That, my dear, would be called inscest and is frowned upon in most parts of the world.
13. "Is Anna Wintour a lesbian."
See above.
14. "My heart still yearns for your letters."
Get over it. It was in the past. Move on. The past is for losers.
15. "Why can't I show affection."
Maybe you're a sociopath!
1. "Jane Lagerfeld."
I am afraid that my daughter's name is "Jane Aldridge", not "Jane Lagerfeld." Actually- she was recently featured with her mother in that magazine of Anna's recently. I'm quite proud of her. Anna's trying to make friends with Jane, because Anna thinks she is "cool" and "hip"- she's been looking up this "David Lynch" trying to work out who he is. It's vaguely cute, in a middle-aged way.
2. "Karl Lagerfeld no glasses."
You abomination. It's sheer blasphemy to want to see me without my sunglasses! What sort of sicko would want to do something like this?
3. "Anna Wintour Lesbian."
My Coco. How many sickos and weirdos read this blog? I can already imagine them- their fantasies of I, Karl Lagerfeld with my glasses off and Anna making out with Cathy "Ohio" Horyn in a bikini. Sick.
4. "Juicy Couture Ghetto"
Go away from my blog, please.
5. "Women making love."
You know, I used to think that gay men read this blog, but I'm more and more convinced that 90% of my readership are actually lesbians.
6. "Diane Pernet is creepy."
Not nearly as creepy as you, you lesbian-glasses-off-Juicy-Couture-Ghetto-creep.
7. "Don't mess with a feminist."
Well now. Who said I wasn't a feminist? Is this a threat, hmm? Chanel can track you on the internet, you know. I have lawyers. Lawyers carry guns these days.
8. "Does Karl Lagerfeld speak English."
No.
9. "Does Karl Lagerfeld fear someone else can design better than him."
No.
10. "Every woman I couldn't love."
Maybe you're gay, hm?
11. "Hannibal Karl Lagerfeld."
Why hello there, Clarice.
12. "How to make love with the girl of my uncle."|
That, my dear, would be called inscest and is frowned upon in most parts of the world.
13. "Is Anna Wintour a lesbian."
See above.
14. "My heart still yearns for your letters."
Get over it. It was in the past. Move on. The past is for losers.
15. "Why can't I show affection."
Maybe you're a sociopath!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Grandma Anna (or: The September Issue)
Grandma got run over by a reindeer,
It wore a Prada nose, I do believe,
You can say there's no such thing as fatties,
But as for me and Alber, we believe
She'd been drinking too much vodka,
And we'd begged her not to go,
But she'd left her sunglasses,
So she stumbled out the door into the snow
When they found her September mornin',
At the scene of the attack,
There were hoof prints on her forehead,
And fattie hand-prints on her back
Grandma got run over by a reindeer,
Walkin' home from our house September eve,
You can say there's no such thing as fatties,
But as for me and Alber, we believe
Now we're all so proud of Alber,
He's been takin' this so well,
See him in there sewing dresses,
Drinkin' beer and playin' cards with cousin Belle
It's just not September without Grandma,
All the family's dressed in Coco's black,
And we just can't help but wonder,
Should we bury her with vodka or without?
Grandma got run over by a reindeer,
Walkin' home from our house September eve,
You can say there's no such thing as fatties,
But as for me and Alber, we believe
Now the goose is on the table,
Alber's gonna eat it all,
I'm drinking diet coca-cola,
That would've matched the colour of dear ol' Grandma's soul
I've warned all my friends and neighbours,
Better watch out for yourselves,
They should never give a licence,
To a man who weighs more than the sleigh,
Grandma got run over by a reindeer,
Walkin' home from our house September eve,
You can say there's no such thing as fatties,
But as for me and Alber, we believe
Monday, July 13, 2009
2 Easy Pieces
A while ago, I did an interview with a certain website- I'm not sure if it was ever published or not, considering it was supposed to be published in June, and it is now July. July is after June. I know this because I went through the months in my head: "January, February" and so on. So, I thought I'd publish a few excerpts from the interview over the next few days. A woman named
Donna Tillotson originally asked the questions, by the way.
On Emmanuelle Alt, the Chanel Jacket, etc:
Do you think Carine is a part of a secret plot to replace the classic Chanel jacket with the new Balmain jacket? Do you think Emmanuelle Alt is a decoy robot of this movement who has been built to take some of the pressure off Carine?
For a very long time I was confused to who this Emmanuelle Alt is. I would be at parties, and if they were in France one of my people would tell me that this Alt person was also there. Yet I was never sure what this person looked like- are they are boy or a girl? Emmanuelle sounds like the name of a bad Spanish chef. Eventually I saw Emmanuelle's photo on a dart board in Anna's office at Vogue- "who's that?", asks I, "Oh, that skunk Emanuelle" Anna told me- or rather spat at me. Now, I am still not sure whether Alt is a robot or some sort of brainless, trend-following moron. The terms are not mutually exclusive, of course.
Carine, she is one of the "cool kids" who thinks she is oh-so-chic in her Balmain jacket. One wonders whether she was stoned out of her mind for the entire period of the 80's- it's not hard to imagine. She's trying to replace the Chanel jacket, it's clear- but the Chanel jacket is timeless, something the horrible smelly homeless man can only dream of. Frankly, I'm not worried- French Vogue is only read my American French students, anyway. Everybody in France reads a magazine which is far too chic to dictate here. But it exists.
On Jealousy:
Did you ever find out what Jealousy was? Did it end up being from the middle classes?
I started looking down a suburban street for jealousy. I saw mothers in zoot suits, and fathers in polo shirts, and children in brown suits and flowery dresses. Over the road the family wore the same thing- zoot suits and such. Yet each family looked over the road at the other family like the had something the other didn't have. This confused me. I walked to the next house, where a 40 year old woman with blonde hair trailing down her back had her dress unzipped by a fat man with grey hair. I felt like I was in some TV series. I went to the city with its metropolitan metal, and I found lawyers hanging off highrise towers: I asked them if they knew what jealousy was, but they just shrugged and directed me to the nearest white house. So I got into the white house, where they were serving sixteen white horses on white plates, and all smiled. I had heard that people who smile are not jealous, and I went elsewhere, toward the heart of the middle classes- the workplace. Yet, I saw people smiling here too. I wondered to myself: Is jealousy something which people pretend not to have? After this...epiphany, I wandered over to the Met ball, where I finally found jealousy by lifting up the wigs of the ladies who go there.
Donna Tillotson originally asked the questions, by the way.
On Emmanuelle Alt, the Chanel Jacket, etc:
Do you think Carine is a part of a secret plot to replace the classic Chanel jacket with the new Balmain jacket? Do you think Emmanuelle Alt is a decoy robot of this movement who has been built to take some of the pressure off Carine?
For a very long time I was confused to who this Emmanuelle Alt is. I would be at parties, and if they were in France one of my people would tell me that this Alt person was also there. Yet I was never sure what this person looked like- are they are boy or a girl? Emmanuelle sounds like the name of a bad Spanish chef. Eventually I saw Emmanuelle's photo on a dart board in Anna's office at Vogue- "who's that?", asks I, "Oh, that skunk Emanuelle" Anna told me- or rather spat at me. Now, I am still not sure whether Alt is a robot or some sort of brainless, trend-following moron. The terms are not mutually exclusive, of course.
Carine, she is one of the "cool kids" who thinks she is oh-so-chic in her Balmain jacket. One wonders whether she was stoned out of her mind for the entire period of the 80's- it's not hard to imagine. She's trying to replace the Chanel jacket, it's clear- but the Chanel jacket is timeless, something the horrible smelly homeless man can only dream of. Frankly, I'm not worried- French Vogue is only read my American French students, anyway. Everybody in France reads a magazine which is far too chic to dictate here. But it exists.
On Jealousy:
Did you ever find out what Jealousy was? Did it end up being from the middle classes?
I started looking down a suburban street for jealousy. I saw mothers in zoot suits, and fathers in polo shirts, and children in brown suits and flowery dresses. Over the road the family wore the same thing- zoot suits and such. Yet each family looked over the road at the other family like the had something the other didn't have. This confused me. I walked to the next house, where a 40 year old woman with blonde hair trailing down her back had her dress unzipped by a fat man with grey hair. I felt like I was in some TV series. I went to the city with its metropolitan metal, and I found lawyers hanging off highrise towers: I asked them if they knew what jealousy was, but they just shrugged and directed me to the nearest white house. So I got into the white house, where they were serving sixteen white horses on white plates, and all smiled. I had heard that people who smile are not jealous, and I went elsewhere, toward the heart of the middle classes- the workplace. Yet, I saw people smiling here too. I wondered to myself: Is jealousy something which people pretend not to have? After this...epiphany, I wandered over to the Met ball, where I finally found jealousy by lifting up the wigs of the ladies who go there.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Interview with Julia on the Couture Collection
Julia (Frakes) and I were seated together at dinner recently- actually, it was the dinner hosted by the Venus de Milo. Dinner parties hosted by statues are all the rage in Paris at the moment.
Anyway, it was after the couture show; after that interview with Cathy "Ohio" Horyn where she kept going "mm" every five seconds and laugh deeply, like a man. She reminds me a little of my father, who was about two hundred and sixy four when my mother gave birth to me. It was later in the night when I was talking to Julia- we were alone, because everybody else had either passed out or died (which is effectively passing out anyway, just for a tad longer.)
So Julia ended up interviewing me about the couture show, and the interview's been posted here, at the Paper magazine website, as per usual. I suggest you read it.
Anyway, it was after the couture show; after that interview with Cathy "Ohio" Horyn where she kept going "mm" every five seconds and laugh deeply, like a man. She reminds me a little of my father, who was about two hundred and sixy four when my mother gave birth to me. It was later in the night when I was talking to Julia- we were alone, because everybody else had either passed out or died (which is effectively passing out anyway, just for a tad longer.)
So Julia ended up interviewing me about the couture show, and the interview's been posted here, at the Paper magazine website, as per usual. I suggest you read it.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Letter to Karl
Mr. Lagerfeld,
Do you sell your DEMODE shirts in size x-large?
T
--
Dear Trevor,
Because of the high quality fabric we use, an extra large shirt would cost 5 more pounds more than the regular shirts- as we use more fabric, and it takes longer for the seamstresses to sew. We find the higher price acts as an incentive to lose weight, too.
Love,
Karl
Do you sell your DEMODE shirts in size x-large?
T
--
Dear Trevor,
Because of the high quality fabric we use, an extra large shirt would cost 5 more pounds more than the regular shirts- as we use more fabric, and it takes longer for the seamstresses to sew. We find the higher price acts as an incentive to lose weight, too.
Love,
Karl
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
"Live Blogging", Chanel Couture
Whilst the rest of the world was weeping for Michael Jackson with their television sets tuned to one of the seven hundred and sixty eight channels that covered it, I and my seamstresses were putting the finishing touches on the Chanel couture. We don't have a television set. We were playing one of my ipods actually- Tom Waits. Cathy "Ohio" and her hag friend from Central St. Martins decided to visit us, so I had some assistants hide the sandwiches and pies- not to mention bacon muffins, whilst we entertained the two hags. They told us about the tent that they'd set up outside Paris in order to save on hotel costs- I muttered something about Brokeback mountain.
We just showed a few minutes ago, actually. So now I'm designing the next collection. The press is no doubt going to ask some questions about the collection I just showed- they're annoying like that. The hags are circling like birds in a Hitchcock film.
We just showed a few minutes ago, actually. So now I'm designing the next collection. The press is no doubt going to ask some questions about the collection I just showed- they're annoying like that. The hags are circling like birds in a Hitchcock film.
Friday, July 3, 2009
The World's Longest Dinner (or, be careful of your waitress at the Tate Modern, she just might be an EEL)
I just came back from the World's Longest Dinner Party. It lasted for 8 days. These things do- they're either very long or very short. I try and make them about 10 minutes, people are rarely interesting after that. But this dinner party ended up being...an interesting social experiment.
The party itself was one of those social events that involve food and people and people wearing clothes. There's also "small talk" at these social events- the conversation generally goes like:
Person one: Mutter mutter OH YES mutter.
Person two: Flatter flatter flatter DON'T YOU LOOK GOOD flatter.
And so on.
If Donatella, Coco bless her plastic soul, is involved in the party it will go something like this:
Person one: Honour honour flatter flatter ITALIAN FOOD flatter
Donatella: Mutter LOOK AT MY MEDUSA LIPS mutter mutter
Meanwhile, if Anna is involved in a the party conversation with her would sound something like this:
Person one: Fear idol fear loathing fear honour-to-meet-you fear.
Anna: Hello.
20 minutes later.
Anna: BLERGddhdDSHSSIEYRDnhcsjcfscnscjscDDJDAcfbsjfbafbsjfbsoaiddhdbJCJNJNCSCA.
Which is why Anna does not go to many parties. She really can enunciate tha many letters than fast. It's something of a party trick. By 2 hours later, Anna will have mistaken most of the guests for deer and start shooting them. It's all that time she's spent at my place in Vermont.
If I were to sum up the dinner party I went to mathematically, we could say that it was 80% "You DO look good" and so on, 5% Donatella and 7.5% Anna- the rest being the people Anna shot at the party, with a tiny dash of Tom Ford attempting to direct a movie with his Sony camera.
The press clippings from the party probably would read something like this:
"Anna Wintour shot 12 people at a party recently, held by the fabulous Mr. and Mrs. So and so. When interviewed by the police about the incident, she claims that she mistook several guests of the party as deer, and proceeded to shoot them as she would do on Karl Lagerfeld's Vermont property. The people were not eaten, and are now in the good care of graveyards. Chef to the stars, Mr. Somesuch, worries about the waste of food: "Well in this resseccion, you've gotta take everything you can for food. When I was a little boy growing up in Scotland, we had to eat food out of newspapers. Nay, we had to eat it off the ground! Nay, we had to eat it at sea level!
Meanwhile, Ms. Wintour has entered into a plea bargain with the police about the unfortunate incident. She will make gun safety commericals to screen in September- "a faaaabulous tie-in to the "September Issue", Large Editor of American Vogue, Andre Leon Talley said. Ms. Wintour also said that she did not intend on shooting anyone else, although she believes guns will be a big accessory in summer 09. More on this exciting accessory story as it happens."
Of course, that story will never be published because here at Chanel, we have a certain power over the elite. It isn't good publicity to have editors going around killing people, you know. Deer or not deer. The fabulous Mr. and Mrs. So and So ended up holding everyone hostage for 8 days, where there was much chit-chat that went around the lines of "prison uniform is SO not chic," and "flatter DON'T YOU LOOK GOOD," as the fabulously well-to-do guests were not so much air heads as helium heads, unaware that Mr. So and So were holding them hostage. Eventually, everyone signed the criminal equivalent of a post-nup (a post-shoot?) and they were allowed to leave, air-kissing everyone until the only things left to kiss were themselves, which they did with remarkable dexterity. And that was dinner.
The party itself was one of those social events that involve food and people and people wearing clothes. There's also "small talk" at these social events- the conversation generally goes like:
Person one: Mutter mutter OH YES mutter.
Person two: Flatter flatter flatter DON'T YOU LOOK GOOD flatter.
And so on.
If Donatella, Coco bless her plastic soul, is involved in the party it will go something like this:
Person one: Honour honour flatter flatter ITALIAN FOOD flatter
Donatella: Mutter LOOK AT MY MEDUSA LIPS mutter mutter
Meanwhile, if Anna is involved in a the party conversation with her would sound something like this:
Person one: Fear idol fear loathing fear honour-to-meet-you fear.
Anna: Hello.
20 minutes later.
Anna: BLERGddhdDSHSSIEYRDnhcsjcfscnscjscDDJDAcfbsjfbafbsjfbsoaiddhdbJCJNJNCSCA.
Which is why Anna does not go to many parties. She really can enunciate tha many letters than fast. It's something of a party trick. By 2 hours later, Anna will have mistaken most of the guests for deer and start shooting them. It's all that time she's spent at my place in Vermont.
If I were to sum up the dinner party I went to mathematically, we could say that it was 80% "You DO look good" and so on, 5% Donatella and 7.5% Anna- the rest being the people Anna shot at the party, with a tiny dash of Tom Ford attempting to direct a movie with his Sony camera.
The press clippings from the party probably would read something like this:
"Anna Wintour shot 12 people at a party recently, held by the fabulous Mr. and Mrs. So and so. When interviewed by the police about the incident, she claims that she mistook several guests of the party as deer, and proceeded to shoot them as she would do on Karl Lagerfeld's Vermont property. The people were not eaten, and are now in the good care of graveyards. Chef to the stars, Mr. Somesuch, worries about the waste of food: "Well in this resseccion, you've gotta take everything you can for food. When I was a little boy growing up in Scotland, we had to eat food out of newspapers. Nay, we had to eat it off the ground! Nay, we had to eat it at sea level!
Meanwhile, Ms. Wintour has entered into a plea bargain with the police about the unfortunate incident. She will make gun safety commericals to screen in September- "a faaaabulous tie-in to the "September Issue", Large Editor of American Vogue, Andre Leon Talley said. Ms. Wintour also said that she did not intend on shooting anyone else, although she believes guns will be a big accessory in summer 09. More on this exciting accessory story as it happens."
Of course, that story will never be published because here at Chanel, we have a certain power over the elite. It isn't good publicity to have editors going around killing people, you know. Deer or not deer. The fabulous Mr. and Mrs. So and So ended up holding everyone hostage for 8 days, where there was much chit-chat that went around the lines of "prison uniform is SO not chic," and "flatter DON'T YOU LOOK GOOD," as the fabulously well-to-do guests were not so much air heads as helium heads, unaware that Mr. So and So were holding them hostage. Eventually, everyone signed the criminal equivalent of a post-nup (a post-shoot?) and they were allowed to leave, air-kissing everyone until the only things left to kiss were themselves, which they did with remarkable dexterity. And that was dinner.
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