Paris

Oh, my little creatures. I've been terrible with this "blog" as of late- frankly, I'm more interested in shooting naked men in Vermont. Don't you wish you were with me, hmm? I don't. In fact, I don't even know why I'm writing this entry for you ungrateful little demode ones.

Now, I see that "New York Fashion Week" and "Milan Fashion Week" has been and gone. In fact, behind me, right now, are seamstresses busily sewing various pieces of dresses together. I treat them to a bowl of cream when they're done, and copious sweets. They're almost like cats in that respect. I don't care if they get fat because we need people who aren't models too, hm?
Cathy "Ohio" Horyn, I apologize for putting- quote: "pantyhose over Milan", but I feel that bare leg isn't very chic right now, especially in this climate. Why, I see that you yourself, Cathy, wore overalls to my Fendi show! Overalls! I recall them as being blue, denim, and very farmer-looking. I recall you as having cow-dung on your left gumboot (dear readers, I can imagine you recoiling in shock at the mention of "cow-dung" on these holy pages), and speaking very loudly about muffins. Actually Cathy, I have a fridge magnet of you. It is the only thing on my fridge, on or out. I bought the fridge especially for it.

Of course, now that the...lesser cities and countries have done their fashion weeks- you know, New York, Milan, Oxford, Fiji, Ethiopia (the place where they put all the poor people); it is now time for Paris fashion week. I will be in my room reading Colette, and occasionally you'll find me out and about. I have a rather distinctive appearance it seems- you can't miss me.

Cathy (Old Karl's Book of Fashionable People)

Cathy Horyn was a high faultin' critic,
(Some say she was an acrobat!)
She made the rounds, wearing a beanie as her hat,
And a hip flask filled with gin and tonic

Yet bacon muffins were her game- she dreamt of them at night,
(When she'd tucked her clothes from Walmart far out of site),
In the mornings she'd make them, after pruning the roses,
And a visit from a plump lady who claimed to read her blog:

"My name is A.Cat.Lady" said the woman with a grin,
And she wore a dress of florals, as middle aged women do,
"I adore your blog! I love it!" she exclaimed frightfully,
As Cathy backed away- said she had to go to sea

"But do you have a new recipe?" was what our floral lady said next,
As drool fell down her chin as she imagined things with bacon
Well- Cathy was tempted, I don't need to tell you that,
As she popped inside with a notebook, and revealed her carefully hidden stash:

"This is my new recipe!" laughed Cathy oh so deeply*,
"It is a bacon flavoured wine!" she announced, as her admirer regarded her meekly
"Oh great Cathy! You're the hero! The hero of New York!"
As the Pea- travelling in his moped, stopped in for a gawk

"Well, well, well, what do we have here, my finely adorned friends?"
-the Pea jumped out of his pea-green moped and flexed his manly muscles, and fixed Cathy with a fiendish glare
"How nice of you to join us!", Cathy wearily spoke,
In her deep monotone voice- it looked like the Pea had seen a ghost,
"I am telling this badly dressed, floral, dumpling-shaped middle aged woman my recipe for wine-"
"I see"
"But not just any wine, oh no! For it is bacon flavoured wine."
"I shall have to take a photo" said the Pea, turning green
As Cathy turned her attention to the pie simmering on the windowsill,
And I felt self-satisfaction, in the fact that I don't eat

*Whilst turning around to Julie Anne and saying "Go to Barnard!"

Love, a short poem

Love is very demode,
And weddings are quite out of date,
Anyway- how can one be fashionably late,
To a wedding of their own date?

I once had a lover myself,
Until he hid under some drainpipe cover,
And scampered off with some little lover,
This was quite a bore

To be quite honest, I'm simply sick of giving advice,
To all those couples who end up having fights,
Over who owns what and what owns who,
Isn't it simply better not to love at all?

Consider the financial implications of such:
No lover, no money spent,
Perhaps buy an artwork instead;
Or a coat of delicious animal fur

Also, there's no dinners or dates,
When one is sitting on the shelf,
One will become much more thin,
And besides, there is always the option to telephone a prostitute

Fashion Week is Tiring

Dear adoring public,

I am exhausted.

Fashion Week is quite taxing for me, and having to arrange stand-ins for myself is just horrific. There was a slight mix-up at Phillip Lim, where Stand-In A appeared for a few moments in the same room as Stand-In C. My assistants were terrified:

Assistant 1: "THERE ARE TWO OF THEM?!"
Assistant 2: "I AM GOING TO GO SHOOT MYSELF BACKSTAGE AT DOO.RI."

I, naturally, found this all quite hilarious. Karl and I watched the whole debacle on Karl's new invention: ModelTV. It's a closed-captioned television system that broadcasts via the undernourished tendons and ligaments of models during Fashion Week (obviously, it doesn't work too well after Fashion Week when they all start eating again). They capture video via tiny implanted cameras that Karl convinced them were "the new chic body jewelry, hmm?"

Sometimes it's fun to sit in Karl's closet in Vermont and drink champagne while we scan the modelwaves for something good. Usually it's all "Anya, stop eating the amuse bouches; those are for the fat makeup artists" or "Lisa, please fall down on the third downbeat after you get on the runway; we need some publicity."

But sometimes we get international channels. Usually it's just Donatella on a bender, though.

"JOHNNNATHOHN, PLEESE GET ME MORE CHAMPAGNE. MY LEEPS ARE DEFLATEEENG!"

The Pea (Old Karl's Book of Practical Fashionable People, Part 1)

Of peas, there are none to equal
A certain pea I know,
Who carries around a camera,
And has a manly baritone

He stands on top of flower pots,
He stands on top of two,
To get his shot for the book,
He might even take a picture of you!

If you are lucky, traveller,
You may find him in Paris,
Where he sits with many other peas,
And discusses lemon-green tea,

His voice can be heard from the rooftops-
"Come! Fashion-seekers, and see!"
Says he in his deep voice, full of heroism
"I shall take a photo of thee!"

His shirt- it rips apart,
As he gets his camera out,
And his stands upon a flower pot,
And clicks his button with a shout

"For I am the pea!"
(says he)
As he quips about his prowess in bed,
And his ten million thousand suits

"Hooray for the pea!" cries an audience,
Abound with joyful cheer,
"Hooray for the pea! Hooray for the pea!"
As they drown in bottles of fashionable beer

K and J

J: So Karl, what does Cathy think about the totes you designed for the NY Times T magazine?
K: I'm going to make her a tablecloth with the same design on it, for her to put her bacon pies on.
J: Brilliant! And have you tried any of her bacon pies?
K: Non.
J: They're quite the favourite among the..er...farmer sector.
K: Well, I am not a farmer. Even with the Vermont property..
J: And how's that going?
K: I enjoy going there feeling superior to the wildlife. You see, it's fine to feel superior to the fashion wildlife- I already am, anyway, and everyone knows it. But it's another thing to feel superior to Vermont wildlife.

Bob Dylan's 115th Post

I've been digging Christmastime lately, man. I've been digging it a lot. Man- I dig Christmas so much you could just toss a whole sack of Christmas at me and I'd be covered in bright lights and fools. But I dig that. You know man- when I was just starting out, fat men on youtube who teach harmonica would say "Hey Bob man, why don't you play some of your older stuff?" and I'd say "man, youtube doesn't even exist yet, how can you exist?" and they'd say that they were folk and free and fritters and I said "okay man, if that's what you dig, you fly with it" as they faded off into non-existence at the sudden realization, the truth, that youtube didn't exist in 1960. I love this Christmas thing a whole lot 'cause it's about love, and you know, there needs to be more of that around these days. Not free love, you understand. Nobody's free from democracy and oppressing and lightbulbs, but love where you pay in kisses. Can you dig that? I tried to tell Joan, this chick I used to needle back in the 60s, I tried to tell Joan this. But all she said was "I don't know Bob man- I don't know if I can flow with that" and I said "you gotta flow where the water's flowing" and she said "love is just a four letter word" and I said "only in the English language, Joan" and she said "what other language is there" and I pointed to French- amour. "Love in the land of the fries and frogs is amour" said I, to which she said "love is a 5 letter word doesn't sound so great, Bobby." I said "yeah, it doesn't, but it's the truth" to which she said that French isn't a really folkie language, so it doesn't count. Now here's where I differ: French is a very folkie language, they've got those clothes that the sheep buy down at the factory, you know, Chanel and all that jazz. I remember Thelonious Monk saying to me we're all folk musicians, to which I said "yeah man- except fat men on youtube who teach harmonica. They're politicians."
Because that Coco chick, she's a folk musician, just a thin one. She's like a blind folk musician. Blind Coco Chanel or something like that. Who even cares. I don't care about clothes anyway- I just care about dressin' like a cowboy. You never know where those cowboys can turn up, they could be in the subway or even in a documentary. It's just so very suspicious, if you catch my drift. You've gotta serve yourself. Or is it serve somebody. Yeah, you've gotta Serve Somebody. Isn't that right, John?