Maude and Fish

Golly, as my my Vermont neighbor Maude often says. I like Maude. She's a good hunter, and she's taught Anna how Not To Shoot people (a relief for the Vogue PR dept, let me tell you. How many more excuses could they come up with- "it was just a Government weather balloon that fell on the poor dear, so sorry!", "Terry Richardson's massive lack of talent and taste fell upon Mrs. Salome, she died instantly. There was no pain, but we do send our commiserations to her husband. Enclosed is a free DVD of Sex And The City 2: Uncut. We do hope you enjoy!")

Another phrase of Maude's: "I have fish to fry!" Well, I have fish to fry too, Maude. Slimy fish. The kind that sit on the bottom of the ocean feeding on their own filth (and the filth of others). The kind of fish who get fake tans. I am, of course (you hadn't guessed?), talking about "InStyle" magazine, who contacted me some months ago wanting to feature me in a "best blogs of all time"-type feature. I laughed about it with certain associates- "haw haw haw", we went, because this "InStyle" magazine is- how do you say- for the tanned ones and girls who watch that JuicyStar person on you-tube. It is not very chic. However, I thought about it some more and thought, well, maybe this could be charity work. After all, Bono is doing Africa and the Geldof person is doing Ethipopia and Neil Young is doing the farms. I thought: ah, I will help the needy, the unfortunates, the tanned-and-sprayed ones. I must admit though, I did this for selfish means. Sometimes I look outside Rue Cambon and I see these awful orange girls with terrible leggings that make them look like German sausages. They say things like (in a heavy American accent): "THIS IS WHERE COCO CHANEL LIVES!" "DO YOU THINK SHE'LL INVITE US IN FOR TEA AND CRUMPETS?", and then someone else, from behind a street lamp (they are very thin) says: "That's the queen of England, you superficial twats." And then the American girls say: "OH! IS THAT WHAT COCO CHANEL DOES?", to which the person behind the street lamp sighs and mopes off to a cafe.

Now, these "InStyle" people required a t-shirt. A demode shirt. I discussed this with the seamstresses who make these, thread by thread, and they said "verra well, if you must." I thanked them and emailed "InStyle" back with "If you return it by sundown." They replied with "Oh! But there is a boy in the office who says your t-shirt would be the jewel in his collection!" I was feeling a tad generous, and said "Mmmph" or something of the sort. I found it funny (as did the associates), because we were joking that this is all "InStyle" wanted from us- that it was an elaborate hoax rouse to obtain a t-shirt. (By the way, those hacks claimed they couldn't afford to spend the money on buying a shirt- apparently it costs too much to shoot Miley Cyrus or Rand Paul or whoever they have on their covers.)

Of course, a day later or so, I received an email from the assistant who was in charge of "picture finding" or something similarly ridiculous. She said the editor pulled the piece. The editor, who I looked up, is one of those demode and unfortunate tanned ones. More's the pity. My associates agreed with me that this was their plan from the start: to obtain a t-shirt, with no intention of doing the story (for this fabled "boy", whoever he is. I like my boys visable, and preferably naked.)

So to use another phrase of Maude's: "Nuts to them!"- she does have good phrases. I can think of more explicit ones, but I'd feel like I was making fun of those starving Africans, such is the plight of the tanned ones. I thought about this for a whole minute, and I thought- well, maybe I should help them even more. And this is my plan- I am going to start a trust. I call it the "SAVE THE TANNED DEMODE", or STD for short. Please donate generously (checks can be written to Mr Howard Ques, 56 Rue Saint Colette, Paris.) With your help we can give them a better life, and provide white makeup for them to cover up their tans. 

How to Use Traffic Lights and Other Stories

I trust you all have mastered the art of supermarket shopping by now. It's very difficult, of course, and some of the slower (and more inbred) of you may still be struggling with the finer aspects- using a credit card is particularly bothersome. As a reminder, you use a credit card by passing it through a small slit on a machine with numbers. If you have enough "money" on your "card", one will be able to press "OK" and purchase what one wants.

Anyway. I wanted to talk about a couple of other things today. First of all, appreciation of photography. Many of you have been writing me letters telling me how much of an artist Terry Richardson is, and what a swell fellow he is, really. It's often the practice of the rich to determine the tastes of the rest of the world in art. The Medici's were particularly good at this. We now have people like that advertising fellow- the one who was married to Nigella Lawson (the food pornography actress). Saatchi. There's also that awful investment banker- the one who bought Damien's shark. What an investment banker knows about art, well, I don't know- the general consensus is that money equals art, and the more money something costs, the more art it is. Here's a system for you to use, which is what all the big art buyers use. It is called "Is it Art (By Awful Investment Bankers International)". If something costs between $50,000 to $100,000 it is minor art. The leeches- I mean, the art dealers, will term it "work by an interesting up and comer". If something is between $100,000 to $250,000, it is major minor art, to which the art dealers will declare "A very strong work by an unappreciated artist". And on it goes, until we get until the millions, where the work will be undoubtedly a Work of Genius. 

This is all very well and good, except that from you newly bourgeois, formerly wealthy people to whom I'm addressing this post don't have millions to spend on Art with a capital A anymore. Meaning, by your system, you can't declare Terry Richardson's work art. It never was art anyway, you dull-witted Armani-suit-wearing morons. What is it? Well, it's misogynist porn that doesn't turn me on. Do you know what turns me on, hm? Dishwashers. I love the sound they make as they churn around and around. But that's not the point- my point is that Richardson's work is half the problem, because it's inherently misogynist, made by a creep who enjoys taking photographs of women on the toilet. It's an absolute indictment upon the fashion industry that magazines like Vice, Vogue, Purple, etc continue to publish this predator's work. Here's Vice magazine proving it's run by people who probably make rape jokes all day long and have the taste of a insurance salesman turned tax collector turned realtor who has been doused in the sweat produced by executives rubbing their hands together in glee as they go to murder a batch of kittens. My Coco, haven't you done well, Vice. (Also, here I'll point out that Vice published an interview with me a couple of months ago by a sycophantic...creature who asked incredibly boring questions).

What I am doing is giving a good spanking to all those in the fashion industry who have encouraged this charlatan and given him work. How pro-women of you, hm? How responsible of you, placing Mr. Richardson in power, hm? And that's not to mention the photographers "inspired" by him. How original- having a penis in a woman's mouth, no? That hasn't been done before!

In case you didn't read the above because you're illiterate and only read twitter: If you support Terry Richardson, you are anti-women. If you publish his work, you are anti-women. If you think him using his position of power to rape women is chic, you are anti-women. For an industry that makes an awful lot of money from women, it's not exactly a profitable stance, hmm?

That is the first thing I wanted to talk to you about. Secondly, I would like to give you a guide on how to use traffic lights, as you'll surely encounter these when you attempt "walking".

Now, "walking" is support the ordinary prole participates in daily, often with other proles. They do this on "streets". A street is a place which has buildings and a road. You will be familiar with these, as you probably had to climb out of your luxury automobiles and cross a "street" in order to get to the Chanel store, or something similar. (Of course, you won't be going into Chanel stores anymore, but you needn't worry for me. We have plenty more clients where you came from.) A traffic light governs the space between the cars and the people. They are very tall and have three lights on them. The colours are yellow, green and red. Yellow is a useless light and nobody knows what it means, so it's best to ignore that light if you see it. If you see green you can walk across the road. All the cars will stop and if they keep going you will be okay, because the green light will protect you (or so I'm informed). If it is red, you must wait for it to go green, because crossing the "street" on a red light will result in immediate vaporization.

Finally, to use a traffic light one must press a large metal button. This "activates" the traffic light and it knows you are alive and so on. The large metal button is the most important part, because if you don't press that the traffic light will never know you are there. 

Once the traffic light turns green, do the "walking" we have practiced and you will get to the other side. There is an old German joke that my nanny used to tell me:

Q: Why did the formerly rich bourgeois person cross the road?

A: Because TIME magazine did an article on it, and the New Yorker also did an article on it, and their neighbors were doing it, so they wanted to see what it was all about and they heard it'd won an Oscar too...and one of those Nobel prizes, whatever they are. It seemed pretty reputable and they have a greatest hits album coming out. 

An Email

Hi,

I’m about to launch my website and I was hoping perhaps you might consider very briefly mentioning my site? I would very gladly send $55 via paypal. I’m starting a fashion store with guides on comfortable fashion and ugg boots. I was hoping to get support of fashion bloggers like yourself to help me get things off the ground. I could also create a $30 gift certificate for 100 of your readers as well?

Hope I haven’t wasted your time..

Best Wishes,

Naomi Sanders

--

Hello,

Comfort is always secondary. Style should not be sacrificed by wearing such atrocities as "ugg boots".

Regards,
Karl

This Post Has An Awful Lot Of BlackAdder References

I haven't written anything about the Terry Richardson thing ("thing", meaning "raping young models using his position of power"), because Jenna over at Jezebel was doing a fantastic job with it. She still is, and an assistant actually pointed this quote out to me while he was reading Jezebel. As well as that, it's not the sort of material that I normally put on this "web-blog"- obviously, rape isn't a thing that one should do in life- if one is desperate for sex, one can always hire a prostitute. There's no shame in that. One of my favourite movies is "Belle de Jour"- a gloriously erotic film if there ever was one. But I digress. The subject at hand is Terry Richardson: A terrible photographer and sexual predator. I loathe this man's photography, because it has all the intelligence of a four year old and the sexual sophistication of a donkey. It is as thick as a whole omelette, and it's as dirty as a dungbeatle who has lost interest in his career and really let itself go. I also loathe the actions of this man, for more or less the same reasons. Several models (and I love models, especially on Tuesdays) have come forward, accusing him of essentially taking advantage of his position of great power (that of photographer well-respected in fashion, for Coco knows what reasons) to force young girls, some underage to have sex with him. This is known as "rape" in many countries around the world. Rape is illegal. 

I'm inclined to believe these accusations, especially since Mr. Richardson's well known for sexually-charged shoots (that is, the shoots themselves are sexual. "Uncle Terry" has admitted so himself. I wouldn't go as far to say his photos are- they're merely vulgar. Helmut Newton he's not). Some people have used this as a means of justification- to quote one blogger, Jen "Gnarltude"- "Has no one seen his photos before? What’d they think was gonna happen? All good clean fun and maybe some prayer circle after?" (the full quote is here). I'm afraid this doesn't justify it at all- just because this is common practice in Mr. Richardson's world doesn't mean it's right. In fact, it terrifies even me that this is considered "normal" by some people. Normal is, you know, buying some couture in the morning and perhaps having some champagne for lunch and burning one's old clothes in a bombfire in the afternoon. That's normal. Rape is not.

Here's a quote from Olivier Zahm: "It's totally ridiculous and embarrassing for them. The women who attacked Richardson, it's really sad...I can't understand how people can be so mean. I don't even see their point."

The point, Mr. Zahm, is that Richardson most likely had non-consensual sex with these girls. That's rather a big deal, no? With my models, I'm very protective of them- they're like my children, but very tall and sometimes mistaken for trees. I have a lot of affection for trees. Some of my favourite conversations have been with trees. Anyway- the quote made me lose a lot of respect for Mr. Zahm, who I didn't always agree with before, but I didn't dislike either. He will not be coming to any more tea parties.