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

Etc

I suppose I should write something about Scott, and those drunk comments he made about being good at "the sex", but I'd be being a hypocrite then because Anna's said a lot worse. Of course, what she says isn't published because she is The Fashion Press. Still, I prefer to be a hypocrite on my own warped terms.

What else is there to say? What else, what else- I see some young Turk in the comments wrote something relating to the shirt being only good enough for cleaning their oven (or something like that- I don't actually read these things). My question is why do they have an oven in the first place?

I went to the supermarket the other day. Everybody starred at me. There's some strange people who go to the supermarket. There's these people who wear "hoodies" with words written on them, and some people who wear far too much make-up, and there's children, and so on. Luckily I found that Yves was there too, doing some shopping for a big dinner he want to hold. So Yves and I went around together, because there's some odd people who go the supermarket. There was this one woman who had children in her trolley. I wondered to myself: what is she doing purchasing children? There's actually a seat for the children and everything. I suppose with this so-called recession...well. Although, to be perfectly honest, I imagine that it's cheaper simply to do "the sex" as Scott would call it, rather than purchase a child. I recall a movie called "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" (did you know that a "chit" is a little note? Don't say I don't teach you anything on this "blog"!) , where there was a "child catcher" who caught children. I believe the PR-team at Balmain recently hired someone of the like. He has a shiny black cage disguised as a sweet-stall and everything.

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.