Ratched

I don't know how other designers live with themselves between collections. Most designers, you see, don't do as much work as I and only have collections to design. I just don't understand that. Don't they get bored?

Anyway, today was April fools in some parts of the world. I designed an entire collection and gave it to the seamstresses, who diligently made it. I then said "April fools!" once they had made sufficient progress. I laughed. "Ha ha ha."

Anna and I- we haven't talked for a while, actually. I've got a new replacement for Brad, you see, and I've been trying to learn his name. Well, not really. I'll learn it one day. For now he answers to "Brad."
As for Brad, he went into real estate. Because that's what people do when they become fat and ugly; ISN'T IT BRAD.
So Brad does not exist anymore. Does anybody remember Trotsky? Not in Soviet Russia! Because Trotsky never existed. I do love Stalin's system of airbrushing people out of history. Who knew they had photoshop then?

But as I was saying, Anna and I haven't talked for a while. For April fools, we decided to go into the Prada store and order 100 of those wader things Cathy (Horyn) is so fond of.
The Prada store works like any other fast food outlet- KFC, Taco Bell, and so on. The product is prepared when purchased. There's a sweatshop full of Indian and Chinese children behind the facade of clothes and shoes. Behind those paper thin walls, Mrs. Prada cracks a whip as she stalks the sweat-stained wooden room; kicking the chains of the little children that prepare Anna and I's waders. A fisherman stands in the corner, cackling evilly on his pipe and dressed in fish skin. He's Mrs. Prada's new lover, and he gave her the idea of waders.
Once the waders were prepared, Anna said "Oh...no. I don't think we want those now."
We walked out. There is now a large pile of one hundred waders sitting in the New York Prada flagship store. No doubt they'll sell them to stupid people tomorrow.

In other news, happy birthday to Jules, my most favourite bunny of every bunny ever.

The Electric Karl Test

I woke up this morning in Milan and the specially made hotel that I designed for myself and Brad to find these human-like creatures gawking into my imported-from-France windows. And there I was thinking I'd drawn the curtains last night. I rubbed my eyes with my black fingerless gloves; all leather but no bondage (quite the absence of bondage, rather), and starred back at these creatures through my dark sunglasses, which I had not removed from the previous night- you never know when you might have to run off to a fitting!

I was starring at these creatures; their funny noses and red lips, and it struck me as they glared through my window that all these creatures were women. Of the female persuasion. You know- a bunch of Eves. I put my glasses down my nose a little- like bank tellers do in movies- and I furrowed my brow- these ladies were throwing their underwear at me!
The ones that wore underwear anyway.
I shook Brad's shoulder and slapped him around the face- just a little slap, mind you. A little of that never hurt anyone; why, my mother used to do that to me all the time! And it never did me any harm, hm?

Brad woke up- "OH DON'T HURT ME UNCLE KARL!" he yells at me; and I give him a gentle push and ask him what in Coco's name all those women are doing outside my hotel.
-At this point they're taking off their bras. The things that sort of, uh, support their breasts. They're like sort of half-cups made of fabric that they attach to their chest...or something. Models don't tend to wear them so I'm not too familiar.
Brad has no idea, of course. He shrugs and says: "Well Karl, you're simply incredibly attractive."
-"You mean really really good looking?" I say.
-"Oh, the Zoonlander reference. It had to come some time or later", says Anna who just happens to be coming out of the bathroom- underwear model in tow.
-"Not only that Karl, you're insanely sexy. It's the gloves.."

Here I look down at my ugly hands that could never hold a cigarette, and the leather that covers them. As I do this, I see one lady faint outside the window.
She simply topples over, like a very thin tree.
I then open my hands up, like a five year old might. Like, they're in a fist and then-- they're open!
I hear screaming from outside. Gosh, have I killed someone? What is all this commotion?
I glance around at these women- who are all now naked, by the way. I wonder where their rib-cages are-- and those things protruding from their chests- they're far, far too big. Is this some sort of practical joke?
I move my hand up and down- a kind of queenly wave. Mass screaming.
What have you done, Karl? I ask myself. What on Earth have you done?

My Bookshop

Person: Karl, can could I please buy this book?
Karl: Hmm? You want to buy this book?
Person: Yes.
Karl: Get on the scales, then.
Person: What???
Karl: We need to see if your weight suits that book. Brad! Get the scales!
Person:..?!?
Karl: Just step over here. Hmm.
Person: Hmmm?
Karl: I'm the only one that does those "hmm?"'s, hmm?
Person: ...yes.
Karl: Just stand on the scales!
Person: ...
Karl: You are 50 kgs. That's pretty fat, for someone who wears Balenciaga!
Person: but?
Karl: No buts! Run! Run! Run!
Person: [starts running]
Karl: Why are you running around my bookshop, hmmm?
Person: You [puff] told me [puff] too!
Karl: Stop it! Let's weigh you.
Person: [steps on scales]
Karl: 49.99!
Person: Is it good enough?
Karl: Are your jeans skinny enough?
Person: Yes Karl! My jeans are skinny! My jeans are skinny!
Karl: Okay. 500 Pounds.
Person: The price says $40, and this is France so what you're doing charging in those amounts--
Karl: Do you weigh $40?
Person: I weigh 49.99...
Karl: KILOGRAMS. NOT DOLLARS.
Person: I suppose you're right, then.
Karl: $600 now.
Person: what th-?
Karl: You're wasting my time!
Mary-Kate Olsen: You don't have to be around people who waste your time, Karl.
Ashley Olsen: You can be with us.
Mary-Kate: I see you've got a daughter now.
Ashley: What about us.
Karl: SCALES! NOW! BOTH OF YOU! BRAD...DEAL WITH THIS FATTY.

Passive-Agressive

So as you have noticed, Rei wants to post here.
I originally said no. But then she went all Japanese passive-agressive on me.
"Karl."
"Hmm?"
"Karl."

Then she gets out this gong and starts to bang on it.
(BANNNG)
Then she sits down after crashing the gong with her bare fist.

"Do you want some tea?"
"Diet Coke".
"Tea."

And then it's gong time again.

Eventually I said "Okay Rei, you can post on it." Otherwise, she'd simply have one of her large bodyguards carry around the gong and continue to serenely hit it. This is why Comme Des Garcons is so successful despite nobody wearing the clothes.
"You will buy the clothes".

Oh, and Anna had some man called Nic redesign the blog. He kept waving his hands about and saying "FENG! FENG! SHOOEY! FENG!". I was disappointed that he didn't do some magic tricks.
I think the blog looks very chic now, hmmm?

Brad is at the top of this post too. So chic. So now.

"The Dark Knight"

I do not usually compliment the bourgeois "films" that you people-- you dirty, dirty people see at the cinema. My tastes move in higher circles, hmm?
I will make an exception for "The Dark Knight". A film about a man called the Joker and there's a few other people in it as well. What was Michael Caine doing there? He just sort of was there acting like a butler or something. Now children, children of the dirty filthy un-Chanel clad streets, I know Michael Caine and he is not a butler. It is a well known fact that Batman is actually Christopher Kane (the so-called "designer" of that little London company. Blueberry or something). So they got those two facts wrong.

But in the Joker-- well, in the Joker I find a highly likable man, a man of class, a man who I would gladly share my diet Coke with. Can we hire someone like that for Chanel? Does anyone know? Hopefully this won't go pear-shaped like the Oompa Loompa fiasco..

Anna darling, you got it wrong with the whole "Superheroes" theme for that little ball the New York people have. (Why wasn't Andy there? Oh. He's dead, right. I wonder who was breathing down my phone the other day then. Maybe nobody rung me up in the first place. Did any of you ring me yesterday? Any stalkers in the audience?). Anyway. The little New York ball held in honour of the tanned Italian man.
What Anna should really have done is the whole "Anti-hero" thing. Which is what fashion is about really, hmmm? That's the point. To show how much better you are than them, whoever they are. Most of those people who don't want to be part of "them" are "them" anyway, because nobody wants to be part of "them" but "them" needs somebody or else it is a huge cosmic joke. Anyway, somebody needs to buy the Chanel paper clips.

So we know what a collection in the near future- maybe the Karl Lagerfeld one this season will be like, hmmmmmm? With Chanel, I already have a theme in mind, but I guess one can always move around things here and there because I'm Karl Lagerfeld.
Well actually, half the Chanel things are made already. Anna will buy them. She buys everything.

But I might re-do Chanel, hmm? The whole "V" phase is demode now. V for Vendetta, more like, hmm?

On second thoughts, maybe "V" is not so demode. We'll see. I can see Brad, myself. If you like Anna, I'll see you later tonight. Sniffing Coffee beans at 5 AM in your closest? Very chic.

I just like Tanqueray, that's all.

Hello adoring and somewhat annoying public,

I will be addressing some issues in today's post.

1. Everyone keeps whining and asking about whether I'm going to be fired and whatnot. No-one can fire me. I am Anna Wintour. I do the firing, thank you very much. And who cares if Teen Vogue's sales are down? That trash barely makes enough to cover my wardrobe expenses (that's obviously why I started it, as the only teenager I like is my gorgeous daughter). The word 'teen' makes me nauseous.

BEE, GET YOUR MOTHER MORE ICE.

2. I am not an alcoholic. Donatella drinks twelve bottles of champagne every day, and no-one thinks she's an alcoholic. I think it's because she's Italian - everyone expects Italian people to drink a lot. Armani can empty a bottle of grappa in four minutes. I just enjoy a little gin-and-tonic or a little Veuve once in a while. I mean, it comes free in cases from the people who make it, so why not enjoy a little of it?

3. Andre Leon Talley is officially on my do-not-speak-to list. He showed up to the offices wearing a skin-tight black tshirt, black wide-leg cargo things-

I JUST SAID THE WORD 'CARGO.' SOMEONE CALL MY DOCTOR - I FEEL LIKE MY STOMACH IS GOING TO BURST.

I apologize. Anyway, these hideous pants, a large beaded African necklace, women's lavender Tom Ford sunglasses and TURQUOISE cowboy boots. The visual combination of all of this caused me to lose my appetite for three weeks, which explains a lack of attention to this little project of Karl's. I promptly took away Andre's expense account, which accounts for his little mishap while trying to purchase man-thongs at Maky's... Masy's... You know, the demode store that starts with an 'M' and interrupts my Thankgiving drinks- um, dinner with their god-awful parade. Mr. Talley is demode.

4. Karl hasn't been around the office in a while. I think it's this Brad person. I am rather worried, as Karl tends to get obsessive easily. I got a call from his assistant-in-charge-of-calling-me explaining that Karl had rented Versailles out for a week for a shoot with Brad. The connection was terrible, but before the call was dropped I could make out the words 'naked,' 'velvet,' and 'Napoleon.' I am terrified.

5. That is all. You may depart.

BEE, GET OUT OF THE CLOSET. I SAID, NOW! FINE, FIVE MORE MINUTES. IF YOU TOUCH THE NEW PRADA STILETTOS, YOU'RE GOING TO YOUR ROOM FOR A WEEK - YOU HEAR ME, YOUNG LADY?