Wind-Up Woody

As I was having my face sewn up this morning (I have it sewn up every day, from behind- if you were to cut off my ponytail, you'd see stitches) I started sketching the new collection. Couture was a success, as per usual- Cathy "Ma" Horyn adores me, as do the rest of the creatures. That is how I think of them, really- as these little creatures at the bottom of a dark well. And they crawl around like a pack of spiders and worms and so on, many eyed and limbed- sometimes emerging to shout out "BRAVA!" But for most of the time, they live in this little well- like in Hannibal, no? And I think of myself as living in a little house near the well- sometimes making a cup of diet Coke, sometimes reading the newspaper, filled with exploits of the BP people and their oil spill (why not block the oil spill with the new Valentino collection?) and all the murders and so on. Then, sometimes, I will go to the well in my tights and high collars, and call into the well, muttering little blessings in German. 

Anyway. I was contemplating this, when a young man knocked on my door. I am fond of young men (gentlemen of the jury), so I opened the door.

"Hello young boy", I said. He said: "HELLO!!!", and I said "why are you using so many exclamation marks? Don't you know only crazy people use that many exclamation marks?", and he said- "OMG! KARL LAGERFELD! I'M, LIKE, YOU'RE BIGGEST FAN".

-"No, I'm my biggest fan, young boy", "WELL OH MY GOD! I'M A PRETTY BIG FAN! MAYBE LIKE SECOND BIGGEST FAN! OMG CAN WE GET A PHOTO FOR MY TWITTAH?"- he then took out a horrible, bejewelled phone and said "SMILEEEE FOR THE CAMERA UNCLE!!!"

"Excuse me", I said. "What...use are you?" "USE!?" he said, "I AM THE WORLD'S NUMABAH ONE BLOGGER." "And what do you blog about?", to which he said- "UH, WELL, I WRITE HAPPY THINGS! ABOUT MY FABULOUS LIFE! I NEVER WRITE ANYTHING NEGATIVE! ANNA WINTOUR LOVES ME BECAUSE OF THIS!!! FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY! FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY!"

I frowned. "You know, I am also a homosexual and I am not this cliched person who is clearly only interested in whoring themselves out socially. I can understand whoring- I whore myself out to various companies, including Coca Cola- but social whoring is vulgar, no?"

"BUT OH MY GAHD! THAT'S WHAT I DO! FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY! FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY! DO I LOOK FAT IN THIS?!?!?!"

It was then I realized that I was watching Toy Story 19, a bastardized version directed by a paunchy Justin whatshisname- Justin Patterson or something, in which Woody is replaced with a 2D socialite with three phrases, one of which is "FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY!"

I pulled the string on the back of his back. "FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY!" he said. I pulled it again. "FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY!" he said. I turned off the projector and he was there no longer.

"Not a fan," I said to Roger Ebert. "Neither", said Pauline Kael.

Vineland

"Karl, we're in code K" says my assistant, in his whites pressed so much that they appear to invade personal space.
"Code K?" the voice of Anna shouts, in the other room indulging in...oh, do I even need to tell you?
"Code K. It appears there's a demode one in our presecne."
"A demode one, hmm?" I let off- a mere wisp of refrigerated air from between my lips. My trademark "hmm?" sends shivers throughout the entire fashion world. Down their shoulderblades and into their soulless little bodies.
"Yep."
"Yep?"
"Yep."
"Fire this man, Anna."

Oh dear, it appears we have solved who the demode one is in the first paragraph of this post! Oh no! And now I'm going all post-modern on you. I feel like Martin Amis. Maybe I am Martin Amis. Maybe, I have a split personality which does not remember a thing about the other. So during the day I am Karl Lagerfeld, genius. And during the night I am Martin Amis, writer. How ridiculous, hmm? Gosh- we'd better joke about the anorexics now. To loosen up the mood.

Knock Knock. Who's there? An anorexic!

Anna: Uh. You're meant to say "anorexic who?"
Karl: But anorexics don't have a last name. Well, they do but they're all different. It's not as if all anorexics are from the same family. So what I'm trying to say is, is that there's really no possibility for a "who" to go in there."
Anna: You just don't get it, do you..
Karl: Get what?
Anna: I'll try one on you: Knock knock.
Karl: Who's there?
Anna: Anna.
Karl: Anna who?
Anna: No, Anna Wintour.
Karl: I don't get it.
Anna: If I explain it it won't be funny.
Karl: I think we should just go back to being bitches.

As I was saying, there was this assistant that declared "Code K", which as everybody will know is the Most Serious code in the entire arsenal of codes that I've developed over the years. I did it all in one night, actually. I got home from work- and this was when boys threw themselves at me. So there was this boy- all toned, his chest a masterpiece, his lips full of ambition...you, dear reader, may imagine the rest. He was on my couch, as this was in the 60's where locks had not been invented yet. Sprawled out on there like he expected me to make love to him or something.
"Now look here, young man. I have no love to give you! I have no soul! I eat souls!"
"You have no love to give me? Sounds like Leonard Cohen."
Ah, a boy who knows something.
"Nothing like Cohen. So long, Marianne."
"Oh come on now! That was a pointed reference towards Cohen if nothing else!"
"Yeah. The fact is: I'm just not interested in sex."
"What about your lover?"
"He comes into the picture in the 70's, really. I haven't met Jacques yet!"
"You know his name is going to be Jacques?"
"I've read the history books!"
"So no sex?"
"Non, no sex tonight."

Now- the reason young men don't throw themselves at me anymore is because so many young men have done this the governments of the world had to create a breeding programme to repopulate the world with Attractive Young Men. Once a man has thrown himself at me, it is as good as suicide. After all, if you don't catch them, they simply continue falling! And eventually they go splat, which in my mind is a very vulgar way to go. Anyway, now I have rations of Attractive Young Men: a Brad there, a Brad here, a Brad over there. They're all called Brad- I simply can't be bothered remembering names. (Yes, I do realize I am not with Brad anymore. And you sure realize it, don't you Brad! Slut. Whore. Chanelface. But I can't be bothered remembering the name of the new one.)

In any case, I let the boy outside where he proceeded to climb the building Batman-and-Robin style without the benefit of the building being on the horizontal. And of course, I heard that very vulgar splat not long after. Oh dear. I went back into my castle, and started to draw up the Karl Code list. Sounds like a bad novel, no? "The Karl Code." Imagine what other sort of novels you could create with that, hmm? "The Nabokov Code", "The Klimt Code", "The Da Vinci Code." I'm sure the last one would be hilarious- some half baked conspiracy book. "The Klimt Code" on the other hand would be made up of text made to resemble images by him; which are only fully viewable by those with Synesthesia. The text itself would be written by Thomas Pynchon.
"The Nabokov Code" has already been written. It's not called that, of course.

What the Karl Code serves as is a sort of defence plan for fashion. For example, last night I was at a restaurant with a few others at Pastis. Kate Winslet, Kevin Spacey (is that man famous? I'm not sure why he was there), Isaac Mizrahi and so on. A waiter came over and asked Anna if she wanted food. I'll repeat that in caps: "IF SHE WANTED FOOD." Anna "freaked" out, as the youth say, and rightly so. I was in the corner taking photos of everybody- all those disgusting fatties eating their food. It's kind of like a perverse sort of porn. Anna started shrieking: "CODE F! CODE EFF! CODE EFFF!"
And the team went into action: two assistants apprehended the culprit (ie. the waiter) and dragged him out back, for a little lesson. A waitress who looked very thin herself- she may have been going to a Halloween party with those bones- gave Anna an avocado, because Anna was shrieking "AVOCADO! AVOCADO! AVOCADO!". The chef made the avocado look nice, and less like food. Anna looked it the rest of the night: her eyes boring into the very fabric of the avocado. I took more photos. The night was saved, thanks to the Karl code, hm?

I STOMP ON THE WALMART CLAD DEMODE

I really didn't intend on two entries today, but this comment which I've deleted-- I don't allowed demode comments on the blog, thank you very much-- is too good to resist. By the way, I know who you are that wrote it. Karl has eyes everywhere.
The comment is...

"Ha ha ha. Oh wow, your wit and humor is about as brilliant as the gray crayon in a box of crayola. How very original and delightful! Eating disorders, and models! Ha ha, truly, I'm impressed! Now do one about schizophrenia! Or breast cancer!"*

Obviously someone wasn't reading the packet right. I love these demode people (like this person) who say things like this, hmm? It gives me a good chuckle, every night. As I curl up upside down in my closet every night and put my extra dark glasses on, with a glass of hot diet Coke, and I chuckle quietly to myself in my Franco-German accent. You can imagine it, I'm sure. It's a deep rumble like oil dropping at the bottom of dry well; amplified by large Champagne-glass shaped microphones.

Now, we all know that this isn't a humor site...but if you insist...

AND HERE IS THE ENTRY PERTAINING TO BREAST CANCER AND SCHIZOPHRENIA:

Models with schizophrenia and breast cancer are the best ones to hire, hmm?
Or even better...schizophrenia with models are the best breast cancer to hire, hmm?
Or simply: schizophrenia with breast cancer are the best to hire, hmm?
Simply or: breast cancer with schizophrenia are models to best hire, hmm?

I feel like William S Burroughs. We now return to regular programming.

*Oh, by the way. The crayons would be black and white. Everybody knows that. Jil Sander or somebody like that would do grey, hmm?

Letter from the Editor

I noticed that some person called Sophia said this:

"Karl, you really need to get off Jane's dick. I'm not going to deny that the girl has an amazing wardrobe, but...
Your blog used to be so good; now every post is your comments on her most recent blog entry. Boring, and very unlike the real Karl.
Take this as constructive criticism, because the adoring public wants to see the blog like it used to be..."

I suppose she has not read this, that, this, this, that, this, this, that, this, that, that, that, this, and many more. And there's...maybe 5 Jane related entries, hm? Is this Sophia a regular reader? Is she FASHION?

So, in honour of Sophia; I will be considering whether I will write anything this week, mm? Or even next week. Or even the week after next week. And so on, hmmm? You can all thank Sophia for this. Good work Sophia!

This is not satire

Rei's very annoyed at some of you people, you know. She's been smashing plates all over the place; how demode. She even deleted her post. Somebody said it wasn't "amusing", hmm? What do you people think this is? An amusement blog?A humor blog? Satire, maybe? Gosh.
This is Karl Lagerfeld's Guide to Life, and it is very serious, hmm? Very serious. I am not joking around with this. It is a serious guide to life. I don't know what some people are thinking...saying it's "amusement". It's bizarre, no?

So. This very serious blog is not in fact, racist. That's a very serious allegation, right there. All we (and it is we) are trying to do is to make the world a slightly less demode place by use of my chic instructions. I have never, ever, made a joke here and never will. This is not a joking matter; life, hmmm?

However. We shall give you one last chance. Please imagine that sentence in my thickest German accent possible. For the tools that read this blog; go away. You are demode. There's only a few of you but if you can't take a guide to life seriously, and IT IS SERIOUS (see: I even wrote it in caps to show how serious it is), you should go look at Anna's little magazine.

This is not satire. I am not joking, hmmm?

Gosh. Emotional whores. Gross.