I was sent a link from a girl named "Rose" today. The link was to the blog of a certain Imelda, who I hadn't heard of until seeing the link (handed to me on quilted paper), and the entry was something that attempted to be "Satirical" with a capital es. Something about foetuses as fashionistas, etc etc- obviously making fun of my niece Tavi and her recent Pop cover (by the way, I'm in there too- introducing some "youth bloggers"- I suggest you buy the issue. I shall post more on this later.) For whatever reason, this Imelda doesn't like Tavi much at all: "This Rodarte/Tavi shit is insanity. WTF…I mean cool, she loves fashion but in my opinion courting the ‘opinion’ of a 13 year old girl seems desperate."
First of all, Imelda's "foetus blogger", who I won't link to here- she doesn't need the publicity- used the word "demode." Demode is my word. Everybody knows that. It's more than copyrighted- it's like the word "Jesus" or "god" or "Buddha", it just simply is mine, as much as my high collar is mine, or as much as the badges and broaches which I attach to my ties are mine. In fact- more so than those items. It's as much a part of my family as my dear mother is. It is my word, and frankly- anyone else using it is simply rude. Does anybody see Proust using it? No, because I faxed Proust and he removed all mentions of the word in his books and letters. Does T.S Eliot use it? Non, because I telegraphed him and he removed every mention of it from his poems and so on, too. Nobody in France uses the word anymore, except I. They have respect for it, because they're quite aware that I design Chanel, and as far as the outside world is concerned, France is baguettes, Chanel and the Eiffel tower. Besides that, Chanel owns France. I simply allow Dior and so on to exist because it makes Chanel look better anyway.
It is my godforCoco word, and nobody else may use it without express written permission from I, Karl Otto Lagerfeld.
Anyway- I believe I was pointing out how demode this Imelda person is. She seems to think simply because a person is 13 that their opinion is not valid. I find the opinion of children more interesting than many adults a lot of the time. I think the content of the opinion is more important than the age of the opinion-giver, hm? For all I care, Tavi could be a 40 year old fat man that plays harmonica on youtube. Or she could be a two year old. Or even- yes, a foetus. It makes no difference to me. (By the way, I know Tavi in person, considering she's my niece and all- she really is a 13 year old, but even Imelda knows that now- although she didn't a short while ago:
"I'm not a hater but she's a total fake and since I was introduced to her blog I've 'called this' else where at other times."
I sense a jealous blogger, hm? And worse than that- I sense mediocrity.
Do you know what else I sense? I sense a tiger hunt. The scheme with the hunters is going well- they get into life threatening situations with animals, they kill the animal in self defence, we kill them- the animal that is, haw haw. Lately I've been enjoying doing these myself, mainly to annoy PETA and all those other "animal rights" groups. I say to the "animal rights people", "why don't the animals front your animal rights group?" and they say "well, animals can't talk" and I reply "nor can the mute, yet many of them get along fine. Besides, animals do talk- you're just not listening." So I put on my safari hat, my muscles rip out of their starched white surface. Tom Ford comes along with me. We're going to make a movie about it- a kind of sequel to Lagerfeld Confidential- but more exciting. Imagine me talking about sex whilst riding the back of a tiger. Imagine me endorsing prostitutes whilst hanging from treetops. It'll be beyond.
I'm a cat sort of person, myself. My favourite person in the world has a cat, and I talk to it quite often. Even on the phone. I thought about buying a tiger for a while, but I thought it'd be a bit too Las Vegas. And I don't intend to have an Elvis period anytime soon.
Showing posts with label tavi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tavi. Show all posts
Monday, August 31, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Love Letter to Roald Dahl (or: Fireside Stories with Karl)
This is a story I somtimes tell my Nieces, when we are all gathered around the fireplace in Vermont.
Once upon a time (in a land far, far away), there lived a group of people called the "Quiggles". The Quiggles would change what they wore every 6 months, and some of them even changed what their pets wore- one Quiggle changed their zebra's stripes every 6 months so by the end of 5 years, the zebra looked like a crossword puzzle with thinly fading lines from last season and "bold new lines" (I'm quoting a newspaper here) from this season. The Quiggles were very protective of their kingdom, and were incredibly hostile to outsiders ("Squiggles") who dared to enter their lands. The Quiggles would say "look! There goes a Squiggle! Look at how he's wearing a scarf from last season! Look at how that jacket seems like it came from a thrift store!" and they'd go "haw haw haw" among themselves, bathing in their own superiority. Because after all, they were Quiggles, were they not? Their culture was so advanced as to have a mechanism where the clothes change every 6 months- they called these "shows", and several cities had a whole week of these shows. Once the shows had been seen, the Quiggles would immediately toss all of last season's clothes into a trashbin and walk naked to the nearest boutique. The Quiggles had gods, like all cultures- the gods would bestow clothes upon the Quiggles every 6 months, as a reward for the great sacrifices the Quiggles made- fasting for long periods of time to fit into artifacts our archaeologists call "dresses", writing vast, fawning pieces about the gods, putting pictures of the god's creations in what they called "magazines"- a kind of altar to the gods. If you go into a museum you'll find some of these "magazines", where you can see the demi-gods- something the Quiggles called "models", posed in positions which presumably mean something; perhaps some sort of hieroglyphics. A "magazine" called "Vogue" had a particular fascination with "models" jumping. We don't know what the jumping means yet. Like the Egyptians, the Quiggles not only wrote in hieroglyphics, but had a Cleopatra like-figure, ruling over them all. Her name can roughly be translated to "Ana", or "Anna".
Anyway, one day in Quiggle Land, the Quiggles found a "magazine" in which there was a non-Quiggle on the cover.
"That....that is a Squiggle" said one unimpressed onlooker, who resumed combing his hair once uttering his only-statement-for-the-day.
"How could a Squiggle be on the cover of one of our precious magazines?" said another bitter Quiggle, her thighs looking like black sausages entrapped in the leggings which was the Quiggle fashion at the time.
"And look at her! She's only....why, she's only a child Squiggle."
"Outrageous!" cried a vast man in a suit which made him look like an umbrella.
"How dare she?! This magazine is an adult magazine" said another onlooker, who wore a bib because it was fashionable.
"Oh, I don't know- I just don't know. This magazine used to be adult and now it has a Squiggle on it! Not only a Squiggle, but a child Squiggle!"
-And on they went, telling anyone who could bear to listen to them that their magazine was a thoroughly adult magazine.
"What, is it like- Playboy or something?" said Woody Horyn, who stumbled onto the scene after raiding the muffin bakery.
"NO!" the entire crowd of Quiggles roared- "it is a adult magazine with adult themes like uh..."
"Well?" said Woody Horyn. The crowd turned away rather sheepishly.
"It says here", a lone voice piped up from the crowd", that this Squiggle-child has a "blog."
Now, a blog is rather similar to a treehouse if none of you know. You can find them in all good diary's.
"Ludicrous! Her Squiggle-parents must write this for her!"
"Ridiculous!"
"Squiggle-children" said a particular loathsome voice in a particularly loathsome manner. "Squiggle-children are foul and filthy!"
"They are! They are!" chorused the Quiggle-crowd, at which point I noticed the voice was coming from a woman dressed in gloves.
"Squiggle-chidren are smalling of dogs' drrrroopppings!"
"Eww!" cried the crowd, "Ewww! Ewww! Eww!"
"Ve must have only QUIGGLES on the cover of magazines!" shouted the lady in gloves.
"Only Quiggles! Only Quiggles!" cheered the crowd.
"None of zis- zis children"
"No children! No children" echoed the crowd, and I imagine it must've felt a bit like a children's television show at this point.
"Magazines are ze business of adddults! Zis....zis business is far too important to leave to ze children!"
"Magazines matter! Magazines matter!" at which point I imagine the on-looker would think they'd've stumbled upon a Conde Nast meeting.
"I do not care if vis child...vis SQUIGGLE child is creative! Fashion is very important! It is elitist! Telling you to wear umbrellas on your head is an Important Thing! What vill happen if we let children into it?"
"They will ruin it!" the crowd roared.
"Yes! They vill ruin it and burn it and stink the place out!"
"Ruin-it, burn-it, stink-the-place-out" chanted the crowd.
"You know, this Squiggle-child is actually more interesting than what most of you write", murmured Woody Horyn.
"BUT IS SHE AN ADULT?" the lady in gloves spat, projecting spit which would later land on Mars prompting David Bowie to write his hit song"Is There Life on Mars?"
"Does it matter that if she's an adult or not?"
"Of course it does!" said the woman we saw earlier, who was in the leggings which were far too tight for her- and she still is.
"Why?" questioned Woody Horyn.
"Because...because...because....she's a nobody! She's not a Quiggle! She hasn't done a pole-dance on MTV like that great role model, Miley Cyrus!"
"Well, you know..." said Woody Horyn, and he began to sing:
Once upon a time (in a land far, far away), there lived a group of people called the "Quiggles". The Quiggles would change what they wore every 6 months, and some of them even changed what their pets wore- one Quiggle changed their zebra's stripes every 6 months so by the end of 5 years, the zebra looked like a crossword puzzle with thinly fading lines from last season and "bold new lines" (I'm quoting a newspaper here) from this season. The Quiggles were very protective of their kingdom, and were incredibly hostile to outsiders ("Squiggles") who dared to enter their lands. The Quiggles would say "look! There goes a Squiggle! Look at how he's wearing a scarf from last season! Look at how that jacket seems like it came from a thrift store!" and they'd go "haw haw haw" among themselves, bathing in their own superiority. Because after all, they were Quiggles, were they not? Their culture was so advanced as to have a mechanism where the clothes change every 6 months- they called these "shows", and several cities had a whole week of these shows. Once the shows had been seen, the Quiggles would immediately toss all of last season's clothes into a trashbin and walk naked to the nearest boutique. The Quiggles had gods, like all cultures- the gods would bestow clothes upon the Quiggles every 6 months, as a reward for the great sacrifices the Quiggles made- fasting for long periods of time to fit into artifacts our archaeologists call "dresses", writing vast, fawning pieces about the gods, putting pictures of the god's creations in what they called "magazines"- a kind of altar to the gods. If you go into a museum you'll find some of these "magazines", where you can see the demi-gods- something the Quiggles called "models", posed in positions which presumably mean something; perhaps some sort of hieroglyphics. A "magazine" called "Vogue" had a particular fascination with "models" jumping. We don't know what the jumping means yet. Like the Egyptians, the Quiggles not only wrote in hieroglyphics, but had a Cleopatra like-figure, ruling over them all. Her name can roughly be translated to "Ana", or "Anna".
Anyway, one day in Quiggle Land, the Quiggles found a "magazine" in which there was a non-Quiggle on the cover.
"That....that is a Squiggle" said one unimpressed onlooker, who resumed combing his hair once uttering his only-statement-for-the-day.
"How could a Squiggle be on the cover of one of our precious magazines?" said another bitter Quiggle, her thighs looking like black sausages entrapped in the leggings which was the Quiggle fashion at the time.
"And look at her! She's only....why, she's only a child Squiggle."
"Outrageous!" cried a vast man in a suit which made him look like an umbrella.
"How dare she?! This magazine is an adult magazine" said another onlooker, who wore a bib because it was fashionable.
"Oh, I don't know- I just don't know. This magazine used to be adult and now it has a Squiggle on it! Not only a Squiggle, but a child Squiggle!"
-And on they went, telling anyone who could bear to listen to them that their magazine was a thoroughly adult magazine.
"What, is it like- Playboy or something?" said Woody Horyn, who stumbled onto the scene after raiding the muffin bakery.
"NO!" the entire crowd of Quiggles roared- "it is a adult magazine with adult themes like uh..."
"Well?" said Woody Horyn. The crowd turned away rather sheepishly.
"It says here", a lone voice piped up from the crowd", that this Squiggle-child has a "blog."
Now, a blog is rather similar to a treehouse if none of you know. You can find them in all good diary's.
"Ludicrous! Her Squiggle-parents must write this for her!"
"Ridiculous!"
"Squiggle-children" said a particular loathsome voice in a particularly loathsome manner. "Squiggle-children are foul and filthy!"
"They are! They are!" chorused the Quiggle-crowd, at which point I noticed the voice was coming from a woman dressed in gloves.
"Squiggle-chidren are smalling of dogs' drrrroopppings!"
"Eww!" cried the crowd, "Ewww! Ewww! Eww!"
"Ve must have only QUIGGLES on the cover of magazines!" shouted the lady in gloves.
"Only Quiggles! Only Quiggles!" cheered the crowd.
"None of zis- zis children"
"No children! No children" echoed the crowd, and I imagine it must've felt a bit like a children's television show at this point.
"Magazines are ze business of adddults! Zis....zis business is far too important to leave to ze children!"
"Magazines matter! Magazines matter!" at which point I imagine the on-looker would think they'd've stumbled upon a Conde Nast meeting.
"I do not care if vis child...vis SQUIGGLE child is creative! Fashion is very important! It is elitist! Telling you to wear umbrellas on your head is an Important Thing! What vill happen if we let children into it?"
"They will ruin it!" the crowd roared.
"Yes! They vill ruin it and burn it and stink the place out!"
"Ruin-it, burn-it, stink-the-place-out" chanted the crowd.
"You know, this Squiggle-child is actually more interesting than what most of you write", murmured Woody Horyn.
"BUT IS SHE AN ADULT?" the lady in gloves spat, projecting spit which would later land on Mars prompting David Bowie to write his hit song"Is There Life on Mars?"
"Does it matter that if she's an adult or not?"
"Of course it does!" said the woman we saw earlier, who was in the leggings which were far too tight for her- and she still is.
"Why?" questioned Woody Horyn.
"Because...because...because....she's a nobody! She's not a Quiggle! She hasn't done a pole-dance on MTV like that great role model, Miley Cyrus!"
"Well, you know..." said Woody Horyn, and he began to sing:
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
French Vogue
It was actually this blog's anniversary the other day. On the 23rd. I wasn't aware, because I loath the past. But a lovely assistant, Fidelio, informed me that it was in fact my blog anniversary the other day. A dusty gold star to you. By the way, I was mentioned in French Vogue the other day, in conjunction with the t-shirts we sell (to your right there). Several other so-called "bloggers" have done t-shirts as well, although I can't exactly remember their names. They're probably not very important or chic. Tavi, my niece, did a t-shirt though-it's delightful.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Friday, December 26, 2008
Oh
I thought I'd just correct the...person who commented in the last post-- who claims I have no family. If you know anything about me, you'll know that I have one or two half-sisters. Tavi isn't the daughter of one of them, because I don't like those sisters. I can't remember how many of them there are because they're so demode. They didn't wear heels. The horror, hmm? I have not spoken to them since I last ate. (1812, at the overture).
So I just made Tavi my Niece actually. Because I'm Karl and I can. And before I had the Olsens-- that girl who exposed her crotch-- and others. However, Tavi isn't boring like them. You see, I've progressed from Niece as fashion accessory- to Niece as human being. I have fingerless gloves now, instead. And collars. Mmm, collars. Lick them, my little babies, but don't touch.
Anyway, I was going through Yves' old photos and I found this one. The best guess to who it is gets a Yohji Yamamoto bat costume!
Friday, December 12, 2008
Interview with Tavi
Well, as many of you know I'm Tavi's uncle. Tavi is a blogger whose blog is here. Maybe you have heard of it, hmm? This means that Tavi is Jane's...cousin. How dandy! How down how dandy, yall! I don't think that sounded right. A thick Franco-Germanic accent like mine speaking like a Texan? Doesn't work. I mean, if you can, speak that sentence in my accent. It doesn't work, hmm? But then again I'm the only person in the world who can use hmm? without sounding like a pretentious twat. So we shall leave Texan to Jane, hmmm? (And speaking of you Jane, you should turn up at my mansion more often, hmm? You're the only one who knows how to sort out my.....medication....yes, that's it....medication. Plus Anna likes you.) And I will continue speaking in my accent so I could possibly mean the something else, so the listener is hopelessly confused. Anyway. I interviewed Tavi with Rei.
Are you scared of the demode people at thrift stores? Do you have some sort of germ spray to protect yourself from them, hm? Do you wear a Darth-Vader-esque protective mask? No, I used to go to thrift stores a lot with my mom when I was little because she's always been obsessed with bargains (something I'm afraid you may find demode) so I've never really been a germophobe about it. Perhaps I'll incorporate a Darth Vader mask into tomorrow morning's outfit though, hmmm?
What is it like to be the pseudo-child of Rei Kawakubo? I quite enjoy my imaginary relationship with Rei, though I think if she ever really met me she would get her polka dotted henchmen to stomp on me because I am too stalkerly. In my mind we have lots of fun together though, making Vans look less ugly than they do on the feet of hipsters and cutting our hair similarly. She resebles Edna Mode, and I have always loved The Incredibles.
What are the normal sort of things a Space Cowboy (such as yourself) does? The obvious. Read Agatha Christie, listen to the Space Cowboy anthem by N'Sync, wear silver metallic jackets from The Children's Place, hang upside down in closets (as you do) and watch really sucky movies.
Questions from Rei:
Dear Rei,
I love you, and I have always loved you, even before I even knew you. Even before you even knew you. Even before you were born. Wait, you're a god, so you've been around forever, haven't you? Anyways, I stalk you. I'm behind you right now, actually, so feel free to take a break from designing your next epic collection and get one of your henchmen to gently turn your head so you can see. Hi! Hi Rei! You should also sleep with one eye open tonight because I plan on stealing your brain and having it transplanted into my head. Then you will have the brain of an annoying 12 year old and will run around talking about how much you love Rei Kawakubo.
Love FOR.EV.ER,
Tavi
p.s. I'm outside your window.
Could you please tell me about your closet? Karl tells me that you hang upside down in there, like he does.
It is falling apart and has a crawlspace. I have some type of pocket-like contraption which I stuff with accessories and tights and scarves hanging on the door, then I have a shelf where I put foldable stuff. The more holy items go on coathangers on a rack.The two jackets I got from your H&M collection are in a bag in my room next to my bedside. I sleep with them at night. Then I wake up and dance with them. Then I hang upside down in my closet and Karl and I talk via radio.
More questions from Karl:
I hear you have special levitating powers. How do you keep this secret from the world? And how far can you levitate? I guess it's no longer a secret now that you, Karl, are revealing it? I can levitate somewhat high, though not much higher than a basketball player. My levitation talents are of great use when my short height becomes an issue.
Last night, I was hanging upside down in my closet and I felt a transmission, from you, hanging upside down in your closet. But I could not receive it, for some reason. Could you tell me what it was? I was sending you a transmission interrogating you about how much you ate yesterday. I know what you're like when you're guilty, Karl. What was it, hmmm? A pizza crumb? A bite of a potato chip? A gummi worm? It's ok, you can vent.
Are you scared of the demode people at thrift stores? Do you have some sort of germ spray to protect yourself from them, hm? Do you wear a Darth-Vader-esque protective mask? No, I used to go to thrift stores a lot with my mom when I was little because she's always been obsessed with bargains (something I'm afraid you may find demode) so I've never really been a germophobe about it. Perhaps I'll incorporate a Darth Vader mask into tomorrow morning's outfit though, hmmm?
What is it like to be the pseudo-child of Rei Kawakubo? I quite enjoy my imaginary relationship with Rei, though I think if she ever really met me she would get her polka dotted henchmen to stomp on me because I am too stalkerly. In my mind we have lots of fun together though, making Vans look less ugly than they do on the feet of hipsters and cutting our hair similarly. She resebles Edna Mode, and I have always loved The Incredibles.
What are the normal sort of things a Space Cowboy (such as yourself) does? The obvious. Read Agatha Christie, listen to the Space Cowboy anthem by N'Sync, wear silver metallic jackets from The Children's Place, hang upside down in closets (as you do) and watch really sucky movies.
Questions from Rei:
Hello! You are my stalker, yes? Do you like polka dots? I like polka dots. Sometimes I dream about polka dots. Oh, this was meant to be a question. Well. Could you write me a stalker letter for Karl to publish? Make sure it involves polka dots.
Hi Rei! I have never been very keen on polka dots but once I saw how you use them I fell in love, duh. My whole blog is practically a stalker love letter for you, but I'll write one anyways.Dear Rei,
I love you, and I have always loved you, even before I even knew you. Even before you even knew you. Even before you were born. Wait, you're a god, so you've been around forever, haven't you? Anyways, I stalk you. I'm behind you right now, actually, so feel free to take a break from designing your next epic collection and get one of your henchmen to gently turn your head so you can see. Hi! Hi Rei! You should also sleep with one eye open tonight because I plan on stealing your brain and having it transplanted into my head. Then you will have the brain of an annoying 12 year old and will run around talking about how much you love Rei Kawakubo.
Love FOR.EV.ER,
Tavi
p.s. I'm outside your window.
Could you please tell me about your closet? Karl tells me that you hang upside down in there, like he does.
It is falling apart and has a crawlspace. I have some type of pocket-like contraption which I stuff with accessories and tights and scarves hanging on the door, then I have a shelf where I put foldable stuff. The more holy items go on coathangers on a rack.The two jackets I got from your H&M collection are in a bag in my room next to my bedside. I sleep with them at night. Then I wake up and dance with them. Then I hang upside down in my closet and Karl and I talk via radio.
More questions from Karl:
I hear you have special levitating powers. How do you keep this secret from the world? And how far can you levitate? I guess it's no longer a secret now that you, Karl, are revealing it? I can levitate somewhat high, though not much higher than a basketball player. My levitation talents are of great use when my short height becomes an issue.
Last night, I was hanging upside down in my closet and I felt a transmission, from you, hanging upside down in your closet. But I could not receive it, for some reason. Could you tell me what it was? I was sending you a transmission interrogating you about how much you ate yesterday. I know what you're like when you're guilty, Karl. What was it, hmmm? A pizza crumb? A bite of a potato chip? A gummi worm? It's ok, you can vent.
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