Hansel and Gretel

Once upon a time there was a couple of hideous bourgeois children by the names of Hansel and Gretel. They were very fat. Their parents, who were hip German architects, said- "Hansel und Gretel! If you don't get in line with the minimalist aesthetics of our houses, we will kick you into the forest!", so they only have five slices of salami for breakfast, as opposed to 10, and so on. 

But they had a servant (all families in fairy tales have servants, who barely ever get acknowledged- let me tell you, fairy tales are essentially a slave trade. Who cleans the glass slippers? Not le Cinderella, anyway), who gave them extra slices of salami under their door. So the children got very fat and their Helmut Lang suits popped and Helmut Newton, when he saw them, put his fingers over his eyes and shuddered. So the parents said: "Look! You are too fat! You do not go with the Miles van der Rohe chair! You are bending it!"

"But Mama, Papa!" they said. "Are we not your children? Do you not love us like so?", to which the parents said:"No- we're afraid not. We had our art dealer do a valuation on you two, and well- I mean- you're just not that it anymore. And if you don't want Damien to put you in formaldehyde- well."

So the children were sent to the forest, where they ambled up the path like rocking eggs. Hansel said: "why don't we put some bread crumbs on the path to find our way back?", but they didn't have any bread crumbs- they only had pieces of formaldehyde Damien Hirst gave them, as in incentive to be placed in a giant tank titled "The Impossibility Of Living With Children In A World Of Magazine Architecture." So they scattered pieces of formaldehyde everywhere, which cute little Disney-esque creatures ate and subsequently died from. Oh ho ho, it is  hard to be Disney-esque in death, unless you are a Helpless Princess who Needs A Man To Save Her! And nobody wants to save the animals, except for the horrible PETA people- who frankly make my job easier. I considered making a coat out of the squirrels and birds, but I recalled my mother doing the same thing, one cold winter, and thought better of it.

Anyway- the children continued walking, until they got to a little cottage made out of candy. Inside, there was an old witch who wanted to eat them. "Come in, little children!" said the old witch. "You can eat some of my house!" But the children said: "Your house is terribly ugly! How can we eat ugliness?", and the witch said: "well, if you eat it, there will be no ugliness!" "however-" the children said, "we could be consuming ugliness, which could make us ugly in turn!", and the witch looked very troubled for a second.

"Look- I just want to eat you," she said. "I'll level with you. That's all I want to do- the candy is give or take. All I really want to do is put you in a cage and gobble you up. I will cook you in a fire first."

The children looked at each other, and said "no, thank you. We don't wish to participate in cannibalism" and the witch said "okay, fair enough. Like that song: you caaaan't always get what you waaaant", you know the one? The children knew the one.

"But sometimes you can get what you want", I said. "Sometimes you have to steal it. You could steal these children, but they are in front of me, and heard me- in any case, I suppose you've read my web-log, and know about the dangers of consuming people? Calories, my dear woman."

The old woman looked very indecisive, as did the children. Then they all turned into cats named Fluffy, and Herr Schrödinger came and took them back to his house. I ascended to the skies once more, with Mahler playing in the background.

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.

Childrens

The poor have a problem which a lot of the socialites I know- you know, the ones who do ''philanthropy'' and so on- aren't actually aware of. It is children. Childrens, you see, are what happen when a poor person has sexual intercourse with another poor person and they produce what doctors now call a 'baby'. Now, wealthy people have this problem also- sometimes they make love (only the poor have sexual intercourse; the rich make love) and a variation of a childrens is formed- a 'trust fund childrens'. This phenomenon has been going on for years, of course- in the days of the aristocracy, a child would inherit the kingdom and he and his brothers and sisters would fight about it. Today, a child is dolled out money (similar to social security checks) from what is know as a 'trust fund'. The Geldof sisters- Peaches, Strawberry and Cream, are a good example of this. Trust fund childrens are remarkably similar to actual childrens, but in school they are taught a different set of physics- call it 'The Physics Of Egocentric Vanities'. They're taught that the sun actually revolves around their head, that gravity is a sort of butler to them, and that air is a substance found in Africa in mines owned by their dear father. Needless to say, these people grow up slightly different to the childrens of poor people.

There's another factor to take into account here, too: when a rich person has a child, the accountants of said rich person assign a value to the child (putting it as a long term liability, of course) and it is looked after by bodyguards, maids, and so on. This is a cruical difference- when the poor have childrens, they have to look after it themselves!

-I imagine a lot of you are gasping now, with expressions like '!' and '?!' and '!!!', depending on your level of botox. Perhaps, if you're from the Hollywood-Scientology circle, your face simply looks like this: '...', because your botox has turned your face into a barren marble statue. You are possibly holding your well-manicured hands over your well-lipsticked mouths, wondering how on earth one is supposed to look after a childrens.

Let me tell you, it took me a long time to work out too. I have worked out some essentials, though, in case you ever find yourself poor and with a baby. (This is quite different to the "accessory baby", in vogue a couple of years ago- especially babies from Africa. That moment has passed.)

HOW TO LOOK AFTER A BABY

By Karl Lagerfeld, Field Marshall

1). A baby is a human being, I'm told, and must be fed accordingly. Diet Coke generally will suffice, but if they are particularly hungry something from El Buli or The Fat Duck can't go wrong. 

2.) A baby cannot be naked. When my friend Paloma Picasso had her baby, it came out clothed in Lacroix with a Stephen Jones hat.

3.) A baby must be washed, or else it will grow mold. Sponges, which can be obtained from supermarkets (see post on how to use those), work well.

Eventually a baby will turn into a childrens, and then into an adult (or as a child disguised as an adult). If you are  lucky, they will not be terrible and will not turn into a social climber who asks for money to write about parties. That's a fine job, but one for a copy writer- the sort of who writes the captions on the back of cereal boxes. 

-Which isn't such a terrible thing either, no? I have a fine collection of vintage German expressionist cereal boxes, with captions like "THE RICE PUFFS TURNED INTO A COCKROACH" and "ONE MORNING, WHEN LITTLE YVES AWOKE.."- and so on. They're wonderful, and in a kind of shiny black and white nobody does anymore. But I digress. Did somebody mention tea?

Interview

This was an interview I recently did for Scanlan's Monthly, reprinted here.

1. What would you call yourself, a poet or a singer, or do you think that you write poems and then you put music to it?

Of course everything is erotic to me; if it isn't erotic, it isn't interesting.

2. Do you know any Swedes?

How should I know? In any case, one must not be serious. Not only is it absurd, but a serious person cannot have sex.

3. Does the large amount of money you get now mean much to you?

Certainly not! I think that any artistic product must stand or fall on what's there. A chimpanzee can do an abstract painting, if it's good, that's great.

4. How are your friends?

Very religious. Very. But now she is crazy. She lay on top of me when I was tied to the bed. She writes me all the time begging me to return. Why must we speak of my mother?

5. You've said you think message songs are vulgar. Why?

Make love to the police. We need highly trained squads of lovemakers to go everywhere and make love.

6. Do you think Lincoln wore his hair long to keep his head warm?

Many dirty hands have fondled beauty, made it their banner; I'd like to chop off those hands, because I do believe in that banner . . . the difference is that art is beauty, which the Beatniks naturally lack, hm?

7. do you find that people who call you a genius have any influence on your writing?
No, I don't, but that's not my wish. That's Merce's wish because he's involved with a large company of dancers and a school, so if his name were in the phone book, it would be awful. Anyway, people find out what your number is whether it's in the book or not.

8. If a young man considering a career in the arts wanted to meet a lot of women, would he be better off learning to paint or to play guitar?

That's the trouble, of course, for any individual. There is the rest of society and the rest of history. I think we have to take that circumstance as the means upon which we work to help us discover the nature of the next step, rather than taking it as something to lament. That's what my father would have done.

9. Can't dreams also mean hopes about the future?

Now, it's those two things: the cockroaches on the one hand, and the mosquitoes on the other that brought about, didn't they? The DDT?

10. Who's that playing with you here?

He was a student of Bonnie Bird. Yes. And he was absolutely remarkable. In fact when Martha Graham saw him, she took him immediately in her company. He was a creature of the air. And no one knew it at the time that he would come down to earth as he has in recent years. (laughs) He's been forced down to the earth, but he refuses to stop dancing. I'm sure he'll dance the day he dies.

11. What's your take on politics?

Well, I think this is why Buddhism is so important to so many people now, is that the -- One of the principles of Buddhist philosophy is that everything causes everything else, and that there is nothing that is not caused by everything else, and that each thing is at the center of the universe, and these centers are in interpenetration and non-obstruction

12. Like a locomotive, a pair of boots, a kiss or the rain?

People ask what the avant-garde is and whether it's finished. It isn't. There will always be one. The avantgarde is flexibility of mind. And it follows like day, the night from not falling prey to government and education. Without the avant-garde nothing would get invented. If your head is in the clouds, keep your feet on the ground. If your feet are on the ground, keep your head in the clouds.

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