Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Good day to you, Seg

I seem to get a lot of fanmail these days. Not just the normal kind, either. I attract the nutjobs! But at least they're beautiful nutjobs. I haven't had any pervs lately, which is disappointing. So if you want to send me pervy email, feel free to. The address is If you want to send me "modelling pictures", please do not. If I had any more models I'd feel like that geeky kid who spends all his days in his room covered by a duvet making models of planes and such.

I'd also like to wish "happy new year" to all my readers. Yes, even you. A "thank you" (I have manners. Or at least for people I like), to Jane, my daughter that I discovered this year. Thank Chanel she wasn't demode, ugly, or possessing no taste! (bad taste I can stand, I live with Yves, after all-- her taste, of course; is as good as yours truly.). To Tavi, my niece. To Nico, my architect who is also a very good supplier of underwear models for Anna and I. To Julie Anne; who knows the sun's not yellow (I love you). To Karoline and her hat-wearing Margiela sunglasses-churning boyfriend. To Nea, who isn't in the alley at all. To Xenia, who's the only doll that doesn't scare me. To Cecil B. DeMille, who actually has nothing to do with this at all. To Jeunesse, who made my carols all-the-much-sweeter. To Belle, who is a pirate with some shoes. To Anna, who showed me the true glory of a spiked warm diet Coke. To Nana, who isn't 65. To Alber, who is really quite a teddy bear. To Rei, who uh....well, she's Rei. Zohra, who is quite possibly a niece. Or a muse. Or something, hmm? I guess, there's one for you too Yves. Oh my little silver gloves, this is going to take too long. Anyway, you all know who you are. Vidal, Ms. Butterfly, Deline, etc etc etc. All the commentators, really-- especially the regulars. I would like to not thank Mr. Marc Jacobs. That Babrie doll you sent of yourself was not funny. It was creepy, and this coming from me; a man who has tea with his KarlBear every tuesday, and 11.00AM.
It's cliche to thank "the fans", so I won't. But you may continue reading.
Let's all get to the main course's not like I'm nice or anything. Feel the high collar. FEAR IT.

(By the way, there's a new ipod up. It's mostly noise-music, with the odd other thrown in)


So today I got the email below in my inbox.

"Good Day,

I contact you to be my foreign partner presenting you as the next of kin/beneficiary of US$25 000 000(Twenty Five Million Dollars) belonging to a deceased who died along with his entire family in 2003 during their vacation journey and was a customer to the Bank of Africa (BOA) Ouagadougou Branch, Burkina Faso, where i work as one of the Accounts officers.

I have worked out all necessary modalities to enable us carry out the fund claim under legitimate arrangements and i have resolved to 35%(your share), 5% (probable expenses during the transaction) and 60% (my share).

More details when i receive your positive response.

Thanks and God bless.
Seg Veron."

This is what I wrote back:

Dear Seg,

I didn't know Africa had a bank? I thought they just used other people's banks, kind of like that person who borrows you clothes and never gives it back. I've had that happen quite often in my time, hmm? So, does Africa actually have a bank or does the bank just consist of silly things like food and such?

Anyway, this family died on vacation? How horrible! This is why you don't vacation, actually. You might get killed and then an already Rich Guy like me might become the beneficiary! Anyway, any sort of holiday is boring. Did you know that right now, millions of people in the world-- yes, I kid you not, millions of people are out there celebrating the new year thing. I don't know how the world works in Africa, but here in Europe there's "years" and the start of every year is an excuse to get drunk, basically. Which leaves me all home alone. Well, Alber's playing some videogame-- "Katamari" or something; and I've got Bob Dylan's "Blood on the Tracks" on. But I'm basically alone. Well. There's screaming fans outside, but they're not really humans. They're more like-- sub-humans. They feed on lipstick and high collars. Or is that too stereotypical some people? Very well: let's say they feed on schizophrenics and..models with breast cancer. (Not that models these days really have breasts, so they have gone without for quite some while, hmm?)
But they're most certainly not Real People. I could sneeze and they'd suddenly fall over, because they're like cardboard cut-outs. Not that I would sneeze.

The answer to your question, by the way, is no.

Good day to you,
Karl Lagerfeld, esquire

Tuesday, December 30, 2008


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...


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?

Monday, December 29, 2008

Happiness is a..

The Beatles said Happiness is a Warm Gun, and they're not far from the truth. Happiness is in fact not a warm gun, but a Chanel coat. Yes, yes; I know what you're thinking: "Oh, Uncle's out promoting his label again in the form of a post which may be semi-deep, or at least pertain to be."
But what if I said this well-dressed lady in her warm Chanel coat is lonely? What if I said that she's totally alone? What if I said she was betrayed by a peeping Tom; by someone she thought she could call her friend? Why, you'd probably laugh because that sort of woman is pathetic, hmm? Totally demode. Because you, like me; are totally devoid of a heart. In fact I am "cracking up" (as the kids say) right now, at this image of this woman in a Chanel coat who is lonely, in her Parisian apartment listening to the Parisian equivalent of Tony Clifton, weeping on her Dior scarf, and her expensive perfume made of the bodies of dead models seeping out the window.
What emotion are we feeling now? Well, I'm feeling no emotion. I don't have normal emotions! I have no emotion whatsoever. I refuse to be hurt. I am a robot and I love it. A devil-robot. I am FASHION.

But if you're not exactly me, you may be feeling a little jealous. Because this woman is obviously beautiful; and she's in black and white so she's ageless (most Parisians exist in black and white), and because she has perfume made from models. I mean, who cares if she's lonely and suicidal- she is beautiful! And probably rich! Because these days, inner feelings are worth nothing. Are you going to get another collection done worrying about the friend who doesn't reply to your handwritten letters? No! Are you going to get another ski-house built worrying about what people think of you? No! You should be whipping the architect for you ski-house instead! I whip mine, Nico, everyday. In a non-erotic non-Thierry Mugler kind of way. Do any of you remember Thierry Mugler? Sick bastard. Total fetishist. I went into his workroom one day and it scared even me. All the leather and chains...I thought it was a depiction of a prison run Elvis and a gang of gay, bald men. Maybe it scarred me for life, I don't know. I was scarred before then anyway, so it's OK. It prepared me for Tom Ford, at least.

Maybe happiness is a pair of le skinny jeans.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Coco and Models

I've said it before and I've said it again: models should keep their mouths shut. Do you notice that Brad does not blog here, even though he is a wonderful underwear model, hmm? If I had a blog when I was in the 90's Claudia would not blog there, either. So I was horrified to find that dear Coco Rocha has a blog. I'll tell you, I nearly had an heart attack but then I realized that I don't have a heart. I'm heartless! My heart froze over and fell out, and I stamped a Chanel logo on it and put it in a case for safekeeping; and one day I'll auction it at the Evil Queen in Snow White's yearly charity auction.

Remember what happened to Kate Moss? Kate who, you say? It doesn't matter now, anyway. She's in the past. She was a famous model or something. She bores me. It's not hard to be a model anyway; you just need to have confidence, hmm? And not be fat. Or ugly. And have sex with the photographer if he's not gay afterwards. Not too hard, ja? Fitting into the standards of beauty dictated by the fashion industry (that's me! It makes me feel powerful, hm? I can make jeans so skinny that even paper dolls find it hard to fit into them) is a must. You know, Anorexia is an overrated lifestyle ("Did he just say that?" "Ya-huh he did!"). Genetics are better. We do not like the boobs; so be as flat as Aggy's singing ability and you're almost on your way to being a model. Being white is pretty important: Italian Vogue did an all-black issue and that's very chic, hmm? And I tend to use models of all colours- black, purple, white, beige (actually, not beige. Armani tends to hire all the beige models), brown, pink, green (not too many green models in recent years, it's generally a sign that they're about to throw up); fuchsia, violet (really, only one violet back a while ago; we had a girl who was swollen like a blueberry and we rolled her down the runway-- then we popped her at the end, and she was very very thin- though not thin enough to fit into the new model of Le Skinny jeans that we're currently making. Even I have trouble getting them. Well not really, but I wanted to try and sound vaugely humble there. Humble isn't my strong suit, hmm? My strong suit's Tom Ford).

Friday, December 26, 2008


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!

Thursday, December 25, 2008

A response

I was planning on having uh spiked diet Coke all night, but my Niece Tavi sent me this link.

Britney perfume! One might as well bottle head shavings and vomit; coupled with the Jonas brothers virginal sweat (I suspect they're as virginal as Madonna as a Catholic schoolgirl). And "Guess" is a brand worn by teenage girls desperate for attention with no taste, hmm? It is a brand worn by the anti-christ herself!

And who is this anti-christ, you ask? It is the woman who wrote the "Time" article. Scroll down if you want to see her; she's too demode for I to post. She is the anti-chirst. Call up the churches, call the Pope, call Obama, call Ron Paul, call the polygamists, call Xenu, call Tom Cruise. Strike that. Don't call Tom Cruise. Call Suri, call Elton John, call Warren Buffet, call every single person in this god damned earth apart from Tom Cruise.
Hell (ooh, burning reference there), even call Rachel Zoe. She'll be happy because she won't have to pay her massive credit card debt for buying that dress. Call the Spanish Inquisition!



This woman is the anti-chirst, with a vendetta against Anna and I. Next she'll be targeting the sacred estate of Coco Chanel; telling everyone to wear scrunchies and metallic hotpants.

Evil I tell you. And not the good evil. The bad evil. The bad bad evil. The non-fashionable evil.
This woman is probably paid by PETA. She is probably one of the animal-actors in their videos.
NOW, I will have my diet Coke. On the rocks, Anna; on the rocks.

Do they know it's Christmas in chic-land?

Right then. It is Christmas in some parts of the world. In other parts of the world it is not Christmas.
So to answer the question posed by Some Rock Band: Yes, they know that it's Christmas in chic-land. The neighbours have a Christmas Tree and it lights up. Rei's quite amused by this, and turns it on and off, and on and off; and on and get the idea. Well, the neighbours had a Christmas tree-- Anna got underwear model number one to steal it. The neighbours were too star-struck to say anything

We're basically ignoring Christmas though. Would you believe it involves a fat man? Who wears red? Well. Ho ho ho.

Anyway, Merry Chic-mas. And to the few of you that celebrate Christmas...I guess....Merry? I can't say it. Merry's such a demode word. Not a nice, fashionable sort of word.

Karl is missing.

But you know Karl.  He's probably buried deep within his Closet, sharpening Shu Uemura eyebrow pencils in anticipation of a sketching frenzy.

Merry Chicmas to all of you chic people.

I bought Bee her very own underwear model this morning.  He came in head-to-toe Dior Homme.  I left them alone whilst she 'unwrapped' him.  He is quite a beauty.  Won't mind having him around.

For myself, I bought an island in the Bahamas.  Karl and I are planning on seceding from the Bahamas and creating a new nation, Wintour-Lagerfeldia.  Sounds regal, doesn't it?

You have to be skinny, chic and rich to live here.  And you must have a starchitect design your oceanfront villa.  These are a few of the requirements.  Also, Karl and I will reign over the island as King and Queen.  We're currently gutting the Ralph Lauren mansion on Madison as our official embassy to the United States.  Think very modern decor in a very antique building.  So chic. So now.  Tom Ford has been begging to be our Ambassador, but if he wants it, he has to ditch his old and mortal husband.  He needs an underwear model.


Merry Chicmas to all, and to all a good vodka tonic.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Hello again.

Hello adoring public.

I would like to address this.  I would normally be enraged.  But look at the 'woman' who wrote this very demode list:


Who gave this woman the authority (and the audacity) to write this list?
She looks like a nearsighted twelve-year-old boy with a penchant for his mother's ugly costume jewelry and drugstore lipstick.  And look at the turtleneck-


It looks like it was fished out of a bin at the Mervyn's Going-Out-of-Business-Forever sale.  In the Men's department.  In the Big-N-Tall section.

Karl designed that fabulous dress.  He has already dealt with the woman.  Let's just say she will never write for anyone other than Fisherman's Weekly or NASCAR Aficionado for the rest of her 'career.'

I am Anna.  I don't get angry.  I get even.

And you must excuse me - I have a terrible stomachache from all of the demode words I have been forced to use to describe this woman.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Film III

This is a Genuine Glass of diet Coke (TM).

Interview with somebody

Some person claiming to "write" me is interviewed here.
Now, this obviously brings a lot of things into question. I wasn't aware somebody was "writing" me, you see. I thought I was a god until full autonomy. But now this interview comes out claiming that I am not in fact even a person at all, but a "character". It claims that I am in fact "fictional".

Anyway, it's interesting whether it's true or not. The idea of having behind me, writing my every move...well, it scares me more than barbie dolls, hmm?


This is Karl Lagerfeld's guide to life, and it is time for another post.
Not just any post, but a Karl post.
Villager one: Hurrah!
Villager two: Hallejueah!
Villager three: Praise the Chanel!
Village priest: Praise Karl!

Well then. It is a Karl post. We have ascertained this as an actual fact, as opposed to a false fact perpetrated by those agents of false fashion. Good day to you! Obviously not the agents of false fashion. No, good day to you, loyal reader. For you are a fashion person with a brain.

Person: What?! A fashion person with a brain?!!
Old lady: Well I never.

And on Chanel News (chic, with a side dish of Fendi)

Talking head one: This just in. People in the fashion world, may just have a brain.
Talking head two: It has been estimated that over 80% of humans have brains.
Talking head three: However, some brains are simply not-so genuine.
Talking head two: Yes indeed, this is true. It has been proved that there are counterfeit brains out there, and that they are at large.
Talking head one: At large? That brings up connotations of....of.....
Talking head one: Fatties.
Dramatic head: I die.
Rachel Zoe: That's my phrase.
Dramatic head: Isn't it bananas?
Rachel: Bitch.

Anyway, welcome to you, dear reader. We now know you have what we call a brain. If you have stumbled upon this blog by accident- and are wondering where the pictures are- and are sitting in your computer chair in a tracksuit- farewell!

A few readers have asked (such as Jeunesse) when the literary masterpieces that litter this blog will be published. They will be published soon, my little bat umbrellas, soon.
Tomorrow, though, I will be in my bookshop in Paris where I will be doing a "reading". However, I will not be reading it. In fact the book will not be present at all. What I will be doing is placing everybody who comes to the reading on the Chanel scales. So you better get practicing your scales if you're coming, hmmm?

My daughter Jane is having her birthday at some point, too. So let's all engage in "Happy Birthday."

Military Man: Ready!
Military Man: Aim!
Karl: Let's not...the happy birthday song is very demode. It implies cake. And you know what cake implies....
Sidekick Bob: What does it involve Karl?
Karl: All together now! It involves...FATTIES.

Sorry, I must vomit now. Even the word makes me sick to my well-bred bones.
But happy birthday to Jane anyway, hmm? I personally forgot my birthday in the 60's, as well as a rather fine watch.

Saturday, December 20, 2008


People, I've finally gotten this Twitter thing. It's at the side there. Must go now; Anna's gotten Vermont residents mixed up with Animals and is trying to shoot them. What, with all their facial hair..

Night, II

I sit out here, and I am waiting for something. I can feel it. The wind whips my face, and the newspaper I was carrying is starting to get hit by drops of rain. Yet I still sit here, undaunted. I'm waiting for someone, I believe.

Rei: Oh, silly man. Who are you waiting for?

I have no idea, I tell her. But I know that I have to wait. Desire pangs my heart like the way an old truck feels being left at the junkyard; the junkheap. Left on the junkheap in search of another cup of Coffee.

Rei: Really now.

To be honest, I'm just sitting here because I have nowhere else to go. In this meta-universe, there is no houses, because houses are demode. Instead there's simply I on a bench, and Rei standing over there wi..

Rei: I can hear you, you know.
Colonel: Oh god, just stop it at once man! You're showing personal feelings! This isn't even funny! Who cares if you miss someone! I DO NOT. Now go write another book, there's a good fellow. Do you think anybody will care about your entry if you're all weepy like that? Where's the mention of fatties???
Audience member: Yes! Bring in the fatties! Bring in the fatties!

I tell him I have no idea what he's on about. What does he mean by "entry"? What does he mean by fatties? Japanese Women do not get fat. It's a fact. It's the title of a book. So it's fact.


I see large, fat people come in. They have fat and grease dripping from their flesh, and in their hands are whole chickens, who have been deep fried.

Rei: Karl?!
Audience members: Karl!!!! [swoon]
Karl: This is getting to be like some vulgar American reality show. It is vulgar! It is vulgar!
Audience member 1: She started it!
Audience member 2: No, SHE started it!
Audience member 3: He started it! Him! Over there! The fellow dressed like a bat!


Prince - Batdance

A man dressed all in black, flapping his arms and shouting in Japanese, runs his way past the audience and out into a bat shaped plane. As Prince plays, the audience grooves along to the music.


Audience member 1: He's gone!
Audience member 2: Is it a bird? Is it a plane?
Audience member 4: It's a plane.
Audience member 2: Oh.

Unspecified Villian: That darn Yohji. If it wasn't for you crazy kids...
Audience member 5: Excuse me, we are fashionistas.
Audience member 6: Excuse me, I am also a brain surgeon/photographer/creative director/designer/bongo player AND a fashion de-zine-er.
Audience member 7: Well excuse me! But I'm an Artiste/ipod nanny/computer designer/composer/coffee maker/song-and-dance man AND a wanker!
Audience member 8: Well I'm a bitch!
[audience gasp]

I sigh, walking off into the sunset. Heart burnin', still yearin'. How am I meant to be melodramatic and emotional when all this is around me?

Rei: You can't. Just, don't worry about it. You're wonderful anyway.

Yeah, I'm wonderful anyway. I'm a wonderful person! I AM A WON-DER-FUL PERSON.

Anna: Thahhst's the spirrrt. Youuu wannt a drinwnkkk??

Friday, December 19, 2008


It's nightime in the big city of Tokyo. Rei Kawakubo sits on a polka-dotted park bench, wearing a trenchcoat backwards and not smoking a cigarette.

Rei: "What?"

Nighttime continues, as I, Haruki Murakami, continue to type this. I sip my coffee, as Bob Dylan plays in my walkman. I don't know how long my walkman will continue to run for. I'd buy an ipod but my deal with Sony prevents this. Rei Kawakubo continues to do nothing in particular.

Rei: "Really. Do you have to whisper everything you type in a husky sort of voice?"

I say that I do, and I continue to type. Karl Lagerfeld comes up behind me, and taps me on the back. I say "you're not really Karl Lagerfeld, you just choose to look like him for the purposes of existing in this world. I know my dramatic devices better than you."

Karl: "Actually, I'm just Karl Lagerfeld"

The man claiming to be Karl Lagerfeld continues to hover over me, occasionally taking pictures of his little fingerless gloved hands. He is not Karl Lagerfeld, I say to myself; Johnny Walker was not really Johnny Walker when I wrote "Kafka on the Shore". This is obviously some twist that I've inserted myself into this particular narrative.

Karl: "*coughs* No, really. I really am Karl Lagerfeld"

I tell myself how clever I am, inventing a character who claims to be really Karl Lagerfeld when he is in fact just pretending to be....Karl Lagerfeld

Rei: "Would you stop talking to yourself in monologue? It's like you're writing a novel or something"

I tell her I am writing a novel, as I pat a cat, because I like cats so I'll insert a cat into here.

Rei: "There is not cat there."
Neo: "There is no spoon."
Karl: "No spoon either. But Haruki, I love your work, but this is something we call "reality".

Reality. Another surreal dramatic device. I decide to investigate further...

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Carols, part II

Just one carol today. I'm in Vermont with Tom and Katie. Yeah, that Tom and Katie; and my young protege Karoline. Tom and Katie are hilarious, of course. Oh! And they have some little baby. I wasn't really too keen on that idea. I mean, it's a bit like taking your pets on holiday, hmm? The baby's name is Suri or something. It's nice that all she wears is baby Chanel, but still...
It's not like she's my assistant designer or anything. She's just a BABY. And she doesn't do anything! She can't even sketch! I don't understand it. It's not like my child was ever a baby (I'm not admitting to it, anyway. Never).

Anyway. I'll just avoid Le Baby. You should see her. The way she stares at me. She's got something in for me, I tell you. And then she says "Mamma! Mamma!", which I'm convinced is a kind of swear word, because every time she does that Katie gets out some kind of crack for children. She calls it "Apple mash" or something. And then Le Baby makes some slurping sound, but I know that it's code for "Karl, you better watch your step".

Luckily there's a closet here. I'm hiding in here with Karoline for the meantime. Yohji's meant to arrive in his batplane any minute now.

Anyway, there's a little carol below for all of you to sing. And below that is my reply to Jeunesse, in brackets. It concerns fattie school teachers, and just may branch off into it's own post, in the furture!

The 12 days of Chic-mas.
(Yes, I know it doesn't follow the form strictly at all. And I don't care. I'm Karl. Also, this is not the Noel Coward one. Just insert an instrumental solo into it, hmm?)

On the first day of Chic-mas,
my true love muse sent to me,
a Chanel fishing rod

On the second day of Chic-mas,
Anna sent to me,
a fur coat made of vodka

On the third day of Chic-mas,
the fatties sent to me,
some vulgar gift from a celebrity brand

On the fourth day of Chic-mas
Jane sent to me,
a giant shoe shaped collar

On the fifth day of Chic-mas,
the fatties called again,
and I threw them on a grill

On the sixth day of Chic-mas,
Yves sent to me,
a letter, claiming he was dead

On the seventh day of Chic-mas,
Rei sent to me,
a polka dotted unicorn or three

On the eighth day of Chic-mas,
Tavi sent to me,
a spaceship to eliminate the demode

On the ninth day of Chic-mas,
Bob Dylan gave to me,
a lightbulb to keep a clear head

On the tenth day of Chic-mas,
The surviving demode offered to me,
some purses at half price (I threw up)

On the eleventh day of Chic-mas,
an ex model gave to me,
some cocaine and a pipe for thee

On the twelfth day of Chic-mas,
I gifted to me,
a house made in my own very likeness

(Jeunesse, how very horrible! You know, it warms my ice-cold heart to know that some children have the beginnings of chic-ness! Say hello to your daughter for me, and make sure you give the fattie teacher a portrait of me. In fact, give all the adults a picture of me! I'm sure they secretly fantasize about me, as all people do. It's just a fact, hmm?)

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Children's Time: Cinderella by Karl

There was once a very ugly girl who had two very chic stepsisters. The very ugly woman’s name was Cinderella, and well, the names of the chic stepsisters are not very important; they were just were beautiful and quite unlike anything from this world. If you ever needed them you could just say “hey doll”, and both of them would turn ‘round and stare not at you, but through you, because they were so very beautiful.
The ugly sister had once had a mother who gave her useless necessities like “food” and a “bed”.
But her mother died, because she was so very fat. And fat people cause global warming.

So her father remarried, and the woman he remarried to was some sort of power-player, the sort of woman you’d see on “Lipstick Jungle” only with more shoulder pads. Essentially, the new stepmother was very evil and therefore very fashion. For her lunch, she would eat and extinguish entire species. For her dinner, she would vomit the species up and video it and send the video to PETA. She was very fashion.

Anyway, the mother was very horrible to Cinderella, because she was so ugly; but she indulged the other two sisters that were from her previous marriage to a rich banker. Cinderella got very jealous of this, and one day she decided to become a hipster like the other ugly people become.

“I will become a hipster” she said to the imaginary camera in the barn where she had to live.

So the next day she went with her smelly male vintage-glasses wearing friend who couldn’t afford a shower ,to a place called American Apparel. At American Apparel there were many other smelly people just like Cinderella and her unnamed male friend, none of whom wore pants and all wore very thick glasses. And they sung this song in the style of the band “Kraftwerk".

“Just put some thick glasses on,
And lose those pants,
And be so ironic;
That you could be called bionic;
And move like a duck
And do the bird pose

Da da daaaaaa
Dada. Dada. Dada. Dada.
(catch the art movement reference?)
Dali. Dali. Dali. Dali
(had a big moustache)

Put your tights on,
Make your sweater bright;
Do a porno pose now,
It’s so ironic”

“I am glad to join your cult” said Cinderella.
“So are we!” said the hipsters.
“What?” said Cinderella
“It’s ironic!” said the hipsters.

Anyway, one day as Cinderella was practicing her porno poses at American Apparel, her friend Tony Hipster ™ came in, and said he was just on dru- on Facebook, and that there’s a ball on being hosted by Anna Wintour. Cinderella was very excited with this, as she thought she that this could be her step up, into the world of The Adults.

But later that night, when she told her stepsisters this; they were less than amused.
“You are too ugly to go to such a chic event!” said sister 1.
“You are sooo fat and demode” said sister 2.
“Just you wait! I’ll prove to you that I can be beautiful!” said Cinderella, and with a huff of her smelly hipster breath she was gone.
Poor little fat Cinderella was denied entry to the ball when she arrived there wearing only tights and a primary-coloured sweater! Was she ever to meet the prince she desired as per the normal story of Cinderella?
Unfortunately, yes.

Cinderella crawled into the back bathroom window, and found her prince sitting on his throne. The prince in question was Tom Ford; and because of this the bathroom was transformed into some sort of honeymoon suite with a revolving love-heart bed and a disco ball and 70’s music playing. Cinderella was situation on the middle of the bed, and Tom Ford walked into the room with trepidation and an open shirt.

“My my, what big glasses you have!” said Tom.
“All the better to see you with” said Cinderella in an incredibly creepy tone.
“My my, what smelly breath you have!”
“All the better to penetrate you with!” said Cinderella, meaning of course her breath penetrating Tom’s skin (which is moisturized with the milk of very thin models who’re given nothing but air to eat. Fight the 250 signs of aging: with Very Thin Models. Because it’s worth a lot).
“My my, what tight leggings you have!”
“All the better to HIPSTERIZE YOU WITH!!!” said Cinderella, who then inexplicably ran off leaving a shoe behind.

Tom picked up the shoe with tweezers and just at that moment, Karl’s daughter Jane came in.
“It’s a FLAT!” she screamed, horrified by the prospect of a shoe being anything but a heel.
“It’s from WALMART!” Tom screamed, horrified by the prospect of a shoe being from Walmart.
“It’s….it’s a BOY!” said the doctor, quite clearly confused.

So Cinderella never did marry Tom Ford, because she was very ugly. And ugly people are bad for the environment, don’t’cha’know!

Monday, December 15, 2008

Somebody give this person a job

I don't normally do things like this, but Anna said that this kind of dealmaking is good for the soul (what soul?*). Anyway, I keep informed of everything fashion (I have everything related to fashion on the internet printed off). And I've discovered a writer who writes most eloquently about fashion.
This person, who has written things this, this, and even a story about Andy!
So I emailed him. Actually, I had an assistant email him. But anyway. He says he needs a job, hmm? Some work, hmm? Something where he writes about fashion because he is very good. And I don't normally say this about anybody. So, somebody who reads my wonderful blog, give him work.
In a magazine or something, hmmm? Good people.

By the way, there's a new Karl Children's Fairytale coming up. I'm rewriting one of the classics. You see, all these fairytales lie. They need to be corrected. That's all.

*Oh, the one I sold to the devil years ago?

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Starfish and Coffee

So, yesterday I went shopping.
One of the shops I wanted to go to- I won't mention it's name- was closed.
So I walked in anyway because I'm Karl. And then this hipster came up to me and tried to stop me.
He wore wayfarers. Not just any wayfarers, but coloured wayfarers. So I averted my gaze. He was repulsive. Looked like some "artist" type. I say artist in quotation marks, because I'd be willing to bet that this man had never created a piece of art in his life. He probably has business cards saying that he's an "artist", though. I can imagine them: "Hipster dude. Artist".

He said: "We're closed, brotha."
Yeah. He really said that. He really said "brotha" with the a at the end.
"I am not your brother" I said to hipster dude.
"Naw, it's just an expression dude"
"I am not a "dude" either, hmm? Do you know who I am?
"I am Karl Lagerfeld. Allow me to bold that. I am Karl Lagerfeld."
"Oh. I think you've got an ego problem brotha"
"No. "Problem" implies that there's something wrong with me. I am very happy with having the largest ego in the world, hmm? Now move and allow me to continue browsing this shop."
"But it's closed, brotha."
"Dude, calm down..."
And then Anna came in and said "Oh Karl, I see that you don't really know how to finish you?"
"No, I could go on and on and on. In fact here I'll put in a plug for the DEMODE t-shirt that I'm selling. It's to the right of you, you might have to scroll down a bit."
"Do you think we're getting a bit too meta for our audience?"
"Non, they're not stupid. Anyway Meta's very chic right now."
And then the shop exploded because of the series of absurd impossibilities that I had just gone through.
"Well. That was a pity", said an ex model who wandered into the room.
"Hey, hey, this could be one of those "Three people walk into a bar" jokes now."
"Hmm? Yes. There's three people here now, hmm?"

Three people walk into a bar:
They are an ex model, Anna Wintour (editor of Vogue), and Karl Lagerfeld (fashion designer, genius). Karl exclaims "wasn't this a shop a while ago?" and Rei says "no, it's now a bar. Because the "Three people walk into a bar joke" requires that.
And Anna says "now there's four people in the bar, including Rei.

Four people walk into a bar:
And then Rei says: "Wait, I just appeared here. I never walked into here. Can you imagine me walking? No! So it should be..."

Three people walk into a bar (and one person appears in it):
Karl says "I will have nothing because I don't eat", and Anna says "I don't eat either. I'm in fashion", the ex model says that she'll have Starfish and Coffee, making an incredibly unsubtle reference to Prince, and Rei doesn't say anything at all.
And the barman says that they don't have Starfish and Coffee in stock, but perhaps you'd like to have a Parrot?
Karl says "Oh, now we're getting into Monty Python territory. I think that's enough."

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:
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.

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.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Karl's Christmas Carols

Here's my first collection of Karl-edition Christmas carols. They are to replace normal Christmas carols. I must thank the lovely Jeunesse for the idea; so these are for you, Jeunesse.

O come all Ye Fashionable

O Come all Ye Fashionable
Bean Stalks and Coke Addicts
O come ye, O come ye to Lagerfeld-land
Come and behold him
Born the King of Fashion
O come let us adore him,
O come let us adore him,
O come let us adore him,
Karl the King.

O strut, lines of models
Strut in chic formations
Strut all that see in Vogue, Karl's fashionable word,
Give to our Uncle, Collars in the heighest;
O come let us adore him,
O come let us adore him,
O come let us adore him,
Karl the King.

All bow! Karl we greet thee,
Chic this happy morning,
O Karl! For evermore shall be King,
Word of fashion, now in flesh appearing,
O come let us adore him,
O come let us adore him,
O come let us adore him,
Karl the King.

We wish you a fattie Christmas
note: this song is especially for the fatties.

We wish you a fattie Christmas,
We wish you a fattie Christmas,
We wish you a fattie Christmas and a Walmart new year;
Bad tidings we bring, to you and your kin,
Bad tidings for Christmas and a Walmart new year

Oh, bring us our Chanel rifles,
Oh, bring us our Chanel rifles,
Oh bring us our Chanel rifles and we'll shoot demode ones right there

We won't go until you lose some,
We won't go until you lose some,
We won't go until you lose some, so lose some fat

We wish you a fattie Christmas,
We wish you a fattie Christmas,
We wish you a fattie Christmas and a Walmart new year

Chanel Night

Chanel night, Coco night,
All is quilt, all is white,
Round you are very thin people,
Make sure they don't snap now,
Stay awake because sleeping is demode,
Stay awake because sleeping is demode

Chanel night, Karl night!
Fashionistas do quake at the sight
Glories stream from afar
Of Karl putting on his fingerless gloves,
Karl, the saviour, is here
And Yves is kind of dead

Chanel night, quilted tights,
Son of fashion, chic's pure light
Radient beams from above thy holy glasses
With the dawn of a new collection
Karl, King, is very chic
Karl, King, wears le skinny jeans

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Karl's Nursery Rhymes

Well, I thought it might be a good idea to write some Nursery Rhymes for you to read your children. Or if you don't have children, please go to the nearest park and shout them out at the top of your lungs. Perhaps have pamphlets (quilted, of course) of them to give out. Like a religious fanatic-- or PETA. Karl is a religion, after all! You could say something along the lines of: "DO YOU BELIEVE! DO YOU BEEEELIEVE IN THE POWER OF KARL?! DO YOU BELIEVE? DO YOU ACCEPT KARL AS YOUR SAVIOUR OF CHIC?"
And if they say "yes" you then say:

So, here we go:

This little fattie went to walmart.
This little fattie stayed at home.
This little fattie had potato chips,
This little fattie had none.
And this little fattie went "Snort! Snort! Snort!" all the way home.

Jack and Jill went on the pill to lose some weight for Summer
Jack fell down, and punched a photographer
And Jill came to pay the bail after
Out got Jack, and photoshoot did trot
Dressed in tights in a sort of caper
He went to bed and found a friend
who soon appeared in the tabloids later.

Twinkle Twinkle little star, how I wonder how chic you are?
Up above the world so high, like Yves Saint Laurent in the sky;
Twinkle Twinkle little star, how I wonder how chic you are?

Three hip assistants, three hip assistants;
See how they run, see how they run
Watch them run in their skinny jeans,
With wayfarers and ironic t-shirts to spare;
Did you ever see such thing in your life?
Three hip assistants

Monday, December 8, 2008

The Very Hungry Model: a Children's Story

Once upon a time there was a very thin model. Her name was Coco because all models are named that these days, because what actually happens is that people run out of names and then there’s no names to use so they just use Coco. And they drink Coco too, so they must be fat and wear polos because everybody knows that Coco contains calories (and Coco before bed is bad because how are you going to exercise it off, hmm? Unless you do..You Know What…but as this is a children’s book we shall not get into this. Ask Mummy about this when you are older).

Now. There was a model named Coco and she was very thin. She was so thin that all the designers wanted her for their shows, because she took up less fabric than normal people and therefore it was more economical to have her as a model. Of course, the other option was to have her buy the clothes she modelled herself; however this was not much of an option as then she’d be what we call a “consumer”, and not a model.

One day Coco was walking down the runway at Dries Van Noten bear’s show; where there was a girl-bear in the front row who was eating an APPLE. Coco felt an unfamiliar rumbling in her barely-there stomach, and made one giant jump for the apple; and tried to snatch it from the girl-bear’s hand.
“Mine!” said the girl-bear.
“No, mine!” said Coco, although she couldn’t possibly snatch it anyway because she was so very thin.
Coco’s stomach rumbled again.
“Awww…” said the girl-bear. I suppose you can have my apple…
Coco ate it and she then had a apple protruding out of her stomach, never mind all this business about the “digestive system”. She was still hungry.

The next day Coco ate two celery sticks, more than her usual one. She thought the apple would sustain her for a year or ten, but it had not. The apple was like crack for her, and it’s here was can learn about life: don’t feed the models (because food is like crack for them, haven’t you been told in school not to do drugs?).

The next day Coco ate 4 celery sticks and a piece of gum which her friend Geneva gallantly gave her.

The next day Coco sneaked into the bakery and bought ONE donut, as well as having EIGHT celery sticks and TWO pieces of gum.

The next day Coco bought TWO donuts from the bakery, ONE cream bun and 16 celery sticks and a whole PACKET of gum.

Karl-bear came to see her, and have her a copy of his book: “The Karl Lagerfeld Diet”. But the silly girl would not listen. She continued to nutrition herself, and keep herself healthy.

The next day Coco ate ONE roll of salami, ONE cake, FIVE donuts and 32 celery sticks and FIVE packets of gum. She was a very fat model. She weighed 60 Kilograms!

The next day Coco ate FIVE rolls of salami, TWO cakes; including a wedding cake, TEN donuts, 64 celery sticks and TEN packets of gum. That day she had a show, and she was so fat that she looked like a giant ball. And they had to roll her down the runway, and she crushed the audience and their Manalos.

She was a very very very very very fat model.

But then! She went into a rehab centre, which is basically a cocoon for famous people where The Karl Lagerfeld diet became her bible. And she emerged a beautiful butterfly-- I mean, model. And she was very thin again, and therefore fulfilled.

Sunday, December 7, 2008


I've noticed that there's a lot of perfumes that're being launched lately. So I'll launch one. Here's my script. The secret agent is dressed like a gestapo agent or something, hmm? And Brad is wearing......nothing!

SECRET AGENT [imagine a female Arnold Schwarzenegger]: Allo. This is officer model LADY. Yes I may have a monotone but I look at my BODY. Look at my CURVES. Okay I do not have very many curves but look at my JACKET. I am selling a PERFUME. It will not kill YOU. It is a perfume by Karl LAGERFELD.

BRAD [whilst he floats around in....a pool...a pool of diet Coke]: Ooooh look at me I am so gorgeous and so sexy. Hey, Karl. Why don't you come to Monaco. [floats off screen]

Now we have my giant fingerless gloved hand taking up the whole screen, WAVING. Wiggling my fingers like some chic worm. They wave and wiggle on screen...they start to move out of the TV. I, Karl Lagerfeld step out of the TV.

KARL: Hello, hmm? Mm. Hmm? I don't even need to say anything because I'm so chic, hmm? I can just stand here and "Hmm?" for an hour. Imagine it: statuesque figure, white hair pulled back, dark glasses polished and on; gleaming light back at everybody, my energy virtually turning me into the sun- no, into a really big star that's bigger than the sun. Like Kanye West or something. Bigger than Elvis. Bigger than Jesus. Bigger than the dominance of the blazer-and-tights outfit. And a Hmm? for an hour. They could make a CD of it. "Karl Hmm's: travels in Japan". Not that I'm actually in Japan, but it sounds more exotic. I probably should go over there again...Yohji has this place he takes you to. They have Coke. Yes, that's it. Diet Coke.

[Hmm?'s for an hour.]

And that's the end of the commercial. I didn't even show the bottle or anything. In fact, the perfume was only mentioned once. But they saw me; and in person too. So it'll sell.

Karl's ipod, no. 4

New playlist off my 5264th ipod, hmm? Just to your side there. Below that glorious picture of me. Oh yes, I love myself, yes I do. And I felt like Anne Demeulemeester when I made this playlist. See if you can guess why! First one to guess gets a free fake but genuine Chanel couture dress. Secondly, I want everyone to remember to love themselves for who they are, and be yourself. Well. If you're name's not Yves Saint Laurent anyway. See? That was a positive message to the kids! Now, I'm supposed to feel all warm and fuzzy inside. But I...don't. Anna says Vodka helps; especially with underwear models.

What Anna does, of course; is close her office door and say she's busy. She even has a sign that she stole from some expensive hotel (being a fashion editor is somewhat like being a very advanced version of a bag lady. Anna has never paid for a single thing in her entire life. Ever. All the towels in her house are stolen from hotels; all her soap bars stolen from my bathroom.) Anyway she closes her office door and gets the underwear model to strip off and you can imagine the rest...hmm?

Saturday, December 6, 2008

The continuing story of Karl Bear; a children's story

Once upon a time there was a bear in a far off land called "Earth" called Karl bear.
The time was right now, this instant, because Karl bear did not like the past, as he told journalists in his 18th century mansion. He only liked the "now", so the "time" in in the "once upon a time" is "now". Right now. Even thought this is written in past tense, it is still "now". As you read this book. The "now", hmm?
Karl bear hopes your hands have leather, fingerless gloves on them (Karl bear does not have any because bears have no fingers).

So anyway, one day Karl bear was out for a walk where he was mobbed by some démodé paparazzi. He said to them: You a very boring, go away." Karl does not like boring things. The paparazzi said, in unison because paparazzi are just grown-up choir boys: "Please sir, can we have a picture?"
"Oh fine, just one, hmm?" Karl bear said sternly, as he dreamt up a Chanel nose picker for the hairs in the noses of very démodé people.
Karl bear didn't really know why he was doing this, because a bear is not a person; although some person from PETA is very likely to say "bears are people too!", and with this he inhaled the irony of the previous few sentences most satisfyingly.

He continued his walk until he met Anna bear, who said:
"Karl darhling, some more cognac."
"You are drunk, mm?" said Karl bear.
"I'm just going to pick out the new cover for Vogue. We're do- doinggg, DOOinggggg, oooo, dooooinnnggggg."
"This is very boring, Anna. I know you're not really drunk and just pretending to in order to appear more human (as opposed to the near-anamorphic entity that you are)." Karl said.
Anna looked a little sad, and decided to fire someone as this always warmed her ice-cold heart.

Anna bear exclaimed, as Andre bear, a rather portly bear who looked like a certain blind soul singer when he had dark glasses on, came waddling out.
And then Anna glared at poor Andre bear as his stuffing was burnt.
"Oh, he is not poor, hmm?" Karl bear said somehow reading the book because he's that clever- "Andre is very démodé and boring"

Then Karl went off to a dinner that was being held by his friend Alber bear, a stylish but slightly plump bear.
"This is very boring." said Karl bear. "I do not eat".

So Karl bear decided to design another Chanel collection and teach his daughter, Jane bear, how to say "démodé" right. He felt an uncommon sense of pride when she got it right and was rather worried. It was scary- all these "emotions".
Then Yves bear came in through the door, looking adorably mopey in that way that attracted a thousand women to his clothes.
"Hello Karl."
"Hello Yves."
"I am sad."

"This story needs a moral, I think, hmmm?" said Karl bear.
"Hmmm" said everyone.
"Okay. How about don't wear traffic cones of your head when driving, hmm?"
"Very chic" said Alber.


It's well known that fashion has a MACHINE, hmm?
But I think this machine is not literal enough-- it's very metaphorical. I mean, it's not really a machine.
At Chanel we're changing this. We're building a real machine; will gears and flashing lights and all that sort of thing. And a lever to pull it with. So instead of people having to go through this very human process of becoming a tool-- becoming one of Anna's photoshopped darlings who never speaks; we're just going to put people through the machine.
So somebody just steps onto the machine, goes down the conveyor belt and in about 5 minutes they are a total tool! They are ready to be totally used for the evil purposes of fashion. They will do anything we say. They are ready to be a snob. They are ready to be VOGUE COVER DARLINGS.

Bwhahahahahahahahaah. Mwhahahahahahah. Mwhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!
(I have been practicing my evil laugh. It's very Germanic and good. I'm quite happy with it. Don't even mention the Chanel pre-fall collection to me. It's the fault of Yves. He pretended to be me and designed it. So there.)

Thursday, December 4, 2008

That time of the year

Well. It is that time of year again. The time of festivities; the time of celebration; the time of drunkenness. I am of course talking about "Anna Wintour Going Out of Vogue" rumors; where the fashionistas start to celebrate and Anna gets drunk. You see, the fashionistas think Vogue should stop being so elitist. That's what they say, hmm? In fact the fashionistas love this. They are elitists. They love being elitists. Why do you think they never talk to non-fashion people? Elitism. Why do you think they go to the H&M designer collaborations? Lack of money. But that's beside the point. Every single fashionista is a proud elitist. There are different scales of fashionista, of course: We have "Fashionista Scales" in the Chanel HQ. They are litterally scales. You stand on them, and they tell you how much of a fashionista you are. Like the Merry Poppins measuring tape, huh? We use this as a scale to see if the fashionistas can...touch the clothes. Whether they can handle them. Can you handle the Chanel, in other words. Once, I stepped on them and they broke because it was off the scale. Once, a fat person broke them because they were fat. Anyway. Why they want Anna out is because Anna's simply better than them. Sure, she doesn't actually edit American Vogue, but nor does that horrible French woman...Carnine or something. The one with the teeth. The sharp, sharp teeth. Her sharp, pointy teeth. All the better to eat you with. Mmm. Yummy Margiela, she thinks to herself. Mmm. CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP. FASHION TEETH CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP. MMM DIAMOND TEETH.

Oh so pointy. It is le horrors.

The Ballad of Andre Leon Talley

I'm the pimp to the master/She's the devil in plaid/I'm the spider eyed monster taking Alice to wonderland

Yes, that rap right above was written by I, Rap-Master Karl 5000. Shall I go on?

Look at my fur/and my cowboy hat/yeah I broke this chair/but I'll break the bank

In case you didn't know, this is Andre Leon Talley talking, not me, hmm? More, you say?

Just look at my gaze/It will amaze/you fools and you horses/who think you've got it made/'cause I have Anna/and she's the number one star/see her at tennis/in the backseat of my car

Rap-Master Karl 5000, signing out.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

New Chanel Assistant Designer

You know, it's very boring how the fashion industry is so old and so intellectual. Those 18 year old girls, so old. So I think that the girl below will be the new Chanel spokesmodel. In fact, the next Chanel show will use only children of her age. And I'm going to make her assistant designer at Chanel. (I know some of you will've seen this girl, but indulge me, hmm? She is the assistant Chanel designer now, after all). Isn't it great knowing your Chanel bag was approved by a toddler? This child is the only child Anna actually likes as well. I'm amazed she didn't eat Bee. She's a little overweight, anyway.

Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.

Silent Film

By the way, I made a silent film. The real reason is that I'm sick of people talking all the time. "TALK TALK TALK!" they are, but they say nothing, hmm? So I thought if they saw the film they'll see that these people in the film don't talk much, in fact they don't talk at all, because it's silent. And when they need to say something they have little, leading by example, no?

Second, I thought life could have a soundtrack; like silent movies. I've hired a pianist who is on a movable platform- I take him everywhere. Right now, for instance, he is playing the accompaniment to my life as I dictate this to one of my assistants. He's pretty good looking, too. I found him in the closet whilst I was on...sabbatical. Poor guy, he was just in the corner looking kind of glum. He's in black and white, actually. As in, movie-black-and-white. So the area around him is also black and white. It's all very chic.

Now, there's a reason I went on...sabbatical. It's because the flickering was getting pretty bad, hmm? The "real world" was fading away; and who else am I going to make fun of but the "real world" people? I litterally couldn't touch a pen that cost less that 100 dollars; or else it would just vanish. I was that out of touch with reality. It was messing with my head a little, hmm? As Jane said the other day.."Daddy needs his meds". Apart from I am the drugs.
Fashion becomes very ugly when it's all you can see, you know. Did you know that most models look like a twig which has been drained of it's twig-ness and is now a figment of a twig? I wasn't sure if they were human, let alone female. You notice these things when reality is barely there.

I am back now, hmm? I love you all. Apart from you, and you, and you. And the fat one over there. And what are you doing wearing wayfarers?

Tuesday, December 2, 2008


I'm back.

Ladies and gentlemen please welcome the prince of fashion. The voice of descent in the smelly 60's . The man who forced Hedi into bed with Tom. Who donned the cap of genius in the 70's and disappeared into a haze of chicness. Who emerged to find Anna. Who revived Chanel, and who suddenly shifted gears becoming thinner than a wire. Ladies and gentlemen - Universal Genius...Karl Lagerfeld!

Time to give a conference to the press.

Monday, December 1, 2008


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1.01 AM Karl is still hanging upside down in the closet.
1.01 AM Karl is making noises. They are not human.
1.05 AM Around 40 press have cottoned on to Karl's mood, and have now started camping outside the closet.
1.08 AM We just saw a flash. A photographer kept going "KARL! KARL!". There was a dark flash; a move of a bowtie; and the photographer was gone. Closet heard shutting.
1.10 The carcass of the photographer turned out. A flash; saw a high collar. Carcass has "DEMODE" written on it.
1.15 Karl heard muttering. Sounds like a witch. A German witch.
1.20 The media pack has increased to 500. Anna has turned up, demanding to get in. Has vodka.
1.25 Media pack appears to be drunk. Somebody asked me for an autograph!
1.26 That means my cover is blown! Oops.
1.27 "You're an Yves Saint Laurent lookalike, aren't you?"
1.28 Sigh of relief
1.30 They're trying to cook food in here! Horrors!
1.31 "Cooking food is so demode. Everything should be raw"- some fashionista
1.31 "What, you mean you eat??"- Another fashionista.
1.35 Brad arrives. Has kilt on.
1.40 Brad talking. Has kilt off.
1.45 1000 press now. For some reason the Olsens are possibly here. I say possibly because I can never tell between them and the homeless ex models down the street.
1.50 Oh, they are the homeless ex models. Here's the Olsens now.
1.51 What is that smell? Trash?
1.55 The closet has transported itself elsewhere. More press and fashionistas drunk. Dr. Who theme playing. Why do I know this?
2.00 The closet is back where it was. Karl can be heard sketching in it. Anna on floor, passed out.
2.01 Karl is walking out. We hear the thumping of his boots; we hear thunder. Stay tuned, with Yves Saint Laurent: The dead Frenchman.

See what's happened now?

Well, see what's happened now? Karl's gotten all upper-lip angry, and drunk all of Anna's alcohol supply, and whilst he pretended to be restrained and just went into his closet and hung upside down; but 15 minutes ago he came out here whilst I was having tea with that lovely wife of the French president, and took his glasses off. He took them off and they melted to the ground. His eyes were all crazy, I swear he had flames in them. Out of his mouth came German; he barked at me for 10 minutes, non-stop. His eyes spat out Chanel logos- in flames. He grabbed my cup of tea and smashed it on the assistant, then reconstructed it with his Karl-powers and smashed it again. He barked some more. His suit started to melt off him; the whole room started to melt; and under his suit was another suit. He reconstructed the cup of tea again, and drank it; and he became very tremendously big; and Monsieur Dior rose up and ate a very tremendously big plate of pasta; and Coco Chanel turned everything quilted. Karl then calmed down, muttering something in German and went back to his closet to hang upside down. He is very, very angry. And very, very chic about it. You've upset him now, you know.

Now, I suggest we close our eyes and say "KARL COME BACK! KARL COME BACK!" and wish very very hard. Close your eyes very tight and say it outloud; and believe. Maybe it'll work, non?

Oh, Sophia. I apologize for Karl's mood...he gets like this, you know. It's not really him that's doing it, but his alter-ego "KARL VON BISMARK/DRACULA"; I suppose I better aploogize for what the readers have said about you, too. Someone needs to clean up after Karl...
Sigh, the life of a dead genius.

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!

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Karl's ipod, Number 3

To the side of your you have selections from my 5,905th ipod. Enjoy, hmm?

In defence of being Gorgeous

I have my assistants print of my daughter Jane's blog every time it's updated. They then transcribe it into blood; but they're so fashion that their blood is multicoloured. Anyway, I see there's some fat demode bully making fun of her in the comments; talking about "poverty" and all these "terrorists".
So, I need to make 2 things clear:
The only terrorist is Anna. If you have ever had a shoe hurling at you at just below the speed of light, you'll know what I'm talking about, hmm? Why do you think Vogue is so bland? Terrorism.
Anna has not looked at a single issue in more than a decade. There's no need. Just hold a shoe up to a designer, and they'll do what you want (unless your name is Karl Lagerfeld). And....well, we just assume people buy the magazine. I suppose they do. I think those magazine stores have germs anyway, because the dirty people read through the magazines and then put them back on the stand, putting their eye-germs of demode-ness onto them by looking at them.

Secondly. Well, secondly I am not sure about this "poverty" thing, hmm? I think it's just a bit of a myth, like this recession. Really, this "poverty" is just an excuse for washed up rock stars to whine on about something, non? And an excuse for tossers like the person who commented on Jane's blog to be mean to her. (And by the way, Jane's family are not oil tycoons. I mean, it's obvious where this "wealth" the poor readers of the blog* refer to comes from. There's a big picture of me on the blog! It says "Dad". Is this not enough of a clue, hmmm? And let me tell you, I am not an oil tycoon.)
When they say "Make poverty history" they're really saying: "put poverty into the history books", which implies that this "poverty" is not important to be in the history books yet; as it is a made-up thing. Replace this with "make Marc Jacobs history" and you get the same idea: Marc Jacobs is not yet important enough to be in history. Because they want to make poverty history. It's no different than kings trying to re-write history, no?

Because I know that as I sit in my ivory tower (Italian ivory), that poverty is just a made up thing, as I blow my nose on my Hermes scarf and throw it out the top of the tower; which is so high that the tissue will in fact disintegrate, and turn into gold through a process of time and Fashion. Poverty is fake! Like, imagine if someone tried to pretend to be me. Like, Fake Karl or something, hmm? Poverty is that fake. Of course, the likelihood of someone pretending be me is close to nil; my lawyers would be on them like a snake in skinny jeans to a blonde in American Apparel.

Anyway, I was defending my daughter. She's just beautiful and gorgeous and stylish, yes? And people are going to try and tear her down. But what they forget to realize, is that she's got Ann Demeulemeester boots. Two of them. Not that she wears both pairs at once, because she does not have four legs. But those boots are combat boots and they can resist any sort of bullying, like from those PETA-lovin' people who comment on her blog; who complain about "Price". If you sell your house you can buy wonderful clothes too, hmmm? So it's not a big issue! Anyway, somebody's got to pay for my Hermes scarf-tissues. (There was a couple of good comments- somebody took the time out to defend my daughter; and for that I think I'll reward them with a knighthood or something. Are they Jane's brother? Lover? Mother? Sister? Friend? Surely, they are chic; as I am a defender of the chic and beautiful.)

Right. Anyway, we are chic; and ugly person who was mean to Jane is not, huh? Let them eat cake! It will make them fat!

*Le Skinny Jeans Society members, I suppose.

Some Award

Okay. The other day I was at this thing presenting this award to this person. She had blonde hair...hmmm.....Britney Spears. That was her name. "Britney" "Spears". She had children backstage. I hate children. So I gave them a Chanel lollipop and told them to shut up. It's a quilted lollipop. I can't remember what the award was for; it was at some music-related event. It was not the opera, anyway. I'd just like to say that Anna put me up to it when we were playing Truth or Dare; and she'd drunken a lot of Vodka and said "PRESENT THAT DEMODE BRITNEY SPEARS WITH AN AWARD". That was the dare, you see. It was worth it, because I found out who Anna is....singling out...for let's say "special activities".
Anyway, this is me covering my high collar, hmm? I do not endorse that Britney Spears nor do I like her. She is demode. If it was me, the award would've went to Cat! Yes, I would've given the award to myself, hmm? And I don't even know what the award was for!

Note: Some assistant spelt "myself" wrong in this entry. My new assistant, Bradd (who is not Brad), is typing up entries from now on. The previous assistant is swimming in a pool of diet Coke.)

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Karl Makeover

You may have noticed that in front of the fashionista who was turned into a tree, there was this young man on the left. Yes, he really is alive. I went up to him:

KARL: Oh, who has died?
CHADD: What?
KARL: Well, someone has died given the funeral garb you are wearing, hmm?
CHADD: No, this is how I dress..
KARL: So you are dead?
CHADD: No, you're talking to me aren't you?
KARL: Yes, but I have this friend called Yves and he's still dead...
CHADD: Does that mean you see dead people? Like in that movie?
KARL: I am the movie.
CHADD: Man, what's with the high collar?
KARL: All the better to see you with, hmmmm?

And then we grabbed him and put him into the demode t-shirt,
and he was eternally grateful, of course. He is very happy now.

What you see here are the before and after shots. Like one of those television shows they tell me they have!

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

"Your Blog is Getting Boring"

"Your Blog is Getting Boring" read a comment on one of my blog posts, earlier today.
I do say read because you must remember that this blog is, like fashion, a totalitarian dictatorship. I do not tolerate dissenters.

I imagine the person is a teen fashionista. She probably has a Marc Jacobs bag that her mommy paid $2000 for, and a Juicy Couture sweatsuit and a Versace jacket with "VERSACE" written in large print on the back, just so you know it's Versace. She probably keeps the price tags on everything, just so she can remember exactly how much mommy paid for this piece of "tacky" fashion. In short, this person is a fashion victim, 1st class.

I should be applauding her, of course. Because along with her Marc Jacobs bag I'm sure she owns a Chanel bag; one of the ones I designed badly on purpose to see what stupid sort of people would buy them. She's given me money! So, thankyou; ugly and demode fashionista for giving Uncle Karl some money.

She has a blog, of course. Where she posts pictures of herself in a blazer and leggings everyday. EVERY SINGLE DAY she posts pictures of herself in leggings and a blazer; saying "oh, how original I am." She then tries to emulate my daughter Jane and buys some shoes; apart from her shoes are tacky and bright pink and made in China. She then looks at Jane's blog and says "WHY DON'T I GET ALL THOSE HITS", goes and complains to mommy and mommy buys her some Louis Vuitton flip flops.

Worst of all, this person enjoys McDonald's.


There were a few questions in the last post concerning the t-shirt to the side of you, if you scroll down a little.
1. How much will the t-shirt cost?

2. Where do you ship?

3. What sizes do you have?
Small, medium, and large.

4. Do you do female sizes?

5. Is each t-shirt unique?
Yes, each t-shirt is handprinted.

6. Where do I buy?
Email me at

7. All enquires will be responded to after this week.

Note the Shirt

Readers, note the chic new shirt at the side of the page. Email me if you want to purchase. Handprinted; limited edition.

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Monday, November 24, 2008

Karl's Floor

Today I snuck into Karl's room, and this is what I found:

New York 2

Been in New York some more; Jane encountered some of the....delightful people of NY.

The tree just behind the young man in the picture was in fact a fashionista. She was very interesting. She'd 1) gotten so thin she had actually formed into a tree, and 2) gotten so weak that she couldn't move and has to stand there. Thus, when people go past her they think "oh, that is just a tree!" But really, it is a stranded fashionista in need. Which is why today I'm launching the "Help our Fashionista's Who Have Turned into Trees (on account of their being so skinny) appeal. I feel it's a very urgent cause, and we need your support.

Those leaves of hers are Chanel, you know.