Thursday, December 24, 2009



Hello adoring public,

I am going on vacation, and I said this earlier. Lara Stone blah blah blah. Whatever. Everyone is fat in my eyes. Except me and Karl. We are fabulous.



Saturday, December 19, 2009


Yesterday a friend of mine called around (by this time the book crisis had been averted, and I'd sent all the editors away with cakes and bacon), and said "Karl, do you know that it's Christmas soon?"
"Oh really", I said. "Christmas has become this tradition- it's boring. The same thing every year- gifts, food, people, getting drunk, family. It has become old hat. If one is going to do the same thing every year, one might as well commit suicide immediately. It's not conducive to creativity. You see these fat mummies and daddies giving their fat children these presents, and them opening them up with vigour and excitement. And what is inside these presents? Not a painting, like the Monet I received for my 5th Christmas. These children are being given hideous multi-coloured Hannah Cyrus and Montana Jonas cds! These toys and things with bells on them! They are disgusting. I loathe them. I loathe the fact that Christmas is the same every year, for a good majority of the world. And I loathe the fact that Christmas is a holiday- holidays are for people who work 9-5 days; they are a sort of concession for selling your soul to meaningless work. Even my telephone cleaners don't work 9-5- my telephone cleaners are masters of their craft, and at night they go ballroom dancing with kings and queens- princes and paupers (chic, of course) and so on. The janitors at Chanel have masters degrees in biochemistry- their cleaning is so incredibly scientific that a couple have been nominated for Nobel prizes ("is that what you call it? A No-bell prize?"). These are not 9-5 people. They are Tom Waits people, in a Tom Ford suit.

So you see, I see Christmas as a hideous festival of decadent and depraved boredom. It makes me want to vomit- and I would, if I had eaten something in the past 47 years. Instead, I will draw you a picture of a tramp vomiting. Do you understand my point?"

Monday, December 14, 2009

Black Books

I found myself blockaded this morning- a deluge of books that I haven't had a librarian catalogue yet had fallen down, blocking both entrances to the chateau. I was "booked in", to play on the American phrase "snowed in". Thus, I couldn't actually get out of the chateau today- I've been reading through each book that blocks the main entrance and discarding it when read- "digging through" the books, so to speak.

By noon I had my first visitor- I never have visitors before noon, so I occupied the morning by reading War and Peace, A Spot Of Bother, Pale Fire and so on- just a few books, no more than 50 in total. An Artist Of The Floating World caught my attention in particular- the whole "Floating World" allusion gave me an idea: to escape from my deluge of books faster, I could build a boat.

Obviously, a boat to move through the books- by now more had gathered, from where I don't know (once one surpasses a certain amount of books, one finds that they start to appear by themselves- like a bank account with a high interest rate), would not be a normal sort of boat. (That was a long sentence! I felt like Joyce for a bit there). This boat would obviously have to be built of editors, who happen to make books cower in their covers. When an editor is near a book, the text starts running into one another- an "a" runs into a "b", "z" runs into "!", "!" runs into "?" forming a "?!", ?!" goes into a pub and the proprietor asks "What sort of beer would you like?" and "?!", quite surprised by it's newly personified state, promptly becomes an alcoholic and ends up as a prostitute before writing a bestselling autobiography. Meanwhile, the proprietor of said pub runs into an entire sentence and everything gets very messy- they realize that they're old friends who haven't seen each other for years and stay fixedly in the center of the book, whilst pandemonium takes place before them. Eventually, logic simply gives up and the book vanishes in a puff of absurdity, all thanks to the editor.

So I place an ad in the newspaper for editors. I rang up the man and said "Hello"- "Hello Karl" he said, and I said- "How do you know it is me?", to which he replied "your Franco-German-Swedish accent is rather distinct", to which I agreed. Eventually I placed an ad for editors- specifically, ones who are legally blind without wearing glasses, and ones who have several critically-regarded authors under their Prada belts. Eventually these editors knocked at my door- I could see them arrive, flying through the air and landing on my doorstep with umbrellas a la Merry Poppins. The books cowered back. I fashion a microphone out of one of my high collars, and ordered them to form a boat.

"You are going to form a boat in an orderly fashion and then you will cruise through my front door"
"What's the angle you're going for, Karl?" one said.
"Research shows that if you paint your door purple it'll be more appealing to children" said another.
"If we change the colour of your grass to a logo of some sort- how about the Chanel logo- that'll be more appealing to the crucial 18-30 year old market" said yet another one.

Eventually they did form a boat- two hours later, after I had finally convinced them that my abode is chic and perfect and all I hired them to do is form a boat. They burst through the front door, as the books rearranged themselves into orderly piles- somewhat orderly, and attempted to disguise themselves as different things in order to avoid editing. One became a lamp. It has not yet changed back from a lamp- so I think I'm stuck with it! It's a very chic lamp, anyway, so I can't complain. The only Ayn Rand book I own (I was sent it by a perverse stalker who knows how much I loath Ms. Rand) turned into a pile of rubbish, and I had an assistant sweep it out. The rubbish-man came an hour later.

There Is No Time (B is for Budgets)

This year, I have cut back from having four butlers to only two. I got rid of everything gold that I own, and replaced it with silver. I’ve only bought three hundred and sixty two suits, almost half of what I’d purchased in the same time period last year. I have been cutting back! This is what I do in a so-called recession: I budget. All this bling is vulgar- modesty is the new chic. Can you imagine what it’s like to only have two butlers? It’s simply horrible- I can’t have four separate drinks of diet Coke at the exact same time (I don’t trust assistants with my drinks of diet Coke, they’re a different breed of creature entirely.) Yet I am cutting back in order to survive in these difficult times.

An economist would tell you that a “budget” is a plan in which you lay out how you are going to spend your money. In my opinion, economists have less value when it comes to economics than a drunk in a bar. They’re paid liars. Actors are also paid liars, but with actors even the dimmest dullard from the public knows that the actor is simply acting- it appears that many people don’t know that the economist is acting. I suppose if you’re going to put your trust in these economics, one might as well put their trust into actors. Extend that to celebrities and one ends up with what half the celebrities of the world are doing: asking people to put their trust into them. This Bono and his concerts for the people in Africa, for example. And all these other charities with celebrity spokespeople. The only thing vaguely related to charity I support is road safety in France, and that’s because it’s very unattractive when someone is splashed all over the road.
Anyway, I define budget as something rather wider- I include socialising and whatnot, too. For instance I didn’t bother to go to the Met Ball this year (in New York), because I am budgeting my company- my charm- my social life. I don’t like talking to bores anyway, so it’s an excuse to get out of things one does not like:
“Hello Karl, would you like to come to our social event?”
“No. I am limiting my socialising this year because of the recession.”
“Oh! The recession, the recession…so awful…imagine how poor old Louis Vuitton feels about this recession! Can’t be good for his back pocket…”
“Louis Vuitton is a brand. The person is dead.”
“Oh. Fab!”

Friday, December 11, 2009

A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a frog:

One day, a Princess kissed the frog:
And turned the frog into a ninteen year old dropout who enrolled into the military Pea:
The readers of the frog were not very impressed!

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Karl's Little Rule Book

There's fashion journalism and then there's fashion journalism. Cathy Horyn, Robin Givhan and Suzy Menkes fall into the latter camp. Amy Odell et al fall into the former. The problem with fashion becoming a "popular mass culture" thing, with the advent of shows such as America's Top Model, Project Runway, etc, means that fashion "journalists" such as Amy Odell have a job. This isn't fashion journalism- it's writing about celebrity culture (see: The Hills) disguised as fashion journalism. What disappoints me is that she writes for New York magazine, albeit in the online arm of it- New York magazine is where Tom Wolfe started writing a lot of "New Journalism"- quality writing. And of course, Mr. Wolfe can wear a white suit and still look incredibly chic and not look like a waiter.

We've known for a long time that the New York fashion blog has been the equivalent of a half-finished meal of McDonald's given to a homeless man who Scott Schuman then photographs.
What I mean is, there's no surprise with Ms. Odell's latest travesty of an article, with comments from Eccentric and Grumpy Old Woman Ann Slowey, who is convinced that my niece Tavi has a secret team of elves writing her posts. I kid you not- Tavi, of style rookie fame, has a secret team of elves writing her posts! She's got a whole room of them- if you stand outside it you can hear the click-clack of typewriters, and Tavi yelling "GET TO WORK CATHY HORYN! GET TO WORK WOODY ALLEN! THOSE JOKES DON'T WRITE THEMSELVES! GET TO WORK NABOKOV! I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE DEAD!".
To quote Ms. Slowey, "You look at her video, and the writing doesn’t sync up with the way she talks about fashion."
Why? Because Tavi has the magical writing elves in a room, clacking out her posts! Those magical writing elves, busily writing everything out! I hope they get paid enough, hm?

That solves that question. A video, which is a few minutes long, proves that Tavi has these magical elves writing for her! Ann Slowey said so! And she's a magazine editor- she even knows what a magazine editor does: "...How does that help me distill the collections? What am I supposed to be buying? That’s what an editor’s job at a magazine is."
According to Ann Slowey, Magazine Editor, an editor- nevermind Tavi is a writer, not an editor- is supposed to "distill the collections" and tell people what they should buy. Nevermind publishing interesting photographers and fantastic writing (a la New Yorker re writing, and even Vogue had an interesting article about Comme des Garcons- in the 80s). No, the editor of a magazine has to distill collections for the idiot consumer who can't do this themselves. They're too stupid! And then the editor has to tell them what to buy. The reader, who just spent money on your magazine is too stupid to make their own choices!
And on this subject, I'll quote Roger Ebert, the great film critic: "Advise the readers well. This does not involve informing them, "You'll love this!" If I approached some guy in a restaurant and told him what he would love, I might get a breadbasket in the face. No, we must tell the readers what we ourselves love or hate. If we work for employers who think we should "like more movies like ordinary people like," we should make a donation in his name to the Anti-Cruelty Society."

Hmm. You mean that the reader of your magazine isn't stupid?! Whatever next. Maybe if you started taking this viewpoint, people would start reading writing in magazines again- especially fashion magazines, and not simply skip to pictures of the pretty models (to post them on their tumblr.)

Odell writes "It would be easy for people like us to feel a little insulted by magazines hiring 13-year-olds to do the job of a serious fashion critic, a person with years of experience who has probably toiled for newspapers to print their words or even care about what they have to say"
There's several problems here- Odell isn't a serious fashion critic, for example. Cathy Horyn, despite her love of bacon is. Odell writes a celebrity fashion blog, with emphasis of the "celebrity". Horyn writes sometimes scathing reviews, but always insightful- always placing things in context, always considering that the clothes are more than simply pretty frocks. Tavi's doing a fine job as a serious fashion critic, comparing dresses at Calvin Klein to being stained with tears. Just because she's thirteen years old- as Odell never fails to point out, doesn't invalidate what she writes.

Throughout the piece it's both said and implied that Tavi gives fashion advice. It's perhaps to grasp for some people that Tavi is in fact not doing what the fashion industry's been doing for years- telling people what to wear. This is obviously a very difficult concept for Ms. Slowley. I suspect she hasn't read Tavi's blog. Even the title implies that Tavi is giving fashion advice- "Editors Like Tavi But Don't Take Her Fashion Advice Seriously". Nevermind that Tavi doesn't give fashion advice- her blog is not kind of "ASK AUNT OHIO!" enterprise.

Yet as my niece Belle was saying to me earlier- this is typical New York Fashion Blog- the sort of publication that sees fit to devote an entire article to the relationship of my daughter (Jane) and her boyfriend (Amit). Because that's as important as Lacroix going bankrupt, of course.

This post isn't simply about the post about Tavi, or even about "The Cut". It's about the decline of fashion journalism. Long actual fashion critics such as Tavi and Horyn. Long live bacon muffins. But nevermind the "bollocks" (as the kids say)- the faux fashion journalists who attempt to pass themselves off as something more. They're demode.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

A History Lesson

The "house of concrete money", Margiela, will not have a creative director/designer replacing Mr. Margiela after his departure several months ago. Writes the wonderful Suzy Menkes in the IHT: "Ever since Karl Lagerfeld was tapped by Chanel in 1983, followed by John Galliano at Christian Dior in 1997, other storied houses have tried to fill the shoes of a deceased or departed creator. But as the design appointments become a revolving door at houses like Nina Ricci or Emanuel Ungaro, the replacement mechanism seems to have broken down."

This would be all very well and good if Margiela was producing collections worth looking at since Mr. Margiela's departure. Instead, the collections produced have been haphazard, amateurish, and resemble a 5 year old's science project. The "replacement mechanism" has worked many times, hm? Lanvin, Dior (I suppose), Dior homme, Jil Sander, Issey Miyake, Burberry, and so on. This replacement mechanism Mrs. Menkes speaks of is only broken because sub-par "designers" (a certain Ms. Lohan) and designers ill-suited for the house in question have been hired. This is a fault on the part of management.

I urge you, readers, to think back to a time before I was at Chanel. Yes, dear reader, there was a time! I was once only designing 275 collections a year, as opposed to the 300 when I started with Chanel. Anyway- Chanel was a snoring troll. It wasn't even a sleeping beauty- it was incredibly ugly. It had warts and it hadn't had a haircut in a decade and the dress it wore wasn't even couture. People has dismissed Chanel as something "of the past"- I kid you not! And how did this happen? Why, because Chanel was designed by a team. A committee.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, committees are for communists and democracies. Not for a dictatorship! Not for an auteur, such as myself, or such as Mr. Hitchcock.
I agree- collaboration is important, and I wouldn't be anywhere without my little old French seamstresses. But even they (of course they) would balk at the idea of this...democracy idea, or worse, this communism idea. It simply doesn't work. There's too many forms to fill, to many people to agree with. Do you know what's more effective than democracy? A guillotine. I have one sitting in my office, actually. It's very good for making deals. The French kings had the right idea, no?

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Letters to the Editor

Well, well, well. I've had rather a lot of comments on this blog as of late- it seems my post about dear Mr. Kane provoked some readers! I'm totally bemused as to why, especially given the nature of some of the comments.

"David" writes: "Somebody please tell him to check every once in a while.", before adding in his "tumblr" address at the end, because everybone wants to "check out" his "tumblr", I'm sure- this is nothing against you, David, I just think this "tumblr" is incredibly disgusting and filthy. People should read a book instead- I just finished Never Let Me Go, recomended to me by the most wonderful person in the world apart from myself. It's fantastic.
Anyway- why should Mr. Kane "check" Is this bizzare, twisted form of punishment you have devised for him, David? Mr. Kane may be a mediocre designer and say stupid things, but even I don't think he deserves to be subjected to lookbook of all places.

"Tenisha" actually goes on to create a conspaircy theory, one which can stand side-by-side the email I recieved the other day claiming an Arab lady designed all my designs which I stole, in 2005 (more on that later).
"I wrote about these comments on blog and actually found his comments hilarious, especially about not caring what a 14 year old thinks. Maybe Chris said these comments to get people talking. Why else would he go after or care what a 14 year old thinks? I mean his not stupid. He knows talking ill about the blogosphere, especially in fashion, would get the bloggers commenting, whether good or bad...we are talking about him. Mission Accomplished."
I like how you're familiar enough with Mr. Kane to call him Chris. But that's beside the point- I genuinely believe, in my frozen heart of frozen hearts, that Mr. Kane is out of touch. If he wants to get people talking, he should design a good collection, hm? There's no value in getting "the bloggers" (whoever they are) talking negatively about Mr. Kane- there's no perverse millionaire going around the blogs thinking "I'M GOING TO BUY THIS BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE HATES IT". Or maybe there is! But I have not spotted this perverse millionaire yet.

Finally, I shall leave you with a letter that arrived in my inbox the other day. My favourite sentence of this letter composed of lies and electronic ink is "and how Karl Lagerfeld at age

of 70 suddenly since 2005 became genius and legendary?!" My dear, I have always been a genius. (I've left the letter in the exact same way it came to me, the "poetic" formatting and so on.)


My name is Kolsoum Amirbandeh, I want people to know my story,

The world top fashion houses are against me, it is a complicated issue.

All started since May 2005, when I applied for job at CHANEL co. as a fashion designer; they

asked me to send them my CV & some of my designs by ordinary post, And so I did.

Unfortunately they used my designs (Haute Couture Fall-winter 2005- 2006). All expert Medias became impressed by the Chanel’s new collection and new style. Then I decided to plead for justice to court, but I thought they are powerful and probably it won’t be useful; so I decided to move on and do my own business, but soon I realized that it’s not over and they are spying on me all the time to get my new designs. I see all my designs every season not just on Chanel’s fashion show, even at the other top brands (Dior, Armani,…,Versace, Dolce&Gabbana, Gucci,…).

The worst thing is that these companies use their power to avoid the investors after they had

agreed to invest, and unusually change their mind.

Even I can’t find a job despite I’m a professional designer. In other word, they have boycotted me. It seems weird but it’s totally truth. I have proofs.

I'm 24, grew up in an Arab country but latter I returned with my family to Iran, unfortunately in this country there is no place for fashion design, and may be because I’m in Iran , it is quite harder to reach out for help, but I won’t give up.

I’m wondering why with my level of design I can’t even find a job, and how Karl Lagerfeld at age of 70 suddenly since 2005 became genius and legendary?!

If you look at Karl Lagerfeld’s sketches from technical side, you realize, the shown collections

don’t fit the way he sketches; the style is different, the concept is different even the mood is

different. and every fashion expert knows that since 2005 the style of Chanel collections is

completely changed. I can easily challenge him.

Noting is worst than someone steals your work, your talent. I feel myself in exile; I definitely

need your help to publish my story.

I will appreciate if you can send me your answer.

Thank you

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Christopher Kane Weighs In On Bloggers

Christopher Kane is remarkable in that he has graduated from Central St. Martins and managed to produce a semi-decent collection, once or twice. Of course- this is in between creating lazy collections where he places photos of mushroom clouds onto simple dresses and calls it "design". Bravo, Mr. Kane- this is why you're not in couture. He's not McQueen, nor even a Pugh.

Anyway, our esteemed Mr. Kane says this about bloggers: “It’s a bit mad, isn’t it? It feels like it’s happened all of a sudden and at some shows this season the front row was just all bloggers. I think it will die down though, and people know what they are doing. No one who wants to read a serious review of a show is going to look at what a 14-year-old thinks. But it has become more critical; people can say what they want about anyone on a blog without consequences and that’s quite scary. There are real repercussions for a designer if a photo of something is leaked by a blog; it can be copied in a fortnight and that can really harm a business."

Let us disceet his expert opinion: "It feels like it's happened all of a sudden"- nevermind critics like Cathy "Ohio" Horyn and Robin Givhan have been blogging for years. "I think it will die down though"- like ready-to-wear would die down in the 60s, yes? And of course, he talks about "serious" reviews of shows- it's a pity most "serious" reviews of shows are sycophantic rubbish bent toward pleasing the designers as a French whore is bent toward pleasing her customer.
Nevermind a 14 year old might actually be more honest and have more insight, than say, a review appearing on style dot com (with the exception of Ms. Mower). Of course, what Mr. Kane is really afraid of is actual critical reviews- "people can say what they want.." Meaning, Mr. Kane's lazy resort collection might be called out for what it is- horror of horrors! It might be revealed that Mr. Kane is a mediocre designer capable of creating a few "hit" pieces to satisfy the masses.

Mr. Kane is right to be afraid, and to dismiss bloggers as a flash-in-the-pan. Honest, critical opinions not coming from Menkes, Givhan, Mower or Horyn are a threat to his credibility as a designer- and so they should be. Nevermind whether they come from a 14 year old or a 140 year old (such as I). Perhaps he'll start designing clothes rather than gimmicks, hm?

Sunday, November 29, 2009

B is sometimes for Bargains


In these modern times, people tend to associate Bargains with that dreadful Walmart place. I think of bargains as things to be haggled over at distant European markets. When I was a child (or as close to a child as I can get), I haggled over and purchased several fine dresses in the markets of Berlin, until I realised I looked like my mother in them. I sold those dresses and thereafter only wore suits, even in bed.

The fatties who go to Walmart have cheapened the whole word- “Bargain”. I’ve observed that there’s actually a sub-culture of the fattie in America. They probably have meetings in underground basements, stocked with fries on tap (Americans say fries, and everybody in France is offended that some call them “french fries”. We do not eat fries in France. We don’t even let fries come into France- they’re more banned than one of those terrorists that you Americans talk of.)

So the fatties are having their meetings in their sweaty, mouldy little basements; planning the next Walmart-Hijacking.
“Toilet paper will be only one dollar tomorrow!” Chomps fattie number one.
“BARGAIN!” Chews fattie number two.
The other fatties, I imagine, gather around in a sort of penguin-like huddle, discussing specifics of their plan to go to Walmart tomorrow. They squawk “Bargain! Bargain!” to one another, a sort of fattie-version of the air-kiss. Their fat little hands shake up and down with anticipation. They rub their stomachs, as if they are going to actually consume the toilet paper.
“This will annoy Karl!” says fattie one, obviously their leader.
“Oh yes, this will degrade the word “bargain”!” munches fattie three.

I am convinced this is what happens. These fatties are always busy scheming on how to make the world more ugly, how to even make words ugly. They may pretend not to know who I am, yet they are totally aware of Karl Otto Lagerfeld. They’re probably totally aware of all things beautiful- what’s the saying? “Know your enemy”

Toilet paper on sale is not a bargain, hm? This toilet paper is probably low quality! It probably has so much acid and bleach in it that one could find the entire drug supply of Cuba within a single roll. And what sort of fattie wants drugs in their body- as far as they’re concerned, drugs make you thin.
Non, a bargain is something that lasts for a very long time. For instance, I am a bargain to my mother! I’ve lasted for a rather long time- rather longer than many of my “peers.” My suits are a bargain- although I wear each one only once, the homeless I give them to are still wearing them. I just looked out my back window, and I saw the chicest homeless man ever walk past- he had on an old suit jacket of mine, and an old pair of skinny jeans. This is my sort of charity.

Thursday, November 26, 2009


In Amerika*, the peasants- (assistant: everyone does thanksgiving, not just the peasants. Karl: Oh, really? Interesting. I don't do holidays) have a holiday called "thanksgiving", where they thank people for something- I don't really know what. But there's turkeys involved in it somewhere. Do they thank the turkeys, then eat them? Do they worship turkeys in Amerika? I thought they worshiped money over there, but I could be wrong. Anyway, the illustrator Danny painted a picture of me, surrounded by some models. I think this is a terribly divine gesture of Danny, and I thank him for it- notice neither I or the models are eating food, hm? And you know, food on a painting is calorie free- that's why Van Gogh ate paint!

Anyway, above is the portrait Danny painted of I and my disciples (there's also a colour version if you click Danny's name, but I posted the black and white version since I live in a black and white world). I wonder who's Judas! I wonder who's Paul! And I can turn that wine into water.

*Kafka is watching you, children.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Age is another A


Lamb dressed as mutton. Mutton dressed as lamb. In the end, the mutton ends up in pies and the lamb ends up on the white china plates of some London restaurant! Mutton is terrible and chewy anyway, and lambs are best used for making a delicious jacket or boots or something. Besides, both contain calories- a no-no when it comes to eating. So I will not talk about the mutton dressed as lamb thing, because I assume you people are not sheep. I hope you are not. There are some people that do tend to look like sheep, I admit. I had the displeasure of being on the street last year, where an overweight lady in a floral dress came barging through the usual barrage of photographers, trying to talk to me. She had facial hair. The hair on the top of her head resembled a cross between a toilet brush and sheep’s wool. She had jowls. Perhaps we could call her a sheep. But non non non, I hope you are not that lady. If you are, there is no hope for you.

I am not going to talk about sheep, or animals or any sort. I am simply going to tell you a terrifying story:

There was once a lady who was forty years old, or about that. She harboured delusions that she was twenty- possibly younger, maybe seventeen. Every morning, she would get up and put on the shiny black leggings which the young people wore two years ago (I still see the young people wear these leggings today, but they are not the chic youth with whom I associate.) Her fat dumpling legs looked like sausages wrapped in black foil- not that she noticed, our blind and demode woman. She would see a beautiful young twenty year old woman in the mirror instead. The woman would then put on a checked shirt, not noticing her arms jiggling because the sleeves were unflattering. She would straighten her hair to give he impression of some dead skunk, and place wayfarer sunglasses over her eyes; as if to declare her blindness to the world. She would waddle out into the street, where she would glance in admiration in the shop windows, at her imaginary-chic-figure. The shopkeepers, all stylish to the nines- in fact, stylish to the nineties, would stare at this bizarre figure of a woman who had wrinkles all over her blotched skin, wobbling arms and legs trapped in some sort of sausage roll. Ah, the delusion of being young, hmm? We are only young for so long, and there is nothing wrong with ageing. But one must dress appropriately. I hope that story terrified you enough.

On the other hand, a young person dressing as somebody more…mature, can be rather terrible as well. For instance, I see five-year-olds walk around Paris in fur coats carrying cigarette holders. I asked one of these 5-year-olds: “is there a surplus of fur coats and cigarette holders in Paris at the moment?”
The five-year-old blew just cigarette smoke at my pants (5-year-old aren’t very tall these days), and looked at me through his monocle slightly contemptuously. His date, a 5-and-a-half-year-old in her red Yves Saint Laurent dress and 7-inch heels pouted at me. I stared them down. It’s simply too young an age to be wearing fur coats- one should wait till at least 8. I told he 5 year old this, and he tried to rationalise it:
“You see, monsieur Lagerfeld, fur coats for children such as us use less material than an adult’s fur coat. It is cheaper.”
“But we’re all children, are we not?”
“Some of us are bigger children than others” he retorted.
“Ah, but since we are both agreed to be children, a fur coat should be cheap for me too.”
“But big children like to spend lots of money on things,” the 5 year old said.
“I like very cheap things and very expensive things. Fur is from dead animals, no? The value of the animal is already gone- it is dead- so that is why it is so cheap.”
“True, true, Monsieur Lagerfeld.”

Later on I was walking to the Chanel atelier where I came across a rather plumb 6 year old with a cigar and a top hat standing outside the atelier. I took the cigar out of his mouth, and stamped on it with vigour. I told him to buy gloves. So you see, it is very dangerous to dress in a mature fashion if you are young.

The final thing to say here, is that many of the people these days are getting plastic injected into their bodies. We are made mostly of water- not plastic- this is why we are not Barbie dolls and Ken dolls and Batman figurines. Some people feel that plastic surgery makes them look younger. It is a way to cheat age, they say. All they are doing is cheating themselves- we call all see if someone has plastic covering their body, just as a child can see that Batman is wearing a suit, or one of those terrible comic book villains has a metal arm and such. It is just as obvious to have a metal arm with a laser attached, as it is to have plastic attached to one’s self. Why, these plastic-people might as well attach plastic bags to their breasts and margarine containers attached to their face!

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Oh, Marc.

This is quite true, you know.

Jeremy Scott and Richie goddamn Rich would take the whole damn thing over, cover it in macrame stars and rainbow mylar and rename it 'FAUXHAWK FANTASIA.'

You'd be asked to bring your own libation, step over the go-go boys and drunk drag queens on the way in and stagger to your rented folding chair to watch Jason Preston take his shirt off and explain the moral and cultural significance of his 'MARIAH' tattoo.

So, Marc, be glad I make you go. I do these things for your own good.



Friday, November 20, 2009


I'll keep this short, since I'm not prone to sentimentality. Rest in Peace, Daul Kim. You were a true muse.

Yves wants a shot at doing "A"

Editor's note: Hello. This is Karl here. Yves' lawyers have threatened to reveal decade-old secrets if I don't post his attempt at doing "A" in the little glossary we're compliling at my glorious "blog". So here it is (if you want my opinion, I think Yves does a little too mush hasheesh, no?)

Oh, hello! So nice to see you! Come in and sit by the fire!

A is for authentic style, born of adventure in your life, not Aspiring to be some one else. Aspirational is the worst, but adventure, that is chic, so very chic.

We had an intern, Tom Ford, who aspired to be young again. Plastic surgery doesn’t stop aging, he would have been better off with and acupuncture facial, it moves energy. Too much plastic surgery and soon you look like a muppet, or like you have panty hose over your face. The technical term for Tom is colonista.

OOOh, but I have an adventure to tell you about, are you comfortable? Here, grab the ottoman that goes with that chair, yes that blanket does melt over you like butter.

Soooo,I am exhausted, but in an exhilarating way!

OOOh, Pierre and I went horseback riding. I could have dressed el gaucho, but I went instead for a more Western look-plaid, denim, and a hat that I admired on some folk singer in the 70s.

And Wrangler jeans, what real cowboys wear, as the inseams are kinder. (Karl, I said kinder, as in easier when riding, not kinder, like that garcon Baptiste.)

Denim, and where does that word come from? de Nimes!

Anyway I was inspired to go riding by several things. First, I have been reading Winston Churchill’s My Early Years, This man won a Nobel Prize for literature when Nobel Prizes still meant something. In it he has the most beautiful descriptions of whirling dervishes and berbers attacking the British, on their horses, in hooded cloaks, charging across the spare rosy desert at dawn. And I learned the origin of the phrase “Hold your horses.” Apparently, when shooting at the enemy from horseback, you have an underling hold your horse’s bridle so it doesn’t startle. Oh, how I long for life before tweeker or whatever.

We rode far as the American West. We stopped in the middle of the shimmering gold and sage desert, and saw two men, in a field that went on for miles, on horses circling with ropes. They were calf roping on horseback, so beautiful in silhouette it looked like a ballet. A rugged ballet.

Of course, horses are a wonderful chance to be elegant, with colorful woolen blankets, and graceful deportment. Who compared horses to shopping? They were wrong. Shopkeepers, non. “Ooh, would you like a nice spaghetti sandwich to go with those shoes you will regret before the light bill is due?”

Save your shop money and send the maid out to look for acreage with a barn.

Of course, Karl wears his denim jeans too tight to mount a thing.

Afternoon tea around a real campfire is nice, crackling noises, and the scent of pine in the breeze, and a ninety mile view of the Cascades and Canadian Rockies.

Oooh, so is being home, surrounded by my books, carpets, furniture, zinnias, chrysanthemums, and watching the cat’s tail waiver past the window as she chases a moth out in the garden. .

Oh, lets ring for smoked salmon, and tawny port over ice! Beach! And some sweet banana nut bread with the apricot pineapple jam we made that lovely afternoon in August! The scent of it makes summer return, fleetingly!

Oh, I am so glad you came! I do look forward to our visits, ma puce!

Sunday, November 15, 2009

A- for Anna, but also for Appropriateness


I often visit libraries. It’s mainly because I enjoy observing people, stalking them through my dark sunglasses. I walk down the aisles of bookshelves, my pony-tailed-super-slim silhouette cutting a vaguely scholarly figure- I like to think to myself that people imagine if I’m real or not. On the odd occasion I’m walking down yet another aisle where I spy a children’s group reading novels- Nabokov, Pynchon, and so on. This is all fine, I think children should start reading novels as soon as they can- none of this sycophantic rubbish they teach in schools these days. The first book I ever read was War and Peace! Now it’s all “Generic character’s first day of school.” Who really cares about generic character’s first day of school, hmm? I would find this very boring, even as a child. I do not want to know about some mediocre child and their mediocre school and their mediocre lives. It is a bore, no?
Anyway, I saw these children wearing ball gowns whilst reading these authors. Shamefully, the mothers were in sweat suits. This is not my point though (the mothers are beyond help)- my point is ball gowns. It is inappropriate to wear these things in a library, reading. Does an archaeologist wear a ball gown when they are on a dig, hm? Books are very much like a dig- and one should dress appropriately. I hope you’re dressed for this book, dear reader. I hope you’re dressed for I, Karl, dear reader.

On the other side of all this, we have those poor souls (if they haven’t sold them yet) who dress like they are gardening when they are at the opera. I don’t go to the opera too much- I normally go to smirk at the nouveau riche, with their over-applied makeup and handbag-husbands. Over-applied makeup is as much of a sin as dressing badly for the opera, by the way. Anyway, when I do go to the opera there’s almost always a couple who dress like they have been struck by the flu just after they’ve been gardening. It is horrid. Worst of all, it is an insult to the performers of the opera- they take hours to get ready (days, if they are a prima donna), and these people dress as if they were just out feeding the chocks? We are not in provincial France anymore- there is no river cottage for you here. To be chic is to be appropriate (among other things), and one can never be appropriate as a farmer at the opera- even if it is one of these Philip Glass operas that go on for years. If it is a Philip Glass opera, one should dress in black and white.

Thursday, November 12, 2009



Did you turn on the recorder already, you idiotic little girl?

Well, this is what I want it to say...

The title should be something like "Anna is Ageless Always," or "Anna is Absolutely Beautiful Always" - see how we tied in the 'B' there? As in the letter that comes after 'A?' This is what being an editor is all about - it's thinking on your feet, being creative. Something you are quite incapable of achieving.

Anyway, tell Karl to halt his little ABC experiment so we can talk about my birthday. We should issue some sort of statement to the effect of:

"Hello darling admirers,

I would like to remind you that I am beautiful, radiant, and I -"


"- and that little birthday thing I apparently had last week? Pure tabloid fabrication. You see, adoring public, I am Anna. Thus I am ageless. I wasn't born, really - it was more of a creation. I am just like those Chanel frocks, you see. A beautiful, stunning apparition. Although I must be quite clear; I didn't spring forth from Karl's head. Can you imagine the contents of his brain? I would have been crushed by visions of his mother, large format black-and-white prints or any of the 139,300 Adonis-like male models currently just "hanging out" in there. Seriously, it's like a German carnival mated with Pride and all French film from the 50s in a sick menage-a-trois. I mean, I'm sure it's beautiful. But it's also insane.

So there you have it, darlings. I have no age, no wrinkles or date-of-birth. I am simply Anna."

That's all it should say. Did it work?

I said, did it work? Did it record? Good. Now go use your stubby little fingers to post it to the blog - Karl thinks I disappeared. Also, call the Khashoggis and tell them I left the yacht in the normal slip in Monte Carlo, and thank them for letting me use it for the party. If there are any underwear models left hanging around, tell Octavia and Petrina that they can keep them.

Did that Veuve get here yet?


Tuesday, November 10, 2009

A is also for Adaptability


I am now at least 70, depending on what reports you have read. Some reports place me around the region of 250! The truth is somewhere in between. In any case, I have seen a great many young up-and-comers become old-maid-one-hit-wonders. One day they are young and beautiful; the next they are alcoholics doing guest appearances in small towns at women’s conventions for a cheap make-up supplement manufactured in Peru. An old foe of my, Yves Saint Laurent, is in this situation. He is dead. I imagine you understand the problems associated with being dead- it’s a rather hard situation to adapt to. Yves could never adapt anyway, so I wonder how he’s going to get out of this one. Of course, one only becomes dead when one fails to adapt. Yves stopped adapting in the 70’s. I think he died last year, but it may’ve been 20 years ago- one can never tell.

I knew Truman Capote for a while, actually. We met maybe four years before he died- you know, nobody was paying attention to him at this time. He was just a sort of imploding star, stuck in the jet set. The sort of people who are wealthy, inbreed but are not aristocracy- rather an executive of some sort, a chairman. He was obsessed with the jet set- writing a book about them. There was no jet set by then, and there is certainly no jet set now! Times have changed! When times change, one must change too or one will became another fatality, hm? But I met Truman, and he was such a sad state- stuck in a time that didn’t exist anymore.
“You won’t believe what dish I’ve found out on executive so-and-so,” I remember him saying to me.
It took me five seconds to think of a reply- a long, drawn out five seconds where I umm-ed and ahh-ed (mentally, of course. Never show a sign of indecision) between saying “nobody cares Truman”, or “how interesting.” I just ended up with an “Mm.” He continued babbling on, whilst I blocked out his words by having a conversation with myself in my head.

Adaptability is paramount. I am like some vampire-esque chameleon, always absorbing the zeitgeist like fatties absorb grease. Where those plump creatures which weigh down the earth with their dinosaur-like stomping eat those pizzas and such, devouring them as if to create a world pizza-short; I eat the zeitgeist- designing it and throwing it away when I am done. I am not immortal for the fun of it; I am immortal because I am always up-to-date! The zeitgeist is my lover.

Friday, November 6, 2009

A is for Accessories


Coco Chanel said that one should start with too many accessories and take one or more of them off. This is because Coco could not accessorise very well herself. When one puts on too many accessories in the first place, one risks somebody stylish walking in on them, and catching them with too many accessories on. Mon Chanel! How embarrassing! Imagine the look of this stylish person walking in on you and your overly-accessorised self, the shock in his or her face, the loss of whatever respect this person has for you. I myself sometimes do this at wherever I happen to be staying- I open every door of the hotel or castle or somesuch, trying to catch an over-accessoriser in the act. It is great fun for the catcher, but you don’t want to be the one caught!
More importantly- imagine your demode self, with one thousand and one accessories on. Imagine how trite and cheap you must look! Imagine how you might look like a goldmine to the men who may see you- not a goldmine they’re sexually attracted to; more like a goldmine where they’re going to approach the owner of wherever you’re staying at for the cost of the land rights to “that large heap of gold and silver that was laying in room one-oh-eight”. That large heap is you, over accessoriser. Non non non, that look is demode.

How is one meant to accessorise, in this case? What is this correct amount of accessories, hm?
I am not a mathematician- I’m not going to give you a formula. It is up to one’s own eye. What I do is I look at the person in question- in most cases it’s myself, occasionally a model. I observe their weight, their height, their hair colour, their favourite music and so on. Really eye this person up- is their neck particularly attractive- will a necklace enhance it? Is this person a fattie? Does this person have unattractive fingers? For instance, my own fingers are terrible- my mother used to tell me: “Don’t smoke Karl, because your hands are much too ugly for it and a cigarette will draw attention to it.” So I wear fingerless gloves and put many, many rings on my fingers. Yet if I had painterly fingers, it would not be acceptable to wear a million rings.

I choose to accessorise with high collars, sunglasses, fingerless gloves and rings- but I’m not going to tell you to wear this (I do hope you didn’t buy this book in order to justify your high collar habit- that’s your own problem.) However, I think everybody should wear sunglasses at least some of the time. Unless you are very stupid, or have very beautiful eyes, sunglasses act as a sort of disguise- a sort of eye shadow. Stupid people do not need a disguise because they’re too stupid to register anything anyway, hm? If one of the accessories you are wearing is sunglasses when your chic friend walks in on your overly-accessorising self, at least you can conceal an iota of your embarrassment.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Foreword to a book that might be posted whenever I feel like it

By Karl Lagerfeld.

One day, as I was taking off my quilted sleeping mask and ringing the bell beside my bed for my morning-butler, I felt an odd benevolent feeling surge within me. Non, it was not a surge- it was just a tickle. Now normally I equate “benevolence” with charitable old men, who are balding and senile. These old men probably are chairmen of a bank someplace, and they most likely have grandchildren whom they dote like a fashion designer dotes upon his mother. I do not have any grandchildren; banks bore me and I am most certainly not senile. Yet I felt slightly benevolent as I thought to myself: “I should write a book about how to live in a proper fashion.” Of course, this would mean helping people, as hardly anybody knows how to live these days. This itself led to a moral dilemma: do I really want to help people? Do they deserve my help, hmm? I debated this with myself for all of an hour, as I sketched out the latest Chanel collection. Yet this niggling charitable feeling simply would not go away, even as I practised my passive-aggressive face in the mirror. I pursed my lips, and eventually decided on a course of action. I would write this book, but only for the sake of posterity (like one might produce a great artwork, a great symphony or somesuch- I am writing this guide to living simply because it would be a crime not to.)

It is safe to assume that since you are reading this book you know who I am. On the chance that you’re some philistine who does not know who I am, some jam-brained sweat suit wearing fattie- well, just stop reading now. However, I’m going to introduce myself anyway. I did consider making one of my cohorts write an introduction- “Karl Lagerfeld is perhaps the most important fashion designer of the 20th and 21st centuries. Here is a man who is always relevant, who has produced more variations on the little black dress than Bach produced variations of the well tempered clavier…”- that sort of thing. I’d get someone people think of highly to write the introduction, whilst looking over their shoulder with a silver cane. Maybe Alber Elbaz, Anna Wintour- someone like that. In the end I couldn’t let somebody else write my introduction, I’m too selfish.

My name is Karl Lagerfeld (but you knew that, assuming you can read the front cover). I am the greatest fashion designer to ever walk this little planet- Chanel became a legend because of my designs, my genius. Before I came to Chanel, it was a near-comatose ugly stepsister, remembered by nobody. Coco Chanel was remembered primarily as the private call-girl to a Nazi and a decent businesswoman (I am not making this up, no joking here. You can look it all up if you don’t believe me). I revived Chanel solely through my own design genius. I also have designed almost every other collection worth noting, whether it is Comme des Garcons or Dior; every decent collection has been designed by me. Other designers put their names to these collections, yet I see the other “designers” scavenging around the bins outside my Parisian abode. They’re looking for the collections I’ve designed which are not good enough for me. Generally, they find them and take the sketches back to their teams who plagiarise my aborted collections. It’s rather similar to stealing a Picasso piece which Picasso himself does not like, or settling for a second-rate lover. All my collections are fantastic lovers, of course, yet I prefer to be incredibly fastidious with the collections I release. Some lovers are more Karl than others, hmm? And the Karl-lover is always better. Besides- if I released too many lover-collections upon the world, they would simply die of sexual ecstasy. Dead customers are deadbeats when it comes to paying their bills.

As you can see from the above paragraph, I’m rather brilliant. You’re probably awed, and your jaw has dropped so low that I must ask you to close it- drool is never chic. Imagine what you’re doing to my pages! It is a privilege to be reading this book, and you should thank your trust fund or whoever gives you money that has allowed you to afford this opportunity. You may never get to speak to me, but at least you can read my words.

This book- a guide to living, if you will- will be organised alphabetically. A, B, C, and so on, until we reach Z and as the children’s song goes, you may start all over again! Everything in here is my strict advice- it is no joke. If you follow these commandments, you will be living a far more chic life! You’ll never equate with I, of course, yet at least you will rise above those plebes not reading this book. Let us begin.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Yves says he's elegant, even when he's dead.

Oh, hello! I am so glad you came by. Cocoa is really nice in the afternoon, no?

You know why I like our little visits? They are elegant. Look, here is that darling Portuguese bringing the tray. Her name? Beach, I am sure of it.

Oh, and she sets up the tea table and goodies, Merriwether is following with the service de the and chocolatiere. Oh, and muffins. Can I interest you in an orange nut muffin?

Restaurants are not really chic. They are so awkward. And some unemployed interior designer barking “excellent choice” at each request. How people enjoy their meal in this environment? Chefs choice? Non, its my choice.

That’s why this economy, oh I keep saying this economy, don’t I? Anyway, this is an opportunity to create a beautiful dining room, enjoy your grandmere’s plates and to be really exclusive. Learn about food, experience it, rather than have some worker bee explain it to you. Do you have a lovely decanter, rimmed in silver with lovely little glasses?

Use the good china. Today is soo special. In my Algerian village, there is a girl who is Eucharistic minister, the one who helps at communion, who sneers when people she doesn’t like approach during mass. Do not invite her with great flourish. Invite instead, her sister who works at a coffee shop, so her children have insurance and a Tennis Club membership.

That wonderful Horyn woman is right. Let the celebrities have their own fashion weeks. We will entertain each other in private. Dinners, fashion, bookclubs.
Ahhhh, use this economy to refine your life. All those divorcees selling their Gucci bags and Rolexes. No, mon amie, you look sooo chic in your leggings and your fathers sweater, the plaid sneakers are charmant. Chic cannot be purchased. Let us sit back, and think of all the people we don’t have to invite, and then blame it on the economy! Vreeland was right when she said refusal is elegance!

Ooh! Ooh! Look! A pretty green hummingbird has joined us! She is over there, in the fuchsia baskets! A lovely guest!

Coco or cocoa?

Could you please pass the apricot cream bread, I think its still warm! Oh lovely!

Oh yes, we were going to speak of the 1970s, of beatniks, and plaids.

We’ll get to that. Those old folkies, they are like granite, we will always have them.

I am so glad you came by today!

Mail from (you can contact them yourself at


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The Team


Dear Morally Bankrupt Fatties,

You are terrible people and you should all be ashamed of yourselves. How on Earth do you sleep at night, you two-bit hacks? Do you have families to feed, hmm? How do your children feel, knowing that what you do is email glorious people such as myself with your worthless fodder? How do you live? Don't you feel soul-crushingly depressed when click the "send" button on your pre-written email? Don't you just want to jump out the window like your former and late colleagues have done? You are horrible, dreadful, unsavoury people. Unsavoury! Please, quit your job and become a taxi driver or accountant or stylist while you still can. I implore you! The life you're living is useless!

Good day to you, sirs,
Karl Otto Lagerfeld

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

K and J

K: Do you know what?
J: What?
K: All these models look like trees.
J: That's because they've turned into trees.
K: Very well. Do they still wear the clothes?
J: Indeed they do.
K: In that case I have no problem with models-turning-into-trees, hm?
X: You've already done the old models-turning-into-trees thing before, Karl!
K: Oh, so you think that models turning into trees is a joke, hm?
X: No, but if you go back into one of your previous posts..
J: This is a serious issue, X.
X: X isn't even my real name!
J: Then how come it's on the screen?
X: Because it's a totally arbitrary letter which could stand for anything!
K: It says your name is "X". I just read so, above. Where you come in with the line "X: You've already done the old models-turning-into-trees thing before, Karl!"
X: does too.
K: And now you're going to vanish into a pair of rapidly aging- both fashion-wise and quality-wise, Balmain t-shirt.
X: No I'm not!
[X vanishes into Balmain t-shirt]
J: So you mean, by looking at the script we can see what we say next?
K: But of course.
J: But here it says "X reappears in a confusion of logic.."
[X reappears in a confusion of logic..]
X: This is really rather meta.
K: I can do whatever the hell I want. I'm Karl Lagerfeld, and you're just an arbitrary character.
K: Quite right.
K: I agree, Karl.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

This Plus-Sized Business

Goodness me, I woke up this morning to a deluge of mail regarding comments of mine that were published all over the world, even in Cat Lovers Daily, Cat Lovers Weekly, Cat Lovers Digest, Feline Fanciers Fortnightly and so on. I was talking about overweight women, not normal women. In other words, I was talking about the fatties. We know about those types, hm? And I was talking about the fatties in context of the runway, and you know, one time we had a "dry run" of a Chanel show with fatties and the runway collapsed! It's a health and safety risk, frankly.
Of course, you gannets- meaning the press- take my words out of context and think I'm talking about everybody! I am talking about models. I am not saying the fat mummy from Ohio who eats potato chips all night and watches "Project Runway", saying to her husband "These girls are just too damn skinny" (of course, Project Runway girls aren't proper models anyway.)

That's all. You may all proceed to continue eating your potato chips in front of your television-computer screen, or feeling superior to the rest of the readers of this blog because you aren't eating potato chips.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

tavi wears my clothes and helps me feed stray cats in the graveyard



Recently around the atelier I've noticed a sort of "trend" popping up. Or rather, I thought it was a "trend" at first. It appears that it is more insidious. Let me explain, hm?

1) I noticed about a month ago that my seamstresses were placing bags of brown-black coloured material into hot water, and then drinking it. My seamstresses would gather around in a circle and exchange gossip as they drank this brown liquid. I thought this most curious.

2) After a while, I noticed other people were doing it as well. My assistant, Veronique started drinking the brown liquid. Even the models, who exist on a substance called "Evian" were drinking it. Multiple circles of people drinking the liquid started to form. I noted this phenomena in my handy-dandy notebook as "crop circles."

3) During Paris fashion week, I noticed whole rows of security men and runway-cleaners (a job similar to street cleaner) were dipping the bags of brown-black into hot water. I wondered where on Earth these people got the idea to drink this brown concoction.

4) I asked Yves, who was yawning because he's been dead for a long time now, what this thing-- this brown water thing is. He said it is called "tea". I noted it in my notebook.

4) Yesterday I shouted, in my most thick and treacle-like accent: "WHAT IS THIS TEA?"
Veronique said "Oh Karl, it is something you drink."
"Like diet Coke?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Well, you know how diet Coke comes ready-made.."
"Yes. It is pret-a-porter drink. I am, after all, a commoner, hm?"
"Well tea is something you make on the spot"
"Like couture!"
"Yes, like couture."
"Why is everyone drinking couture?"
She shrugged. "Because they like the taste?"

I thought this was also curious. Couture drink. Whatever next? Well. I was about to find out something far more sinister..

6) I went into the seamstresses break room, where they don't sew but "break", as the name suggests. I saw them in a circle, chanting away- here is the chant:

"No really!"
"Yes really!"
"He didn't?!"
"He did!"
"No really!"
"You'll never believe but.."
"Mon dieu!"
"I know!"

And they kept repeating this chant on and on, and it was at this moment that I realized I was in the middle of a cult.

"No really!"
"Yes really!'
"You'll never believe but.."

These people worship gods such as: Bell, Dilmah, "Earl Grey", "Lady Grey", "Twinings". I suppose this is the changing world, hm? Couture drinks. Goodness me. I will keep you updated. Maybe you, dear reader, are a part of this cult too.

Plaid (Yves Wouldn't Stop Talking About It)

Plaid Plaid Plaid. Love plaid!

Ahhhhh, the maid brought me a lovely blanket to keep the chill off. A lovely plaid blanket, with fringe. It belonged to my dear mother.

Man learned 12,000 years ago that sheep were worth more alive than dead, when he began to fashion garments to protect his body from hot or freezing temperatures. A deal was struck, man protected the sheep from predators, sheep provided man with food and clothing. Man, born with the most empty closet of the animal kingdom.

Prehistoric sheep grew dark hairy coats that caught on branches or simply fell off their bodies in heavy clumps every spring. This could be plucked by hand, and woolgathering, another word for daydreaming was born. It caught on quickly.

Ah, the Scots. A bunch of thugs who drank beer from their prisoners’ skulls. Scots are just Vikings who got run out of Norway. So these gangs created designs in the wool, different plaids represented who their family was. Oh, plaids and tartans instead of reading and writing!

Do not get dressed today until you have perfected your posture. Beautiful alignment, a gentle sway, that is more important that plaids or cashmere. This economy means we will leave sequined pasties to drive through espresso girls licking whip cream off of each other.

And the telephone. Remember elegance. Don’t say “Is this Yves?’ Give me the option of “May I speak to Yves?’ or , for Karl, Ich mochter mit Yves sprechen bitte.

Oooh, lets get back to plaid and wool.

Futures trading, the carpet ride to riches, or not, was invented by the Cistercian monks. These wise monks began dabbling in the wool trade in the 13th Centruy , as the wool trade from the landowning abbeys grew prosperous. Buyers would pay several times the going rate for a consistent quality of wool. Richard the Lionhearted was ransomed on his return from the Third Crusade by a years worth of Cistercian wool, not cash. Another time his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, bailed him out with her 90 carat diamond.

Wool is designed to last forever, so pick some good pieces. Leave the faux furs to oh never mind. Read the Truman Capote short story about second hand furs. Your maid can look it up.

More about plaids later. But plaids are like furniture and jewelry , even better when inherited rather than purchased. And of course, clothes are stored, never curated.

Oh, its time to sit in the garden and have some cocoa, and look at the radiant purple beauty berries. We put them next to bright red dahlias, purple and red. YSL in the garden, purple and red. Its diiiiiiwine. Try that Karl!

We’ll talk again soon. I do so enjoy our little visits!

Thursday, October 8, 2009


A lot of you thought I was joking when I claimed, several months ago, that Anna and I go around the city stencilling various things onto walls, ceilings, ipods and such. Generally it's the Chanel logo, but here you see an assistant of Anna's attempt at an homage to me. It's not bad. If you're looking for Chanel logos, you need look any further than streetlights in London. Or the offices of Dior, of course.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Yves said I'd better post this or he'd put strawberries everywhere again

Ooooh, mes amis, it’s a little brisk outside!. I could see my breath this morning! Un boue de souffle!

Autumn is so pretty! Apples and golden leaves that spiral down into the garden. So peaceful! And another opportunity to be elegant!

Yesterday I spent hours watching a leaf attached to a spider trail, so it remained all afternoon suspended between earth and sky. Oh, the maid brought out the chocolatiere set. Mother gave me the chocolatiere, it is made of lovely porcelain and the cups are so small and lovely, as it is a treat, to be sipped. A moment so sweet that cocoa has its own serving set, so precious The falling leaf, the hot chocolate in little cups so fine you can see your fingers if you hold them up to light, oh what a lovely way to spend an afternoon. Did you smell the plums that fell to the ground?

Bone china comes from pieces so delicate you can see through. It is hardly ever made from the dessicated bones of rival ground up. Well, not so much anymore.

Demitasse are the lovely little cups coffee used to be served on, before the whole big gulp drinking coffee. Karl’s right, you are getting fat.

Autumn is a wonderful time to invite friends over for oysters and a nice Riesling. Do you eat oysters off lovely oyster plates so ornate with little wells for lemon and salt?

Karl, that reminds me of the 1970s, what a lovely time. So creative, before this orgy of consumption. Oh, fashion wasn’t so fast, and littered with day time television people, clutching around their supersized coffees. Ugh, that is right up there with a truffle burger. Truffles, like fine cocoa or coffee, is meant to be savored, and appreciated, not mashed into the burger. Who are these people following off a cliff, like it’s the fall of the Roman Empire?

Do you need a faster computer? A “phone app” to “make it easier to order fast food”? How much easier and faster does fast food need to be? Are you going to stand in front of your microwave screaming Hurry Up? Fried chicken at the Met Ball? Its gluttony.

Slow down and enjoy yourself.

Enjoy the dahlias of this time of year. Some are sunset, dark orange centers with apricot spikes radiating out from the center. Some a royal purple, some a lipstick pink, or vibrant red. Have you seen the French Vogue cover from summer 1983 with Jerry Hall straddling an Air France Jet, wearing only bright red lipstick? It was my lipstick, of course.

Oh, I hope this economy means magazines go back to putting models on the covers.

Oh, this economy isn’t a bad thing, It’s a chance to learn about what counts. If you have a black skirt and sweater, you have what counts. You supply the elegance. Those editors trying to force unwearable clothes on you, ha, budget cuts mean they don’t even have stir sticks for their fake sugar in their coffees.

Oh, I meant for us to chat to day about wonderful plaids and timeless clothes. Oh, plaids. So beautiful for fall. But I am really quite tired. We’ll talk again soon, about plaid. I am dozing off, but my lips smile at a joke of Karl’s. Why do Scotsman wear kilts? Because zippers scare the sheep!

A bientot mes amis!

Monday, October 5, 2009

"Mr. Margiela has Left The Building"

I was speaking to my elevator operator today, as I descended from the top floor of my penthouse to the bottom. I had a fitting.
"Did you see Margiela, Frank?"- which isn't a particularly French name, partially on account of Frank being a Bulgarian who wound up in New York years ago, until I decided he had a particular brilliance at pressing elevator buttons and installed him in Paris.
"I did. Martin came to this building after the show, actually. Drunk as an alcoholic whore at a bar...if you don't mind my language"
"Of course I don't. Whores are a necessary part of society, hm?"
"Quite. Anyway- Martin came here- drunk- upset."
"It was quite a show."
"Do you think the designers of the collection studied at Central St. Martins.."
"..Or Parsons?"
"Ha ha, exactly Monsuier Lagerfeld, exactly"
"Anyway- Martin, you know how he's always looked invisible?"
"Of course."
"Well- normally, the only way I know that Martin's in the elevator is that slight cough he always seems to have. And I actually saw him today!"
"I saw almost all of him- parts of him were still invisible, but as he got out of the elevator, he became more and more visible until he resembled a tourist in a Bermuda shirt and socks with sandals on them"
"As he entered the bar, I heard someone say "Mr. Margiela has left the building".
"How clever of them!"
"Such is Mr. Beckett."
"I heard a rumor too- they're selling Margiela at Walmart now."
"Someone's got to buy it, no?"

Thursday, October 1, 2009





Wednesday, September 30, 2009


Oh, my little creatures. I've been terrible with this "blog" as of late- frankly, I'm more interested in shooting naked men in Vermont. Don't you wish you were with me, hmm? I don't. In fact, I don't even know why I'm writing this entry for you ungrateful little demode ones.

Now, I see that "New York Fashion Week" and "Milan Fashion Week" has been and gone. In fact, behind me, right now, are seamstresses busily sewing various pieces of dresses together. I treat them to a bowl of cream when they're done, and copious sweets. They're almost like cats in that respect. I don't care if they get fat because we need people who aren't models too, hm?
Cathy "Ohio" Horyn, I apologize for putting- quote: "pantyhose over Milan", but I feel that bare leg isn't very chic right now, especially in this climate. Why, I see that you yourself, Cathy, wore overalls to my Fendi show! Overalls! I recall them as being blue, denim, and very farmer-looking. I recall you as having cow-dung on your left gumboot (dear readers, I can imagine you recoiling in shock at the mention of "cow-dung" on these holy pages), and speaking very loudly about muffins. Actually Cathy, I have a fridge magnet of you. It is the only thing on my fridge, on or out. I bought the fridge especially for it.

Of course, now that the...lesser cities and countries have done their fashion weeks- you know, New York, Milan, Oxford, Fiji, Ethiopia (the place where they put all the poor people); it is now time for Paris fashion week. I will be in my room reading Colette, and occasionally you'll find me out and about. I have a rather distinctive appearance it seems- you can't miss me.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Cathy (Old Karl's Book of Fashionable People)

Cathy Horyn was a high faultin' critic,
(Some say she was an acrobat!)
She made the rounds, wearing a beanie as her hat,
And a hip flask filled with gin and tonic

Yet bacon muffins were her game- she dreamt of them at night,
(When she'd tucked her clothes from Walmart far out of site),
In the mornings she'd make them, after pruning the roses,
And a visit from a plump lady who claimed to read her blog:

"My name is A.Cat.Lady" said the woman with a grin,
And she wore a dress of florals, as middle aged women do,
"I adore your blog! I love it!" she exclaimed frightfully,
As Cathy backed away- said she had to go to sea

"But do you have a new recipe?" was what our floral lady said next,
As drool fell down her chin as she imagined things with bacon
Well- Cathy was tempted, I don't need to tell you that,
As she popped inside with a notebook, and revealed her carefully hidden stash:

"This is my new recipe!" laughed Cathy oh so deeply*,
"It is a bacon flavoured wine!" she announced, as her admirer regarded her meekly
"Oh great Cathy! You're the hero! The hero of New York!"
As the Pea- travelling in his moped, stopped in for a gawk

"Well, well, well, what do we have here, my finely adorned friends?"
-the Pea jumped out of his pea-green moped and flexed his manly muscles, and fixed Cathy with a fiendish glare
"How nice of you to join us!", Cathy wearily spoke,
In her deep monotone voice- it looked like the Pea had seen a ghost,
"I am telling this badly dressed, floral, dumpling-shaped middle aged woman my recipe for wine-"
"I see"
"But not just any wine, oh no! For it is bacon flavoured wine."
"I shall have to take a photo" said the Pea, turning green
As Cathy turned her attention to the pie simmering on the windowsill,
And I felt self-satisfaction, in the fact that I don't eat

*Whilst turning around to Julie Anne and saying "Go to Barnard!"

Love, a short poem

Love is very demode,
And weddings are quite out of date,
Anyway- how can one be fashionably late,
To a wedding of their own date?

I once had a lover myself,
Until he hid under some drainpipe cover,
And scampered off with some little lover,
This was quite a bore

To be quite honest, I'm simply sick of giving advice,
To all those couples who end up having fights,
Over who owns what and what owns who,
Isn't it simply better not to love at all?

Consider the financial implications of such:
No lover, no money spent,
Perhaps buy an artwork instead;
Or a coat of delicious animal fur

Also, there's no dinners or dates,
When one is sitting on the shelf,
One will become much more thin,
And besides, there is always the option to telephone a prostitute

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Fashion Week is Tiring

Dear adoring public,

I am exhausted.

Fashion Week is quite taxing for me, and having to arrange stand-ins for myself is just horrific. There was a slight mix-up at Phillip Lim, where Stand-In A appeared for a few moments in the same room as Stand-In C. My assistants were terrified:

Assistant 1: "THERE ARE TWO OF THEM?!"

I, naturally, found this all quite hilarious. Karl and I watched the whole debacle on Karl's new invention: ModelTV. It's a closed-captioned television system that broadcasts via the undernourished tendons and ligaments of models during Fashion Week (obviously, it doesn't work too well after Fashion Week when they all start eating again). They capture video via tiny implanted cameras that Karl convinced them were "the new chic body jewelry, hmm?"

Sometimes it's fun to sit in Karl's closet in Vermont and drink champagne while we scan the modelwaves for something good. Usually it's all "Anya, stop eating the amuse bouches; those are for the fat makeup artists" or "Lisa, please fall down on the third downbeat after you get on the runway; we need some publicity."

But sometimes we get international channels. Usually it's just Donatella on a bender, though.


Sunday, September 20, 2009

The Pea (Old Karl's Book of Practical Fashionable People, Part 1)

Of peas, there are none to equal
A certain pea I know,
Who carries around a camera,
And has a manly baritone

He stands on top of flower pots,
He stands on top of two,
To get his shot for the book,
He might even take a picture of you!

If you are lucky, traveller,
You may find him in Paris,
Where he sits with many other peas,
And discusses lemon-green tea,

His voice can be heard from the rooftops-
"Come! Fashion-seekers, and see!"
Says he in his deep voice, full of heroism
"I shall take a photo of thee!"

His shirt- it rips apart,
As he gets his camera out,
And his stands upon a flower pot,
And clicks his button with a shout

"For I am the pea!"
(says he)
As he quips about his prowess in bed,
And his ten million thousand suits

"Hooray for the pea!" cries an audience,
Abound with joyful cheer,
"Hooray for the pea! Hooray for the pea!"
As they drown in bottles of fashionable beer

Monday, September 14, 2009

K and J

J: So Karl, what does Cathy think about the totes you designed for the NY Times T magazine?
K: I'm going to make her a tablecloth with the same design on it, for her to put her bacon pies on.
J: Brilliant! And have you tried any of her bacon pies?
K: Non.
J: They're quite the favourite among sector.
K: Well, I am not a farmer. Even with the Vermont property..
J: And how's that going?
K: I enjoy going there feeling superior to the wildlife. You see, it's fine to feel superior to the fashion wildlife- I already am, anyway, and everyone knows it. But it's another thing to feel superior to Vermont wildlife.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Bob Dylan's 115th Post

I've been digging Christmastime lately, man. I've been digging it a lot. Man- I dig Christmas so much you could just toss a whole sack of Christmas at me and I'd be covered in bright lights and fools. But I dig that. You know man- when I was just starting out, fat men on youtube who teach harmonica would say "Hey Bob man, why don't you play some of your older stuff?" and I'd say "man, youtube doesn't even exist yet, how can you exist?" and they'd say that they were folk and free and fritters and I said "okay man, if that's what you dig, you fly with it" as they faded off into non-existence at the sudden realization, the truth, that youtube didn't exist in 1960. I love this Christmas thing a whole lot 'cause it's about love, and you know, there needs to be more of that around these days. Not free love, you understand. Nobody's free from democracy and oppressing and lightbulbs, but love where you pay in kisses. Can you dig that? I tried to tell Joan, this chick I used to needle back in the 60s, I tried to tell Joan this. But all she said was "I don't know Bob man- I don't know if I can flow with that" and I said "you gotta flow where the water's flowing" and she said "love is just a four letter word" and I said "only in the English language, Joan" and she said "what other language is there" and I pointed to French- amour. "Love in the land of the fries and frogs is amour" said I, to which she said "love is a 5 letter word doesn't sound so great, Bobby." I said "yeah, it doesn't, but it's the truth" to which she said that French isn't a really folkie language, so it doesn't count. Now here's where I differ: French is a very folkie language, they've got those clothes that the sheep buy down at the factory, you know, Chanel and all that jazz. I remember Thelonious Monk saying to me we're all folk musicians, to which I said "yeah man- except fat men on youtube who teach harmonica. They're politicians."
Because that Coco chick, she's a folk musician, just a thin one. She's like a blind folk musician. Blind Coco Chanel or something like that. Who even cares. I don't care about clothes anyway- I just care about dressin' like a cowboy. You never know where those cowboys can turn up, they could be in the subway or even in a documentary. It's just so very suspicious, if you catch my drift. You've gotta serve yourself. Or is it serve somebody. Yeah, you've gotta Serve Somebody. Isn't that right, John?

Monday, August 31, 2009

Hello? Hello?

Is this thing on?

All of you people are bloody incompetent. Turn the bloody recorder on, Karl is angry that I haven't posted in a while and you know how he gets. I expect an edited markup of this rant in precisely half-an-hour ago.



Hello lovely admirers,

I wish to say hello and prompt you to not go see that movie called 'The September Issue.' It is now demode, as that was a number of eons ago. You see, in our beautiful and luxurious world full of beauty and luxury, years = eons. One shouldn't be documented in fashion that is eons ago, hm? This is why we here at Vogue are working on taking over the world's media and erasing all footage of myself and Karl previous to exactly this moment. Now, this moment. Now. Now.

You see, this is an arduous task and I have fired exactly 13 assistants since thirty-five minutes from Tuesday; so I really must be going.

Oh, I nearly forgot. I think I might do a 'tip' or something at the end of each blog, you know, so you can remember to perform some small task in my honor every day. So, Anna's tip for today: DON'T WATCH THAT DAMN MOVIE.

God, I am beautiful. Hand me that Chanel lipstick. Is Karl here yet? Yes, you blithering twat, turn off the record-

Imelda Who?

I was sent a link from a girl named "Rose" today. The link was to the blog of a certain Imelda, who I hadn't heard of until seeing the link (handed to me on quilted paper), and the entry was something that attempted to be "Satirical" with a capital es. Something about foetuses as fashionistas, etc etc- obviously making fun of my niece Tavi and her recent Pop cover (by the way, I'm in there too- introducing some "youth bloggers"- I suggest you buy the issue. I shall post more on this later.) For whatever reason, this Imelda doesn't like Tavi much at all: "This Rodarte/Tavi shit is insanity. WTF…I mean cool, she loves fashion but in my opinion courting the ‘opinion’ of a 13 year old girl seems desperate."
First of all, Imelda's "foetus blogger", who I won't link to here- she doesn't need the publicity- used the word "demode." Demode is my word. Everybody knows that. It's more than copyrighted- it's like the word "Jesus" or "god" or "Buddha", it just simply is mine, as much as my high collar is mine, or as much as the badges and broaches which I attach to my ties are mine. In fact- more so than those items. It's as much a part of my family as my dear mother is. It is my word, and frankly- anyone else using it is simply rude. Does anybody see Proust using it? No, because I faxed Proust and he removed all mentions of the word in his books and letters. Does T.S Eliot use it? Non, because I telegraphed him and he removed every mention of it from his poems and so on, too. Nobody in France uses the word anymore, except I. They have respect for it, because they're quite aware that I design Chanel, and as far as the outside world is concerned, France is baguettes, Chanel and the Eiffel tower. Besides that, Chanel owns France. I simply allow Dior and so on to exist because it makes Chanel look better anyway.
It is my godforCoco word, and nobody else may use it without express written permission from I, Karl Otto Lagerfeld.

Anyway- I believe I was pointing out how demode this Imelda person is. She seems to think simply because a person is 13 that their opinion is not valid. I find the opinion of children more interesting than many adults a lot of the time. I think the content of the opinion is more important than the age of the opinion-giver, hm? For all I care, Tavi could be a 40 year old fat man that plays harmonica on youtube. Or she could be a two year old. Or even- yes, a foetus. It makes no difference to me. (By the way, I know Tavi in person, considering she's my niece and all- she really is a 13 year old, but even Imelda knows that now- although she didn't a short while ago:

"I'm not a hater but she's a total fake and since I was introduced to her blog I've 'called this' else where at other times."

I sense a jealous blogger, hm? And worse than that- I sense mediocrity.

Do you know what else I sense? I sense a tiger hunt. The scheme with the hunters is going well- they get into life threatening situations with animals, they kill the animal in self defence, we kill them- the animal that is, haw haw. Lately I've been enjoying doing these myself, mainly to annoy PETA and all those other "animal rights" groups. I say to the "animal rights people", "why don't the animals front your animal rights group?" and they say "well, animals can't talk" and I reply "nor can the mute, yet many of them get along fine. Besides, animals do talk- you're just not listening." So I put on my safari hat, my muscles rip out of their starched white surface. Tom Ford comes along with me. We're going to make a movie about it- a kind of sequel to Lagerfeld Confidential- but more exciting. Imagine me talking about sex whilst riding the back of a tiger. Imagine me endorsing prostitutes whilst hanging from treetops. It'll be beyond.

I'm a cat sort of person, myself. My favourite person in the world has a cat, and I talk to it quite often. Even on the phone. I thought about buying a tiger for a while, but I thought it'd be a bit too Las Vegas. And I don't intend to have an Elvis period anytime soon.