Saturday, February 28, 2009

Notes from Milan (1)

In Milan. Everybody's fat or anorexic, there's no in-between here. Armani just made a fool of himself at a bar last night; danced on tabletops. Raf Simons sulks in the corner, muttering to himself- wondering where his "boys" are? Donatella- shall I even get onto her? I think her lips are due for another injection- they're sagging. Valentino's been lurking about- mysterious. Saw the Prada woman going through trash bags- next seasons collection? She was wearing a barrel; smelt like they'd shot the fish inside said barrel a long time ago. Too much Pasta. I often wonder what use Italy is to fashion these days- it's like one of those useless parts of the body- like the heart or somesuch. Must be off now; Fendi calls.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

I hate myself and want to die

Today I was eating a pesto-smeared bagel, when Karl, the omnipresent demi-god that he is, give me his signature look of disapproval--- so smug. Why should he judge me for eating? not everybody can be an android. A chic android, but a literal android none the less. Besides, I think I saw him sneaking some diet-coke chex-mix the other day, but before I could confront him, he sternly swatted a nearby assistant like a step-child in need of a good slap, the assistant immediately began sobbing. If there is one thing I've learned about the starched-collared monster that is Karl Lagerfeld, it is that he does not like sobbing. I don't think he even acknowledges sadness as a real emotion. He is always telling me, "Why so glum my little Yves'ey (yes, he calls me Yves'ey, it's humiliating)"

Regardless, the assistant was not fired, she quit. Reason for leaving.

"I am not worthy"

Fourth one today....

On another topic, the worst part about being dead, is apparently dead people cannot legally own things. As such, my entire estate was AUCTIONED! A lifetime of things, beautiful, wonderful, melancholic things, gone. Sold to... the fatties. I didn't even get any of the money. Kruelty-Karl will not let it down for one second of course.



"oh Yves-ey!"


"how are you going to pay the rent? mmm?"


"you can hardly stay here for free you know"


"aw, are you poor now?"


"Maybe you should get a job"


"like maybe work as a toilet cleaner, no?"

(Anna chimes in)

"or Marc Jacobs!"

(Karl has just informed me that this morning he premoted himself from "demi-god" to "Kaiser H. "Coco" Lagerfeld ", a bit redundant, would you say?-- well I wouldn't... don't feel like getting slapped)

Oh my!

I woke up this morning to find the birds chirping and my latest Google alerts delivered to me on a silver platter by Brad, dressed in his morning underwear which says "Morning". I read through these Google alerts on my quilted Chanel paper and was most alarmed to see this terrible blog called "Teen Fashionista."
Now, who would make a blog called "Teen Fashionista", hmm?
Of course you'll remember I wrote a post decrying these "Teen Fashionistas" a while ago. I would say "somebody did not get the memo" here, but I don't send out memos. People should simply know.

Anyway, the post called me a "ghost writer". Please, I am not Mr. Armani. I do not have a fellow from the New York Times write my post for me. I dictate them to an assistant. I am perfectly capable of speaking English, and writing in it. There is no "ghost writer" involved here. It's a disrespectful term that only hacks should be given- and I'm not a hack, I'm a whore!

This blog linked to another blog. It's supposedly written by "Andy Warhol". Unfortunately it's not written by Andy, who is as dead as Bill Blass by Lim. It's a blatant rip-off of a book actually written by dear Andy: which can be found here.
I advise you to buy the book.

Let's not get our A-cup bras in a twist about this though, hm?

More importantly, I'd like to wish happy birthday to Lynn, who turns 21 today. 21 is a good age to be! Many chic wishes to you, Lynn.

In delightful news, a new interview with me by my favourite bunny in the world has been released. Read it here.Link

Wednesday, February 25, 2009


On Sunday, I did a panel on the Oscars with my favourite bunny, Julia. The results of this panel are here, on Julia's wonderful site.

In other bunny-related news, I'm starting up a bookclub with Julia. It will be held in one of the backrooms of my bookshop. Present an invite to the doorman, Martin. He'll be the one you can't see. We're doing mainly Murakami, Nabokov; and The Year Of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion- it's one of my favourite books. I've read it thirty (30) times- I just say I've only read in 3 to make people think I'm slightly sane. I mean, one cannot design from a mental hospital! Well, Yves did, but not very well, hmm? I don't do mental hospital-chic very well, anyway. Far too much green for my liking. Green is not a calming colour; it is the colour of jealousy, and jealousy is rarely calm, I'm told.

Actually, I have a question for you, my loyal little cold-hearted readers. "What is jealousy?"

I'm quite serious about this question, you know. It's not all fun and games here, at Uncle Karl's Playpen. What is this jealousy thing? I've never had it. But I have figured out:
1.) Jealousy is green.
2.) Jealous is possibly a demon of some sort.
3.) Therefore jealousy is most likely from the middle ages.

There's also a nice button at the side there, very chic, no? It's for buying things with. Things such as my t-shirt. I'd much rather build a boutique to house the shirt in. Maybe I'll do that too. How many of you have jets to fly to the boutique? Helicopters too, I suppose. Thought I feel helicopters are a little low class. They're what the poor get around in. Every day, when I ride to work in my imposing chariot, I see these poor people flying around Paris in helicopters. It is not a good look, hm?

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Airhead Soufflé

For ladies who do not lunch because they are simply beyond.

This is one of my favourites. Because it has zero calories, it is totally edible. Great for warming up on a cold day. It's even suitable for vegans: it's that good. The trick with this is to make sure the air is as clean as it possibly can be. Remember, the best ingredients make the best meals! I feed it to all my models. I got the recipe from Andy, so it's in American measurements

(Kids! You can make this recipe yourself! But if you are a fattie, go for a run beforehand)

500g of air, clean.
6 tablespoons of margarine
1/2 cup of all purpose flour
A dash of ground red pepper
1 1/2 cups of milk
3 cups of shredded cheddar, Swiss Colby or Havarti cheese
6 egg yolks
6 egg whites

Take the eggs, flour , pepper, milk, cheese, and eggs and throw them into a rubbish bin. I find a quilted rubbish bin works the best, but throwing them out the window at the smelly people walking by is another option. Place the clean air inside a tin, and make sure the air is rolled out evenly. It's important not to fill all the tin up. About three thirds of the way shall do the trick. Sprinkle a bit of air on the top, if you desire the dish to be slightly more flavoured. Place a CD by Nico on the CD player. Place the tin containing the mixture into the oven, and bake on high for 10-15 minutes. When cooked, the air should have risen, and the soufflé will be done. You can eat this yourself or share with friends.

Karl Tip! The best soufflé's are "made" because of the timing. Don't let the oven door open before you're ready to take the dish out, and keep a good eye the oven! This is the favourite meal of Mary-Kate Olsen, and many other doyens of the New York Social scene.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

PETA Pie Recipe

Finding the right recipe for your needs can be hard, but I, Karl Lagerfeld, have decided to help. Over the next week I'll be giving you recipes that you can take home and do yourself! The one we're doing today, PETA Pie, is advised not to be eaten, as it contains calories. However I feel this is a classic, as it really teaches those demode PETA people a lesson.

(Kids! Have a parent help you with the recipe, if your parent was unfortunate enough to have you)

5 Members of PETA. The brunettes tend to do better.
150g of quilted Chanel butter.
8 sheets of Fendi Pastry.
A sprinkle of salt.

This is a rather simple recipe, but the trick is in the preparation. And of course, getting the right ingredients. You don't want a skinny-as-a-model PETA member; you want to juicy fatties with lots of meat on them.

Karl Tip! Capturing the fatties requires quite a bit of cunning. If you put some cake out, they should come running. For interests in being humane I suggest you say to the PETA members: "Remember fatties, this is your purpose in life! A slice of cake on the lips puts you in the pot!"

Next, skin the fatties and start to cut them up. Try and cut off most of their fat, so you get to the meat part of them. A friend of mine, Dr. Lecter, recommends specially preparing the checks, which simply melt in your mouth according to him (Lecter, "Cooking with Cannibals made easy-peasy, pg. 250-251). I wouldn't know, since I don't eat this.

After you have done this, place the pastry into a tin. It's best to get an assistant to do this, as merely touching pastry can transfer the fattie-particles from it to you. Place the meat of the PETA members in the pie, and mix this with the quilted butter. A sprinkle of salt rounds it off nicely. Place one more layer of pastry on the top, and place in oven on bake at 180 degrees Celsius for about 25 minutes. When done, sell the pie on the street.

Karl Tip! This works very well with red wine: thank Anna for the tip. Diet Coke, of course, goes with everything. It is the new black.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Poor People

I still don't believe in this depression, or impression, or Monet, or whatever they're calling it these days. But basically, Yohji has explained to me that some people don't have much "money" and they can't buy as much. The conversation went like this:
Karl: So what's this depression thing about?
Bob Dylan: It's about naked people, man.
Yohji: It's about these people, and they don't have money...
Karl: Why don't they have money?
Yohji: Because...they're poor...
Karl: Why are they poor?
Yohji: *shurgs*
Bob Dylan: They got nowhere to go, man.

So anyway, there are these poor people, and for some reason they're poor-- I don't really understand why, but nevermind that. The point is that They Have No Money.
In light of this fact, I've decided to lower (yes, lower) the DEMODE shirt prices down to $35 USD plus $7.50 USD postage. You'll note that they aren't in pounds anymore, as rich people have pounds (see: the monopoly man), and poor people have American dollars. So I'm making my designs available to the poor! I feel so....fuzzy. Actually, I do not. But I suppose a human being would.

I suggest you buy the shirts. Or two: one to wear and the other to eat as you sit at the Paris Fashion Week shows. Email me at and my assistants will get right onto you. (Not that they are going to assault you, of course. It's much more chic simply to stare and make people feel insecure.)

Monday, February 16, 2009


Karl: Hmm
Anna: What?
Karl: What'll I dictate in the blog today, hmm?
Yohji: Ooh! Write about me passing out!
Karl: But you always pass out.
Yohji: But the girls love me.
Karl: Rei sure did..
Rei: [coughs]
Karl: Rei! Didn't notice you were here, hm?
Rei: I am always here. Lurking in the background. I am behind all you fashion boys and girls, making sure you're buying my clothes.
Yohji: That probably explains..
Rei: Enough! [bangs on gong]
Anna: I don't know Karl. It's New York Fashion week again. Such a boor.
Yohji: "Ooh hello I'm Jason Wu! Pretty party dresses! Pretty pretty pretty!"
Rei: [glares]
Yohji: [glares back]
Karl: I don't know why they bother, honestly.
Anna: Who?
Karl: The fashion week people. Don't they know that they're simply going to be outmoded by Paris?
Anna: It's all so commercial.
Karl: Like that stupid magazine where all those people jump in it. Up and down, up and down!
Anna: Haven't heard of it.
Karl: What's it called? Models Jumping Behind a Bland Background Monthly?
Yohji: I heard it was: "Oh Look! We've got the First Lady on the Cover! Maybe we're Slightly Better Than Models Jumping Behind a Bland Background Now?"
Anna: Sounds like a very demode magazine.
Yohji: You have a magazine, don't you, Anna?
Anna: Oh, I think I do...commercial
Karl: "Vogue".
Anna: God, so that's what the office is for!

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Karl Comic, no.6 (Sitting on a barbed wire fence)

Valentine's, a guide

Today, in some parts of the world, it is Valentine's day. I've never fully understood this "Valentine's day" thing; but I gather it involves giving heart shaped objects to other people. Sometimes, the heart shaped object is chocolate- something, as I'm sure you'll remember, that has calories! So though the years I've decided that you creatures have an obsession with heart-shapes, and on this so-called "Valentine's day" you display this obsession by giving hearts to other people. Kind of like how the ancient Egyptians thought the heart was the center of the body, no? So this "Valentine's day" is some sort of religious holiday, I suppose. For which religion, though? I was talking this through with Anna- she's sure it's not "Christianity", because they like their Chocolate in egg-form. We went through several other religions (it's obviously not part of the religion of Chanel, hmm?) and we landed at "Consumerism". We decided that it's the "Consumerists" that celebrate "Valentine's day", and then Anna got drunk some more (Anna is never, ever completely sober.)

We went out to the church of "Consumerism"; otherwise known as "The Mall". There we sat on seats and laughed mirthlessly at these horrible people holding hands and such. Some were even kissing! They.....were....they were touching each other. My Chanel, it was not a pleasant scene. What had these people done to deserve this? Why were they assaulting each other?
"Mmm, I LOVE you too" said one person; who probably was over 50 kgs (50 kgs!) or something. I recoiled in horror.
Another person said back to this other person: "I LOVVE you too, darling". Anna threw up. What is it with these people and their display of emotions?

I don't understand Valentine's day; even though several females are my Valentine's this year. But for Coco's sake, don't try and kiss me!

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Still Aten't Dead

There were rumors going around on the internet today that I'm dead. I would like point out that I am very much alive. I did not pull a Yves. I did not pull the trigger; nor kick the bucket; nor fly the coop. I am still here, and I've got the heartbeat to prove it! Well. If I was mortal, I'd feel a heartbeat anyway. But I'm stood in this room, with a glass of diet Coke in one hand and the other currently moving in a very artistic way; it could perhaps be interpretive dance. And I'm dictating this entry to one of my assistants, who is typing this with white gloves making love to the quilted keyboard, and also talking to two not-so-important people on the phone (but important enough to know my phone number).

I mean, who really thinks I'd die? Fashion does not stop for the dead! It'd be more difficult to design the next few collections being, you know, dead. (Nobody else is able to do a collection like me, hmm?)

So I just thought I'd clear that up. I'm not dead, I'm alive. As is Anna, who's finally turned up from one of her many vacations. She's already planning the next one. I'm pretty sure she never turns up at that magazine of hers- they did a Michelle Obama cover the other day, you know. I won't comment on her. "Hope for America", etc etc etc. I don't mind, as long as it results on more Chanel sales, hmm? Cathy (Horyn) doesn't like her, though. Typical.

You're required to register on this blog to comment from now on. To keep out the riff-raff, you see. There were a couple of people here who posted under anonymous means; so I suggest you get an account. There's also a facebook fanpage for my blog (HERE), so I suggest every chic person makes themselves a fan of the greatest designer of this century.

Anyway, still alive. Still thin. Still have high collar. It is all chic here.

Hello beautiful and chic people.

I am back.

Sorry about the delay, I was in the Caribbean. Sometimes one needs a little vacation from life with a few attractive underwear mod- uh, people to hang out with.

I drank a lot of piña coladas, had many adventures (while wearing Chanel, nonetheless) and I returned to my darling daughter and beloved underwear mod- uh, houseboy- uh, maid... to see this.

None too pleased would be one way to put it. I threw a closet's worth of shoes down three flights of stairs. And when my assistant went to go get them, I threw them down again.  It's like playing fetch with a dog, except more rage, alcohol and expense involved.  You wouldn't throw a Rodarte heel for your bulldog to fetch, would you? I would. It would be an edgy new shoot. Maybe we'll get Weber to shoot it... Get some shirtless men playing fetch with puppies... Chanel heels...

Sorry, where was I?

Oh, right. Movie.

Well, I don't like it. Thus, it won't do well. Only chic people watch those sort of fashion documentaries, and I am like Jesus to them (Karl is God). What I say goes.



An intrusion of reality

I've been a bit busy lately, and thus I haven't updated this place as much. Not that I care too much, as I talk to the people who're important to me every day, hmm? I really don't. I don't care at all. I care so little that the weight of my caring of my lack of updating of this blog is less that the fetuses that Prada's using these days.

I've decided to have my assistants to start selecting who gets to be my "friend" on facebook. I'm sick of having ugly people on my page. So, there is now a rigid selection criteria. It is like the clubs, hm? It is like what Chanel is- we don't just let anybody in. It's a luxury to have me as your "friend", even though I wouldn't know you from an Alaskan miner's mother. It is luxury! It is an extension of Chanel! It is modern!

Anyway, the intrusion of reality mentioned in the header is here. I had to go to some meeting with some people-- they want to sell Chanel online. Obviously, we do not sell Chanel online. How are we meant to monitor the people that buy the goods? It was hell when Donatella bought something from a Chanel Boutique without my permission. So Uncle had to be political and stop the bad men from selling Chanel to demode people. Well, it was a woman I spoke to. She looked a bit like a bank-woman; you know, the power-woman of the 80's that somehow still exists.

Me: "You are aware that Thatcher is not in power anymore, hm?"
Power-suit lady: "Well, Dorles over at the bank said it was very nice on me."
Me: "If you're acting in a play set in the 80's, maybe.."
Power-suit lady: "Now, aren't we meant to be discussing this political thing?"
Me: "Can you please take off the suit. Remove the suit. Take it off your person."
Power-suit lady: "That's sexual harassment!"
Me: "No, it's just simply ugly."
Reader: "And you're gay!"
Me: "Cliched line. I've used it too many times. Anyway, the audience knows I'm gay."
Me: [walks away, muttering "demode, demode..."]

Tuesday, February 10, 2009


It is winter here. Wherever I am. I think it could be Paris. Is it winter in Paris? Well, if it is I'm there. If not, I'm not there. I would like to remind Tavi to go to bed at eleven thirty sharp, for several days ago. Now we can get down to the business, hmm?

The last few days I have been busy talking to Very Important Fashion Critics who I will not name, because they're oh-so very important that they no doubt would get their Lanvin-Knickers in a twist. I had to go down to the fashion ghetto, you see, where they all live. It's not the fashion ghetto where the Juicy Couture people live (I assume people still buy that. My daughter informs me it's mostly demode highschool girls.), but it's the ghetto where Rei plays her harmonica and Martin has a house full of cats (Margiela; of course I didn't need to add that- I expect my readers to be intelligent anyway). This is the ghetto where Junya is in the alley, looking for some food, and Alber's in the kitchen with the cake blues. It's a very hip ghetto.

So, I drove down to the fashion ghetto and pulled over at the fashion critics commune. You've got to wear protection before you go in, because of the vitriol that flies around-- take a step to the left at the wrong time and you might just find yourself getting hit by some, hmm? And no fashion designer wants that.
I surrounded myself with my Le Skinny Jeans society, who cloaked round me, in their jeans so skinny that they could be a shadow; and entered the commune.

Cathy Horyn was sitting out on a deckchair (Marc Jacobs, 2006), which Suzy Menkes was trying to attach helium balloons too. There was a bunch of lesser critics around- some playing with marbles (which explains why they appear to have lost the majority of them), some rapping to the beats that Tim Gunn created ("make it work, guys."), some carrying Chanel beatboxes around. It was chaos.

"Karl!" Cathy said, as she spied me under that hat she wears that makes her look like a rugby supporter (not Rugby, Ralph Lauren, Rugby as in that dreadful sport favoured by New Zealanders; but thankfully, none I know.)
"Ah, Cathy!" said I, making sure Margiela wasn't devising another one of his plans to take over the world ("By recycling!" he claims. Hippie.)
Cathy talked a bit about this and that- gave me a recipe for duc which is now in dear Alber's pockets, and I attempted to convince her to write for me.

"Yes, yes, I know. Armani banned you. You're a hero! Nevermind Armani wouldn't mind if his audience consisted of corpses..."

So we'll see. I spoke to a few of the other critics, too. You can't be around them for too long, or else they start to say what you're doing's art or somesuch.

Karl comic, no.5

Karl Comic, no.4

Friday, February 6, 2009


I think I'd care more about eating potatoes if the potatoes had less superficial values in life.
Obviously, I do not eat but it's the "what if" that matters more than the "what does", don't you think? We already know what I do. I do too many interviews as it is.
So the answer above is for if I am ever asked about potatoes. In the summer, I think potatoes have a better run in life. They do seem happier. Why anybody would ever want to eat potatoes is beyond me, I'm afraid.

in the summer
i look at my potatoes
and make soccer dresses

in the winter
i write haiku
which isn't haiku
and listen to leonard cohen

the potatoes are growing again.

Chemical Romancin'

Hey man,

I wasn't going to come here no more. I was gonna take the high road, and press on tourin' and all that kind of groovy so-and-so. But I just heard that not-so-groovy covers band, My Chemical Romance, is doing a parod-- I mean man, a cover of my song Desolation Row.

That's not so free, man. I don't dig it. I don't dig that at all. You gotta go where you gotta go, man, but don't go trampin' up my backyard.

Who's these Chemical Romance cats anyway, man? What're they doin' romancin', anyway? Who gave them premission? Where's their lightbulb, huh? Do they have a lightbulb? I don't see a lightbulb. I don't even see clocks, or watermelons.
Man, why are these people even making music? They should just go play golf, or some other square activity, man.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Banks, I

Now, with all this business about the economy hitting the news much like a high collar hits a member of the Le Skinny Jeans de Society; I though it would be a good time to talk about banks.

I have entered banks exactly two and a half times in my rather long life, because I simply cannot stand them. The first time was when I was 12, and I was in Paris (German banks are worse. They're guarded by terrible matron-like ladies who give you the impression that they've had 20 children and were most apt at running their household like a business. I assume these sort of people have quarterly reviews of their children, to see whether they're still viable to "The Family". Anyway, German banks are guarded by those sort of people.)

I was in Paris, and I had some gold to deposit. Because in those days we didn't have this paper money that you people had, we had actual gold. And I went into the bank, with my mother dressed as a raven reciting the poem "The Raven", and I with a couple of suitcases of gold. They were rather heavy, but I was a champion tango dancer at this time, so I danced with the suitcases and caressed their sensual leather bodies into the bank.

"Hello Karl!" said Anna, who wasn't born then.

"Hello Anna!" I said, "are you off to Hogwarts too?"

"No Karl! This is Karl Lagerfeld's Guide to Life, not Harry Potter! (TM)"

"Oh gosh, you are right, hmm? So what am I at this bank for anyway?"

"To deposit gold, m'dear."

I walked up the long cherry-carpeted aisle-- where the clerks stare from each side with their little golf-hats and pencils which they sharpen on their sabre-like teeth. They stared at us like we're crazy! And we go to the man at the front, who (presumably dressed in Armani), wears a beige suit and beige shoes and a beige tie. His hair was brushed probably with a toothbrush; and he did this extraordinary thing with his smile-- it was like the devil was smiling. It was as if his mouth raised itself slightly, yet the rest of his face wouldn't move an inch.

And that man now designs at a very famous fashion label which is not Chanel. I'll let you people guess who it is, hmm? It was a very demode bank, anyway. Part II tomorrow, on the second bank incident (it was an American bank).

Tuesday, February 3, 2009