Friday, July 9, 2010

Hansel and Gretel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Wind-Up Woody

As I was having my face sewn up this morning (I have it sewn up every day, from behind- if you were to cut off my ponytail, you'd see stitches) I started sketching the new collection. Couture was a success, as per usual- Cathy "Ma" Horyn adores me, as do the rest of the creatures. That is how I think of them, really- as these little creatures at the bottom of a dark well. And they crawl around like a pack of spiders and worms and so on, many eyed and limbed- sometimes emerging to shout out "BRAVA!" But for most of the time, they live in this little well- like in Hannibal, no? And I think of myself as living in a little house near the well- sometimes making a cup of diet Coke, sometimes reading the newspaper, filled with exploits of the BP people and their oil spill (why not block the oil spill with the new Valentino collection?) and all the murders and so on. Then, sometimes, I will go to the well in my tights and high collars, and call into the well, muttering little blessings in German. 

Anyway. I was contemplating this, when a young man knocked on my door. I am fond of young men (gentlemen of the jury), so I opened the door.

"Hello young boy", I said. He said: "HELLO!!!", and I said "why are you using so many exclamation marks? Don't you know only crazy people use that many exclamation marks?", and he said- "OMG! KARL LAGERFELD! I'M, LIKE, YOU'RE BIGGEST FAN".

-"No, I'm my biggest fan, young boy", "WELL OH MY GOD! I'M A PRETTY BIG FAN! MAYBE LIKE SECOND BIGGEST FAN! OMG CAN WE GET A PHOTO FOR MY TWITTAH?"- he then took out a horrible, bejewelled phone and said "SMILEEEE FOR THE CAMERA UNCLE!!!"


I frowned. "You know, I am also a homosexual and I am not this cliched person who is clearly only interested in whoring themselves out socially. I can understand whoring- I whore myself out to various companies, including Coca Cola- but social whoring is vulgar, no?"


It was then I realized that I was watching Toy Story 19, a bastardized version directed by a paunchy Justin whatshisname- Justin Patterson or something, in which Woody is replaced with a 2D socialite with three phrases, one of which is "FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY!"

I pulled the string on the back of his back. "FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY!" he said. I pulled it again. "FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY!" he said. I turned off the projector and he was there no longer.

"Not a fan," I said to Roger Ebert. "Neither", said Pauline Kael.

Saturday, July 3, 2010


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

There's another factor to take into account here, too: when a rich person has a child, the accountants of said rich person assign a value to the child (putting it as a long term liability, of course) and it is looked after by bodyguards, maids, and so on. This is a cruical difference- when the poor have childrens, they have to look after it themselves!
-I imagine a lot of you are gasping now, with expressions like '!' and '?!' and '!!!', depending on your level of botox. Perhaps, if you're from the Hollywood-Scientology circle, your face simply looks like this: '...', because your botox has turned your face into a barren marble statue. You are possibly holding your well-manicured hands over your well-lipsticked mouths, wondering how on earth one is supposed to look after a childrens.
Let me tell you, it took me a long time to work out too. I have worked out some essentials, though, in case you ever find yourself poor and with a baby. (This is quite different to the "accessory baby", in vogue a couple of years ago- especially babies from Africa. That moment has passed.)
By Karl Lagerfeld, Field Marshall

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

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

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

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

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