Nowhere Man

In my last post, I was telling you about the place I live when I'm in New York. I like to think of myself as a musician that records in the studio when he is in New York- call it the "New York Sessions", but what he records is silence. Loyal Readers will be aware that I made a record of silence last year, but what I'm attempting above is what is sometimes called a metaphor. Apart from I'm not quite sure if it is a metaphor, as I really do have a studio in the apartment where I live. With a recording booth and everything. Metaphor is very childish anyway, like satire. Who's interested in satire these days? Nobody! For instance, if I said that I went down the street today and it rained hard, and then Martin Margiela smoked my sunglasses, and punched my pencil; I really mean that. That did happen today, in fact. This man who was dressed like a lonesome hobo just came up to me and smoked my sunglasses. They melted off my eyes, down my nose, until it looked like Miles Davis shot at them with his trumpet during his Jazz-Fusion period. In retort, I glared at him until the hobo-clothes returned to That Horrible Prada Woman's closet, and he was rather stark naked. Let me tell you- it was not City in the Sex.
After that he made a futile punch at the pencil, which ended up injuring his hand (which, by the way, is made out of different parts of different hands. Which leads onto my next point:)

Martin Margiela is a sick, sick man. What sort of man cuts off the body parts of other people and attaches it to themselves? I imagine Mr. Margiela in his little white-clad lab, surrounded by a dozen or so adoring assistants who only speak in the dialogue of Antwerp: "Reuse! Reuse! Ann D! Reuse!" (in fact, I love Antwerp. Or rather, I like it better than the other so-called "fashion schools". I'm occasionally asked to judge at their shows- the outfits generally end up as one of those "forwarded" emails sent around the Chanel offices to laugh at. The little old seamstresses are particularly fond of them. Anyway, I will see you there, Julie Anne. And your scarf.)
Where was I.....oh yes, I imagine Mr. Margiela dissecting different bodies who he has dug up from various graveyards..perhaps found vagabonds on the streets. And he attaches the new pieces to his own body; sewing them on in a Dr. Frankenstein-fashion. Robotic parts are so much better. What I heard- I was talking to my children's book agent- was that Renzo Rosso, the new Margiela owner got a bit freaked out by Margiela's, ah, body-cutting experiments; hence why Mr. Margiala isn't around the offices anymore (and hence why a Margiela collection isn't perverted anymore. A real shame, hm? If a collection's not perverted or chic, what's the point? I've always prided my collections on having a sense of perversion, with the occasional sense of chic.)

Anyway, I remembered that my house has a bathroom today when a model visited. We ventured into it together. I forgot that I never bothered to have anything installed in there: it's just a blank space. Told the model to do her "business" somewhere else. Went back into the recording studio and recorded nothing.

Sex and the City, quite possibly the worst film I've seen in a long time

Sometimes, I dress up like the normal people. Like, no collar or glasses or powered hair or Dior Homme suit (although Dior Homme kind of is rubbish this season, hmm?) and I dress up in normal clothes. So I do this yesterday and go to the cinema and bring 20 Francs to buy a ticket etc. They're like "we don't use Francs anymore", "oh?", "yeah, not since 1999.."
I haven't used money since 1976, you see.
So I am having a little bit of a problem, so I just walk into the place where the movie's taking place. "What are you doing monsieur!"
"I'm going to see Sex and the City"
"Do you have a ticket?"
"one sec" (I ring up Chanel HQ, and pass the phone onto the man stopping me from seeing this movie. Do you think they have a man that takes the tickets or something? Surely, nobody would be rude enough to go in without a ticket. I can't stand that sort of rudeness).
"oh, monsieur Lagerfeld-"
"Please, call me K"
"K?"
"Yeah, K. Like agent K hm? Then people won't know who I am"

I go into this movie parlour and watch Sex and the City. Ladies all around me are dressed the same in mini-skirts, heels and some sort of top. This goes for everyone. 50 year old ladies, 16 year old girls. And one thing becomes clear to me: these women in Sex in the City are more superficial than me. These women are Chanel's customer base, and frankly, that makes me a little sad. It's one thing to be ugly, but quite another to be stupid as well. I could make Chanel protective toilet seats and they'd buy them by the dozen.

I mean, in fashion there's a lot of ugly people. It is the nature of the business.
Ugly people need good clothes to make them look good, hmmmm?

And then, and then I find out the city that Sex and the City is, is NEW YORK.
Are these girls in Sex and the City living in some kind of alternative New York than the one I live in half the year? How the hell can anyone live there? Wouldn't they get bored.

So: I assume the scriptwriters wrote this movie by the "drawing things out of a hat" way I described in a post about Marc Jacobs. ie. they draw the plot out of a hat, the fashion out of a hat- the words out of a hat.
I can imagine them sitting there in a room. "Okay, we've got four women, who shop, who wear expensive clothes, and have a bit of sex"
"do we even need to do the hat thing for this?"
"shit man, no. Just uhh, let the girls do a bit of this, a bit of that...you know"
"great!"

Oh. And the fashion: it was pretty rubbish for the most part. Chanel deliberately didn't give many clothes to this movie, but perhaps they could've used them.

Yves went too, by the way. He had a great time telling everybody he was dead and signing autographs. The French are used to this sort of thing.