Maude and Fish

Golly, as my my Vermont neighbor Maude often says. I like Maude. She's a good hunter, and she's taught Anna how Not To Shoot people (a relief for the Vogue PR dept, let me tell you. How many more excuses could they come up with- "it was just a Government weather balloon that fell on the poor dear, so sorry!", "Terry Richardson's massive lack of talent and taste fell upon Mrs. Salome, she died instantly. There was no pain, but we do send our commiserations to her husband. Enclosed is a free DVD of Sex And The City 2: Uncut. We do hope you enjoy!")

Another phrase of Maude's: "I have fish to fry!" Well, I have fish to fry too, Maude. Slimy fish. The kind that sit on the bottom of the ocean feeding on their own filth (and the filth of others). The kind of fish who get fake tans. I am, of course (you hadn't guessed?), talking about "InStyle" magazine, who contacted me some months ago wanting to feature me in a "best blogs of all time"-type feature. I laughed about it with certain associates- "haw haw haw", we went, because this "InStyle" magazine is- how do you say- for the tanned ones and girls who watch that JuicyStar person on you-tube. It is not very chic. However, I thought about it some more and thought, well, maybe this could be charity work. After all, Bono is doing Africa and the Geldof person is doing Ethipopia and Neil Young is doing the farms. I thought: ah, I will help the needy, the unfortunates, the tanned-and-sprayed ones. I must admit though, I did this for selfish means. Sometimes I look outside Rue Cambon and I see these awful orange girls with terrible leggings that make them look like German sausages. They say things like (in a heavy American accent): "THIS IS WHERE COCO CHANEL LIVES!" "DO YOU THINK SHE'LL INVITE US IN FOR TEA AND CRUMPETS?", and then someone else, from behind a street lamp (they are very thin) says: "That's the queen of England, you superficial twats." And then the American girls say: "OH! IS THAT WHAT COCO CHANEL DOES?", to which the person behind the street lamp sighs and mopes off to a cafe.

Now, these "InStyle" people required a t-shirt. A demode shirt. I discussed this with the seamstresses who make these, thread by thread, and they said "verra well, if you must." I thanked them and emailed "InStyle" back with "If you return it by sundown." They replied with "Oh! But there is a boy in the office who says your t-shirt would be the jewel in his collection!" I was feeling a tad generous, and said "Mmmph" or something of the sort. I found it funny (as did the associates), because we were joking that this is all "InStyle" wanted from us- that it was an elaborate hoax rouse to obtain a t-shirt. (By the way, those hacks claimed they couldn't afford to spend the money on buying a shirt- apparently it costs too much to shoot Miley Cyrus or Rand Paul or whoever they have on their covers.)

Of course, a day later or so, I received an email from the assistant who was in charge of "picture finding" or something similarly ridiculous. She said the editor pulled the piece. The editor, who I looked up, is one of those demode and unfortunate tanned ones. More's the pity. My associates agreed with me that this was their plan from the start: to obtain a t-shirt, with no intention of doing the story (for this fabled "boy", whoever he is. I like my boys visable, and preferably naked.)

So to use another phrase of Maude's: "Nuts to them!"- she does have good phrases. I can think of more explicit ones, but I'd feel like I was making fun of those starving Africans, such is the plight of the tanned ones. I thought about this for a whole minute, and I thought- well, maybe I should help them even more. And this is my plan- I am going to start a trust. I call it the "SAVE THE TANNED DEMODE", or STD for short. Please donate generously (checks can be written to Mr Howard Ques, 56 Rue Saint Colette, Paris.) With your help we can give them a better life, and provide white makeup for them to cover up their tans. 

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.

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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

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.

THAT'S NOT IMPOSSIBLE. YOU'RE FIRED.

Ahem.

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-

Variations on the Death of Blogging

Dear Twitter Followers,

I am very, very, very disappointed in you. You are the most demode people that I have ever encountered. I have seen your tweets. I do not care that you are having a shower. The mere fact that you are having a shower implies that you were at some point dirty, which I find repulsive. I do not care that you think so-and-so is the "coolest" person ever. I do not care what you had for lunch. Why are you eating in the first place? Why do you have a twitter anyway? Do you really think anybody cares what you are doing right now? I certainly do not care what you are doing right now- you bore me. Yet what I am most disappointed in is the fact that you appear to be a bunch of coffee-addicted, hyper-active, ADD children. As I dictate this most to an assistant, I am told I have 1577 followers. But, how many of you actually read this blog? The answer is: less than that. "But oh! We follow you on twitter because it is the hip and cool thing to do! All the celebrities are on twitter now, not blogging." Non non non, the real reason so little of you 1577 cannot read this blog is because you cannot read! You people cannot read any more than one-hundred-and-forty characters at a time! Your short little attention spans can only grasp these little messages of 140 letters, hm? Novels, I am sure, will start to be 140 characters. Short stories will become 75 characters; and songs will be just 15 characters. If we keep going this way, "ABBA DABBA ZAPPAA" will be the hit song of 2010!

Blogging is dead, hmm? Long live twitter!

Love,
Uncle Karl

Vineland

"Karl, we're in code K" says my assistant, in his whites pressed so much that they appear to invade personal space.
"Code K?" the voice of Anna shouts, in the other room indulging in...oh, do I even need to tell you?
"Code K. It appears there's a demode one in our presecne."
"A demode one, hmm?" I let off- a mere wisp of refrigerated air from between my lips. My trademark "hmm?" sends shivers throughout the entire fashion world. Down their shoulderblades and into their soulless little bodies.
"Yep."
"Yep?"
"Yep."
"Fire this man, Anna."

Oh dear, it appears we have solved who the demode one is in the first paragraph of this post! Oh no! And now I'm going all post-modern on you. I feel like Martin Amis. Maybe I am Martin Amis. Maybe, I have a split personality which does not remember a thing about the other. So during the day I am Karl Lagerfeld, genius. And during the night I am Martin Amis, writer. How ridiculous, hmm? Gosh- we'd better joke about the anorexics now. To loosen up the mood.

Knock Knock. Who's there? An anorexic!

Anna: Uh. You're meant to say "anorexic who?"
Karl: But anorexics don't have a last name. Well, they do but they're all different. It's not as if all anorexics are from the same family. So what I'm trying to say is, is that there's really no possibility for a "who" to go in there."
Anna: You just don't get it, do you..
Karl: Get what?
Anna: I'll try one on you: Knock knock.
Karl: Who's there?
Anna: Anna.
Karl: Anna who?
Anna: No, Anna Wintour.
Karl: I don't get it.
Anna: If I explain it it won't be funny.
Karl: I think we should just go back to being bitches.

As I was saying, there was this assistant that declared "Code K", which as everybody will know is the Most Serious code in the entire arsenal of codes that I've developed over the years. I did it all in one night, actually. I got home from work- and this was when boys threw themselves at me. So there was this boy- all toned, his chest a masterpiece, his lips full of ambition...you, dear reader, may imagine the rest. He was on my couch, as this was in the 60's where locks had not been invented yet. Sprawled out on there like he expected me to make love to him or something.
"Now look here, young man. I have no love to give you! I have no soul! I eat souls!"
"You have no love to give me? Sounds like Leonard Cohen."
Ah, a boy who knows something.
"Nothing like Cohen. So long, Marianne."
"Oh come on now! That was a pointed reference towards Cohen if nothing else!"
"Yeah. The fact is: I'm just not interested in sex."
"What about your lover?"
"He comes into the picture in the 70's, really. I haven't met Jacques yet!"
"You know his name is going to be Jacques?"
"I've read the history books!"
"So no sex?"
"Non, no sex tonight."

Now- the reason young men don't throw themselves at me anymore is because so many young men have done this the governments of the world had to create a breeding programme to repopulate the world with Attractive Young Men. Once a man has thrown himself at me, it is as good as suicide. After all, if you don't catch them, they simply continue falling! And eventually they go splat, which in my mind is a very vulgar way to go. Anyway, now I have rations of Attractive Young Men: a Brad there, a Brad here, a Brad over there. They're all called Brad- I simply can't be bothered remembering names. (Yes, I do realize I am not with Brad anymore. And you sure realize it, don't you Brad! Slut. Whore. Chanelface. But I can't be bothered remembering the name of the new one.)

In any case, I let the boy outside where he proceeded to climb the building Batman-and-Robin style without the benefit of the building being on the horizontal. And of course, I heard that very vulgar splat not long after. Oh dear. I went back into my castle, and started to draw up the Karl Code list. Sounds like a bad novel, no? "The Karl Code." Imagine what other sort of novels you could create with that, hmm? "The Nabokov Code", "The Klimt Code", "The Da Vinci Code." I'm sure the last one would be hilarious- some half baked conspiracy book. "The Klimt Code" on the other hand would be made up of text made to resemble images by him; which are only fully viewable by those with Synesthesia. The text itself would be written by Thomas Pynchon.
"The Nabokov Code" has already been written. It's not called that, of course.

What the Karl Code serves as is a sort of defence plan for fashion. For example, last night I was at a restaurant with a few others at Pastis. Kate Winslet, Kevin Spacey (is that man famous? I'm not sure why he was there), Isaac Mizrahi and so on. A waiter came over and asked Anna if she wanted food. I'll repeat that in caps: "IF SHE WANTED FOOD." Anna "freaked" out, as the youth say, and rightly so. I was in the corner taking photos of everybody- all those disgusting fatties eating their food. It's kind of like a perverse sort of porn. Anna started shrieking: "CODE F! CODE EFF! CODE EFFF!"
And the team went into action: two assistants apprehended the culprit (ie. the waiter) and dragged him out back, for a little lesson. A waitress who looked very thin herself- she may have been going to a Halloween party with those bones- gave Anna an avocado, because Anna was shrieking "AVOCADO! AVOCADO! AVOCADO!". The chef made the avocado look nice, and less like food. Anna looked it the rest of the night: her eyes boring into the very fabric of the avocado. I took more photos. The night was saved, thanks to the Karl code, hm?

Shirts and Barbie, quelle horror

Mr. Vidal Wu had a most excellent idea yesterday: all you readers who have purchased DEMODE shirts should send pictures of you wearing them, and I will post them on the blog. Of course, I had this idea about 24 hours before Vidal Wu was even born.

There will be a few rules about sending me pictures of you wearing the demode shirts. You may not be fat, you may not be ugly, you may not be stupid- the usual. I don't need to go over it all again, do I? Non, I don't.

I've been wondering why I did that Barbie thing. I designed clothes for Barbie dolls. I am terrified of dolls, as you'll note from interviews and posts that I've done in the past. So this thought has been going through my head: "Why did you design clothes for something you are terrified of?" I said.
"Because it is keeping your enemies closer, hmm?" I said.
"Yes- but why did I not put them in straightjackets? They wouldn't be able to move and try and invade my houses then, hm?" I said.
"Oh Karl, who would buy Barbie dolls with straightjackets, hm? Can you imagine the little girls and dapper little boys playing with Straight-Jacket Babrie?" I said.
"Karl- I realize this. People like Yves would buy Straight-Jacket Barbie." I said.
"Straight-Jacket Barbie: Barbie goes into a mental institution after a breakdown! Go to therapy! Have pills! Electric Shock treatment! Melt her plastic!" I said.
"I think Rehab Barbie would probably be more relevant, hmm?" I said.
"Uh oh! Barbie's got an addiction! Take her to an exclusive rehab clinic! Get a new addiction! Find love with a fellow inmate! Escape from the clinic and go back a second time! Go on a b-list TV show to revive your flagging career!" I said.
"Mm, that's a good idea. I mean- there's a market for that kind of thing." I said.
"Voodoo Barbie." I said.
"Rei would buy that." I said.

Even Mrs. Wooten well as little Nitty

Good Morning Paris and Vermont. And other parts of the world.



Anyway, on your screen you should be able to see a picture of the above young man. He is pretending to fly or something, I don't know. Maybe he really is about to fly. He certainly looks very enthusiastic about it. You will also not that he is wearing a DEMODE shirt, which is very edgy and cool and hip. And whilst I am bolding those to be sarcastic, it really is the bee's knees. The cat's pajama's. The elephant's weight watchers. The crocodile's handbag. The lion's cooperate suit. The ant's pants. The moon's Yohji blazer. The hippopotamus's' dress made out of bedsheets. Or, as one of my nieces, Belle, might say, it is the sex.

It is the pope and a nun. It is god and Mary. It is Yves and Pierre. It is more sexy than Jimi Hendrix and Cat Power in a sack of Chanel dresses. It is more sexy than Julie Anne making out with her lover (almost). It is even more sexy than Lou Reed, a box of Valium which Anna has drunk, and Alber feasting upon pancakes cooked in Quinn the Eskimo's pancake house, as Donatella looks on- her lips actually bursting with collagen as she purses them in jealousy.

Anyway, the point is, is that the man in the picture is extremely, deliriously happy. (More delirious than Prince converting somebody- finally- to being a Jehovah's witness*). In fact, he may even be able to fly because of his deliriousness- because of the t-shirt. Not that I am saying my DEMODE shirts make you fly. Disclaimer, etc etc. You can always try, of course. But not at home!

So now I'm going to point out that beside you, to the right there, is a button that allows you to purchase said shirt. It may just make you fly. Like drugs but you'll be able to remember things, hm?

In other news- I've decided I want a band to wake me up in the morning now. Berlin Philharmonic bores me- they're just so German. "Ja! Ja! Ja!" they say. Such Ja-men.

*After he spent the best part of this decade trying to do so. He can now become Taoist, hm?

Note: I didn't bother having an assistant convert the young man's photo to black and white. That requires talking to them....and I don't like talking to assistants these days. I snap my fingers at them and sometimes they understand. They're just so simpering and boot-licking. You'd think I was paying them to be like that.

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 fakekarl@gmail.com 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.)

An Email from A Day In The Life of Karl Lagerfeld

Click to enlarge. This is an actual email I received today. 500 dollars for Chanel? Well, I never.

(Homeless) Ex Models

The worst conversation one can ever have in the world is a conversation with an ex model who has became a bum or a hobo.
I was just walking out of the Chanel HQ the other day when this homeless ex model came up to me; with cracked makeup and mascara down her checks; like she hadn't taken the makeup off since her last fashion show 20 years ago.
"Yo, Karl!"
"Ja?"
"I used to be a model, you know."
"Oh, for who?"
"I was a- city model"
"Oh?"
"Yeah. I dressed up and modelled around the city."
"Dear, that's what most fashion people do."
"I modelled for Kmart, too, you know."
"Pierre Kmart?"
"And Walmart."
"Madame Walmart?"
"Yeah! Do you want to take a look at my portfolio?"

And she takes out this book of children's drawings- stick figures and so on with her head pasted to the tops of the stick figures.
"This is me for Yves Saint Laurent, and this is me for uh; what's the one with the C logos called?"
"Chanel."
"Yeah, this is me for Chanel".
"You know, I do Chanel", I say.
"Ooh, this was done when Mister Dior ran the place."
"Oh, right."

She got out a weight loss pill and popped it into her mouth; and dropped to the ground and snored. There's quite of few homeless ex models around Paris. It's tragic, non? They can't help being demode. Maybe we should hold a dinner for them or something.

"Are you FASHION?"

I was talking to some demode fashion person today, and when they dared to criticize the new Chanel bags I said:
"Are you fashion?? Are you enough of a whore to buy this bag? ARE YOU?"
And she looked at me a little weirdly. Hmm.
"YOU KNOW, HAVING WHAT IT TAKES TO PULL OFF A BAG THAT CHEAP TAKES SKILL. DO YOU HAVE THAT SKILL?"
And she started to back away.
"ARE YOU GETTING WET OVER THE THOUGHT OF BUYING THIS CHANEL BAG?"
Then she started to dial on her Dior cell phone.
"ARE YOU A FASHION WHORE?"
And then she put the Dior cell phone up to her ear.
"Do you try hard enough? Do you fawn over my daughter enough? Have you left 10 million comments on her posts? Have you!? Do you love her? Do you want to be her? Do you read all those hip little magazines that I eat and lick their contents and buy everything that's in them?
Do you take fashion seriously? You know, fashion is serious business. Really serious. Do you weigh under 50 kgs? Are you an anorexic? Bulimic? Good lord, you're not 51 kgs are you??!"
She had her mouth open at this point. Needs dental work.
"Do you, or do you not; take this here Chanel bag that's actually a joke to be your boyfriend?"
She started trying to say something here.
"Will you sleep with this Chanel bag, will you dress for this Chanel bag? Are you fashion enough?"
She was kind of shaking violently.
"Why, where are you Rayban Wayfarers (TM)? You want to be a good hipster, don't you?"
She started to fumble in her purse whilst still shaking.
"Are those FAKE RAYBANS I see? Do you think that's very fashion there?"
She got down on her knees.
"I don't think YOU are very FASHION, hmmmm?"
"Please Karl, have mercy."
"Why couldn't you behave like a good little tool, hmmm?"
"I-I-I..."
"There is no "I" in fashionista apart from the two that are there! Prepare for punishment, you fake you!"

And then I had a nice drink of Diet Coke.

"Am I Demode?"

Karl: Hello there, little Jimmy.
Jimmy: Hey Uncle Karl!
Karl: I hear you want to know if you're demode or not, hmm?
Jimmy: Gosh gee, yeah
Karl: Well Jimmy, why aren't you wearing a Chanel skirt?
Jimmy: Mommy said not to wear a Chanel skirt.
Karl: Oh, but Brother Marc does.
Jimmy: Gee, he does?
Karl: He does.
Jimmy: So Uncle Karl, am I demode?
Karl: Yes.
Jimmy: But doesn't my gosh-darn-all-American cuteness win you over?
Karl: No.
Jimmy: Gee Karl, what if my Mommy cooks you a nice apple pie?
Karl: I do not eat plastic, hmm?

Jane (my daughter): Am I demode?
Karl: No.
Jane: I love you, daddy.
Karl: I . . . love you too
Jane: ...?
Karl: This "love" thing is weird. I feel my temperature rising a little.

The Dream

Well hello there, chic ones.
Hello to the vacuum cleaner, the telephone beret-maker, the king of the united group of monocles, the dogs barking down the street (please shut up), the man takes out my old telephones that have evaporated, the doll maker--

Dolls.

Last night I had a dream about dolls. I was there, in the closet that we had in the 70's. Flowers everywhere. Terrible glasses. Hairy chests. That's enough to make a man lose his mind.
But then, in the dream, plastic dolls of the fashion crowd came out- they surrounded me. Little shiny human dolls; with cartoon voices. "Hello darhling" one squeaks.
And then.....and then the DEMODE dolls start to come out--

Fat dolls, ugly dolls, poor dolls. Fatties! Obese dolls! And they come to get me...walk into the closest and...and....and...they melt into a big pile of demode plastic.

And then the big Andre Leon Talley comes in; life sized, but plastic. And he's wearing this hideous Hawaiian shirt.

So-Called Teen Fashionistas

Teen fashionistas. The sort that say "Oooh, I love fashion". And then proceed to tell you about their giant Dolce and Gabbana belt and Louis Vuitton bag. The ones that go "what?" when you mention dear Martin Margiela to them. The sort that go "who?" when you mention Anna to them. Anna Wintour. This women is demi-god of fashion; and the so called "fashionista" does not know who Anna is.
I hate these sort of people. This blog has genuine teenagers interested in fashion reading it. I know this because the fakes and phonies I had banned from the blog.

Unfortunately Chanel's acquired a status of "desirability" among the so-called "fashionistas" who've never heard of Comme des Garcons. I am very upset about this. I do not want ugly girls who wear jeans-and-a-disgusting-white-t-shirt carrying a Chanel bag. I do not want some celebrity wearing Chanel sunglasses. It disgusts me. Chanel is not for everyone. In bold, hmm? Chanel is not for people who are fat, despite what the motivational T.V speakers say. You're getting fat watching the speaker on T.V anyway, hmm? Go out and run to Paris! From New York, from LA....oh, LA. LA the land of the "casual". LA the land of fat women, fat women like Paris Hilton and Mary-Kate Olsen. These fatties are worshiped there! Mary-Kate is adorable, but when was the last time she wore Chanel, hmmmmmm?
No, Mary-Kate is wearing Balenciaga and Marc. Disgusting.

I just sent a memo to Brad at security- all the security guards are called Brad. We're going to run Chanel with bouncers now. Who cares about the money, hmm? We have one trillion dollars in assets. We have more property than McDonald's (cue vomit) and the Catholic Church combined. We own a Tardis. We can time travel. We're bigger than Andre Leon Talley!

Anna and I went to a resturant today, by the way. Andre was there. They had a 3 hour long staring match. Through sunglasses.

Shoes

Yesterday I was in NY at some boring dinner that Anna was hosting. Is it possible for a more boring guest list? There were all these 50ish women who thought they were 30 and dressed like they were 20. They all look the same. Blond hair, tight face, lips painted a ghastly shade of red; wears a dress with too many frills by some dullard who saw a couture show and said to himself "right, couture=frills". They talk like they're perpetually happy in this stilted manner. "Hello! Karl. How, are, you?".
Really- a comma is too long for their pauses between words, it needs to be a half-comma. But each word is pushed out with a kind of forced happiness which is dreadful to watch.

So I was at a table with all these women, and their husbands (who aren't even worth mentioning. They all seemed to be named "Henry" or "John". I'm not even sure if they were real. Maybe they're cardboard cutouts). And I'm fuming behind my glasses, so I decide to play games.

"Heheheh", I think to myself.
"What was that?" says one of the blond women. Anna calls them socialites. I call them the living dead.
Anyway, it seems I said that outloud and the blond women looked rather mortified like I'd just committed some great faux pas or something.
"Heheheh" I say again. It's a sort of sinister chuckle. I do it when viewing the new bags at Chanel. It produces good results.
"Oh...erm" says the Living Dead Woman..."do you like my shoes?"
"They're delicious. I could eat them up with my bare hands, rip them apart with my tounge and have Martin Margiela re-assemble them into something else." I say.
"Te-he-he-hee" titters Living Dead Woman. Like she knows something's happening but she doesn't know what it is.
"Could I see your shoes closer, hmmm?"
"Sure."

And she actually takes off her foot with the shoe on it, and gives it to me.
She takes off her foot.
"Hmm?"
"Oh, detachable feet. They're all the rage here in NY. A different set of feet for every different pair of shoes. One for the Jimmy's....one for the Prada's....you know" says she.
"Ah."

"So what do you think of the shoes?"

Fashion news

I have a complaint to make. About fashion news: namely that it's boring.
Please fix this. I can only do so many things to make it interesting; yet I see you fashion news people don't report on everything I do anyway.
For instance, what did I have for tea last night?
Of course, I had nothing. But I still had a desert made which I promptly had delivered to Bob Dylan's house. That's more interesting than "Karl Lagerfeld launches new perfumes".
Everybody does perfumes. It took me one night to formulate all those perfumes, have the bottles made, and take the photos. It was just a rainy day.

Uncle Karl needs to recharge now. Anna is hungover.

Somebody tries to parody me

Somebody is making fun of me. Parodying me. Creating satire of me!
See here.
Disgusting.

Really, why does anybody want to satirize me? The website it is on...has all these ads on it. Ads are fine, but these are demode ads. There was a photo of an overweight model in a swimsuit for "American Apparel". Who is American Apparel and why do you hurt my eyes?
I do not speak like that, anyway, hmm? Goodness me, they portray me as...crazy. I am not crazy.

These....Fug people will be hearing from my lawyers.

But now I must tango.

Christian Siriano

Christian Siriano. Your clothes hurt my eyes. Please stop.
Maybe Chanel will have to buy Project Runway, and stop it producing more awful designers....designers that create litter.

The 80s.
The 80s!!!!!!!

It truly is traumatizing.Vampires don't wear those sort of clothes. I know.

Rei's actually here with Anna, and they both just vomited.Waltz like a bat Karl...waltz like a bat. It'll all be alright.

So demode.

I'm going to sketch. I think that Prada women is outside scavenging through my bins....

Oh, and I also hate...

And I also hate the fashion community at large. The people at the top, you're nice- Anna, me, Yves........a few others. But boy oh boy, I do find the rest of you demode. You're too fat. The bulimics are too thin. Why can't you be the right weight, goddamit??!

Pictured: "ooh look at us. we are demode! we are so demode! look at us in our demode-ness! look at our stuuuupid non-Karl Lagerfeld designed outfits!"