Selling my Soul, again

Hello Humans.

I've been asked by this person called Naomi to plug some new shopping website. Now, this Naomi is not the model Naomi who most of you know in some form or the other- she may have had a one night stand with you, chucked a telephone at you, chucked a television at you, chucked a bank-safe at you, chucked a refridgerator containing fudge and only fudge, chucked a supermarket at you containing at least 250 packets of cigerettes, chucked an H&M store at you containing five different versions of Kate Moss, the Sweedish chef, and plastic Mr. Rogers. Or you may be friends with her.

Anyway. She's not that Naomi. Nor is she Kate Moss, although I think this is evident as her name is "Naomi" and not "Kate Moss", or even "Kate". She's some other Naomi who emailed me because well, this is Karl Lagerfeld's blog and I'm pretty important in fashion, really. Actually I'm pretty important full stop. Really important. I'm why you're wearing leather fingerless gloves, and why you're having fantasties over a Chanel jacket, and why you think white hair is cool. So emailing me is like emailing the President of the World, expect I'm more important. Like emailing the president of the universe, except I'm more important. Uhh.

The website is cocosa. It sells-- clothes and things, or something. You can sign up using the "invite code", "fakekarl". There's my bit of free publicity for the day. I sold my soul to the devil years ago, anyway. He dresses well. He does not wear Prada. Only gay male lawyers wear Men's Prada. Really. They look a bit like Nazi SA uniforms, hmm?

Next, of course, is to sell this blog to Anna's magazine or something. I think this thing's worth more than Vogue, no? I already have a pile of invites. So maybe I should buy Vogue. Apart from I don't really want it. Maybe I'll give it to my daughter for a birthday present or something. She can edit it. But then what will Anna do?

Trip to this American Place

We went on a trip with my daughter today. A father-daughter trip, hm? She wanted to go to the Rodarte show..you know, that label run by the sisters who knit. I went to one of their shows once, and the two sisters just sat on rocking chairs knitting, backstage. And they stared at me when I came on to stare at them and intimidate them with the "KARL STARE". They're like these characters out of a Virginia Woolf novel or something, hm? And the fashion people who were surrounding me like a swarm of vicious little bees said "they're not from these parts". I almost expected these sisters to add "a-" to their words. As in "we've been a-designing the collection, and a-selling it to those city people. And a-riding the horse into town."

Actually when they started speaking (after staring at me, they starred and starred for almost an hour, slowly turning their eyes into slits like a clock slowly turns one hour into the next. It was actually unnerving. I wonder if they come from a planet near mine). And they spoke in LA-accents, and that ruined the whole Virginia Woolf thing which I was quite enjoying.
"So you're not Virginia Woolf characters" I said to them.

I think maybe I scared them a little, but it's all character building, huh?

So I'm in Texas. That's where the Rodarte show is. Tom Ford's here as well, and naturally he's stalking me. "Oh Karl, Oh Karl, Lick my phone. It's an iphone."
He's not a very good stalker. He's basically been yelling at me when he sees me; like some Japanese manga-addicted man-child.
"Tom. This is very boring" I say.
"But I don't have anything better to do."
"Go pluck your eyebrows or something?"
"AREN'T MY EYEBROWS PLUCKED ENOUGH FOR YOU?"
"It's something to do."
"Oh, Karl, Karl, Karl. You know I love you." And he gives me a little "punch". Like...the American drunk people who watch the games with the ball? The males who watch this. Very demode.
So I run away, because what do you do to this sort of thing? It's not very chic.

Le Boyfriend

I tucked the daughter in with a Karl teddy bear tonight. Anna said to me as I tiptoed out of her room in my little Lanvin shoes which squeeze my feet so nicely (- is this a little fetishistic? No, what Tom Ford does is fetishistic.)- Anna said to me "isn't it a little odd, your daughter sleeping with the teddy bear version of you?" and I said "you sleep with the Teddy bear version of yourself, Anna".
I think she made a "Hmph" noise or something- I guess that's meant to mean something but my Karl-vision beneath my sunglasses did not detect anything so I continued: "Anyway, Karl bear is a separate being. He is a teddy bear and I am not- not matter what Tom Ford says. I'd rather Karl bear be he boyfriend than one of them demode ones."

"A boyfriend!?!?" Anna said, her mouth turning into two interwoven pink snakes revealing her not-so-good teach forming a sort of black hole of Vogue-ness.
"Ja."
"Karl bear, Karl, is a bear."
"But have you seen the boys around her? So demode with their giant ten-gallon hats and Coach purses"
"Boys with Coach purses?"
"All the rage, apparently
"Do their ten-gallon hats contain alcohol of any sort?"
"Possibly. By the way they dress..."
"Ah...well..."
"Non, non. They're too young for you, Anna."
"I can drive, know. They'd think I'm cool. Hip."
"They ride horses I think. At the ranches."
"She needs a good boyfriend, yes?"
"Mm. I wonder if I....have someone that age, hmmm?"
"You were going to say son, weren't you?"
"Ye-- that'd be incest. Illegal, and too royal to be Chic."
"Someone else, then."
"Like me. Chic."
"And not a bear."
"So do they have alcohol underneath their hats or not??"

Wrong place, Nic

So it's 3AM in the morning and Nicolas Ghesquière comes in; and even though Nic might say he likes all that Martin Margiela stuff (oh, he was here a couple of days ago too. He knits.)
Anyway, even though Nic says he likes Martin Margiela what he really likes is Star Trek.
Yes, children; you're adorable, much-worshiped designer is a trekkie.
He comes in with the funny pointy ears and the flattended down hair and the funny Star Trek uniform and does the Star Trek salute.
And then he shoves a stocking over his head when he realizes that Karl Lagerfeld's Very Chic Closest (TM) is not the Star Trek convention. Not even a comic book convention.

So he rings up the Balenciaga people, and they come in their brown cars, with their silly little handbags, and say: "Come on dear, time to go. Have a little cup of tea and you'll be alright".

And then there was 2.

Just my daughter and I.

"So, hmm? What do....people do? Do you ummm, play ball or something?"
"Shoes."
"Good."

Chic

So my daughter writes this blog called "Sea of Shoes" where she posts pictures of her adorable self, and people tell her how adorable and stylish she is (quite rightly so).
So, I'm going to try the same here. Comment and tell me whatever, hmm? How chic Uncle Karl is looking.

Picture of Karl's Daughter

So this is my daughter, hmm?
Isn't she adorable? So chic! So Chanel! So Karl!

Paris so far

There's been a lot of celebration going on in Paris. All these "20th anniversaries". Martin Margiela's been doing what they do for 20 years- Martin, of course, is actually not human and hence why he does the whole "invisible" man thing. Logical, hmm? Of course, someone like myself isn't human either but I look kind of human, so it's okay.
The International Herald Tribute lady- Suzy; the one who Marc has a dartboard with her face on it which he throws cigarettes at when he gets angry (she gave him a bad review, once). The New York Times critc- Cathy someoneorrather- I can never remember their names, they're all so alike- she got pretty rowdy and started yelling insults down the street and poor Tom Ford.
Of course, Tom just wiggled his eyebrows and she stopped.
Anna provided the drinks for that party, and the Margiela one.

The actual clothes haven't been too interesting. I wonder what John's been drinking at Dior; I thought Anna had a policy of not-making-designers-alcoholics? Nina Ricci I kind of liked, despite the backlash from the so-called fashion press. There's only 3 good fashion critics anyway, and one of them writes somewhere totally out of the mainstream. The rest are a pack of liars and sheep who follow whatever.....well, whatever I say it right. How boring!
They're so horribly dressed, too. They think being a fashion critic makes them better than fashion. It's like some of those male designers who are incredibly tan and wear jeans and a tight t-shirt (I wonder who?). Non, a fashion critic should live fashion. Should eat fashion which obviously means not eating at all!

On second thoughts Nina Ricci was kind of demode. Everything, save Martin Margiela and Yohji Yamamoto have been so far. I guess everyone's waiting for Chanel? Again.
Don't get me started on Gareth Pugh. If I wanted bad architecture for clothes I'd go to middle-class America! Is this an aesthetic now? It is, but so are Hawaiian shirts, hm?

There was one show that was very Rock and Roll. Maybe my daughter will know. She is into that sort of thing. The rock and the rolling, the stones and the banging, the hip and the hopping. I am too, but I don't take notice of collections that happened in the 60's with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely hearts club band. These fashions have been! They have gone! I was alive then!
Ah, yes, the daughter. I will post pictures of her soon! It is more like, the 90's.
The 90s, hmm? I didn't even think I had sex then. I don't remember the 90's anyway. Kurt Cobain and all that. He's dead now, ja?

The daughter is adorable of course, hmm? So chic! Not mediocre at all. You will see more of her later. I think I'll tell everyone to destory the Chanel set and start over. Fun, huh?

What just happened

"Karl, there's a visitor"
"Hm?"
"She says she's your daughter"
"But I'm gay."
"The 70s.."
"Oh"
"Should I bring her in?"
"Beam her up"
[she is beamed up, by the power of Karl]
"Hello father"
"My, my, my. You are chic, hmm? I hope you are not mediocre"