Everybody's Having Those Same Old Dreams (Or, My Day was Just Wonderful, Thank You Very Much)

The other day, I was walking around Hyde Park. I often do this: it's a very good park for walking. There's plenty of interesting people there: gynaecologists, gourmet butter importers, lords whose kingdoms have dissolved into sand and the like. Just a month ago I was there and a man with small glasses and a green jacket came up to me- his name was Ozymandias, he said to me. I said hello to Ozymandias. It turns out that this fellow is in fact an Egyptian, used to be an accountant in Egypt. A sort of king, I suppose. He and I ended up discussing J.G Ballard, who you will know died the other day. We ended up going down to Hades to visit Mr. Ballard- we also visited my soul, who rests upon a pillow of silk and tweed. I've always rather enjoyed the river that one must go down to get to Hades- Anna's done some fantastic fishing in it. It's black and shiny, much like the remaining the umbrella I designed in 1947.

Anyway, I was walking around Hyde Park and everybody's looking at the sky. Even the doormen, in their Austrian jackets were looking up to the sky. Every single living thing in Hyde Park- plants included- was looking up toward the sky.
"What are you doing there?" I called out to a man in a tweed suit, with tweed shoes and a tweed pencil. He did not reply, his eyes mimicking the relationship between a child and a television.
"Hello?" I called again, stunned by the collective necks straining upwards.
"Twitter." was the lone response from a man with no face, but a bowler hat.
"Hmm?" I hmm?-ed.
"Twitter," he repeated, as if a wind-up toy.

The crowd in Hyde Park moved their arms up toward the sky, as if they were worshiping one of those religions, and started to say "Twitter. Twitter. Twitter. Twitter."
"Is twitter not an internet service?" I asked the man who had no face.
"Twitter is the sky. Twitter is the sun, moon, sky, and Earth. Twitter is you, Karl."
"Hippie." I retorted.
The crowd began to sing "Aquarius"- that awful wishy-washy-my-mother-didn't-breastfeed-me song, you know the one? I won't even link to it here, for fear half of you form a commune and never bathe again, but you know what I mean.

I walked away from Hyde Park scared a little, to be frank with you. As I walked a way, the crowd grew louder; now singing "give peace a chance". I wondered if I had stumbled into the 60's by mistake.
I talked to my watch, which by the way, there is only two of in the world. I muttered generally, as old men do. "Nein nein nein" accelerated at the speed of a Franco-Prussian bullet train. As I went further away they had stopped singing "give peace a chance." They were simply singing "Twitter's what we need, 140 characters' all we need, can't read no books, but hell, we can read twitter."

As I was on the outskirts of the park, the song had devolved once more, into something that wasn't even English, French, German, Swedish, or Russian. I could smell the smoke of fires, as people threw each other into the air, hoping to catch a glimpse of what-? -Ultimate Twitter Nirvana? A world created from 140 characters? Ultimate knowing of what somebody had for lunch? Mm, obviously that. I walked into the empty streets, and had diet Coke with a deaf, dumb, and dead old lady from 1840, who did not know what twitter was. I saw Shakespeare in the alley, writing a new play. One hundred and forty characters long.

Hold that thought

Miley Cyrus? What was I thinking? She is far too nice.
Maybe in a few years. Doesn't her father play country music? How demode. Country music should be played on silent.

I'm currently at a party writing notes on napkins and getting my butler to give them to my assistant who types my notes up on this blog. Hence short entries. I don't apologize.

Anna is calling me. She reminds me of my Mother. Wearing that dress that looks like Christmas ornaments. They jingle. Half tempted to tell her that it's not Christmas yet.

Louis Vuitton

Louis Vuitton is tacky, hmm?
I see awful fatties carrying around Louis Vuitton bags on the streets, and people who obviously can't afford Chanel trying to see fake Louis Vuitton on the sidewalks.
There goes the fatties, I think as they walk past me (and supress my vommit). There's a few fatties in the fashion industry too, you know. At least they're intelligent. But these fatties who are walking past me are stupid fatties because they think that buying a bag that says "LV" makes them fabulous. It's actually become a joke for us designers, hm? Whenever we see someone with a Vuitton bag we have to supress a snicker.

Louis Vuitton is fashion McDonalds, non?

Even Marc Jacobs- the man responsible for these bags at Vuitton laughs at his customers behind their backs. Well. When I say "responsible" I mean he draws a colour, fabric, and pattern randomly out of a hat. It's a very nice hat, mind you. This is the Marc Jacobs for Louis Vuitton design process at work. He calls it the "sorting hat".

So here is the lesson: Do not come in with a Louis Vuitton bag to a Chanel store (I have instructed security to bounce anyone who tries to), a Fendi store, or anywhere near me.

Love, Karl

ps. the image is by Nadia Plesner. I just told one of my assistants to set up a meeting with her. More on this as it develops.

Anna

As I said before, I had a diet Pepsi. Normally I will have Diet Coke but I had drunken all that.
I was most displeased. I had my chef order in a few crates of Coke afterwards. (I think one should always have one or two chefs around, it's much easier than having to eat out and smell food. My own chef concocts the most interesting variations on the paste I eat. I don't eat anything else. Eating is a habit to be avoided, hm?)

I am quite liking this blogging thing, because it means I can broadcast my thoughts without having to go out of my house. I hate going places. There's all these commoners. I hate the commoners, they are so dirty, hmm? And they try to touch me with their sticky germy fingers. Horrible.

I had Anna (Wintour) visit me today whilst I was taking photographs. She is like the Queen Bee of fashion, no? (Lindsay once made me watch a film of hers, "Mean Girls". Anna is like Regina George from that film. Apart from she doesn't get much sex, poor girl). She's always dealing- today she was telling me that I should look at some American designer to be head designer at Chanel when I die.
I told Anna that I am not going to die and that this American designer who I'm not going to name cannot design. She tried to slap me then, Anna is not used to being snubbed. I've heard stories about her slapping Marc Jacobs, John Galliano, Phillip Lim. The designers have nightmares about her. But I am the real Queen Bee in fashion.

Anna's been for the last half hour trying to apologize. I think she learnt a lesson, hmmmm?

Love, Karl

Phones

I hate phones. Andy Warhol loved them- he used to ring me up at 5 AM and just breath into the mouthpiece. This would go on for hours, and eventually I would just put the phone down on my table and let him continue. Eventually he would fall asleep and a coked out assistant would hang up.

Sometimes he'd pretend to be a salesman and say "would you like to buy my vacuum cleaner". That's all he said. Then I might indulge him and say "why yes, I would like to buy a vacuum cleaner. How much do they cost?".
But he wouldn't say anymore as if he was an actor with stagefright who couldn't remember his next line. Then I would say "Andy, I am tired of this nonsense, I am hanging up". He just continued breathing.

He's dead now.

Occasionally when I am in New York I get rung up on my telephone by salesmen who have somehow found out my number (this never happens in Paris because I cut the phone line). I say to them: "my vacuum is in disarray over my bird, hmm?". They say "we can offer you great life insurance, for only..." (I thought this opening move would confuse them, now I am convinced that they don't actually speak English; only know how to say a few lines and recognise the word "yes"). At this point I cut them off: "my house is trapped in a tree, chic, non?"
They continue: "for only 995 per year! This is a really great offer ma'm*".
I then will put the phone down and let them continue talking. The longest someone talked for was 3 hours. I pity the man who wrote the script they read off.

Anyway, these phones affect my work. One cannot sketch when a phone is ringing. I presume those that use phones as their main form of communication are too ugly to speak to me in person. So it is a blessing in disguise, hmmm?


*I fear this "insurance" script is targeted towards vulnerable old ladies. Which I am not, hm?