"Are you wearing four jackets?" I said to the young man who walked into my office today.
He stuttered and mumbled a bit.
"You're wearing four jackets," I repeated.
He stuttered and mumbled some more, appearing to be confused as to how many layers of clothing he wears in the morning.
I took the very long metal rod which lies behind my desk, and poked the young man. He said ow. I proceeded to attach the hook at the end of the rod to his first jacket, and ripped part of it off. Under it, of course, was another jacket. I did the same to each of the four jackets until I finally reached a shirt, dirty and unwashed.
"Do you wear this shirt every day, without taking it off?" I asked the man.
He hesitantly nodded. I brushed my ponytail.
"Well. What do you want."
"K-k-karla told me to get a job."
"Karla?"
"My w-wife. I mean, m-m-my partner in l-love, that's w-what she calls i-i-it."
"And why do you need a job, person?" I asked as my eyes drifted down to his skinny jeans, where I saw an Animal Collective album poking out from his undone fly. "Ah", I said, before he had a chance to reply.
"A-ah-h?"
My eyes wandered down to his new balance shoes, where his laces were replaced with tiny wayfarers, melted and stretched out.
"Ah" I said again.
My glorious olfactory organ smelt the smell of week old instant coffee, record players, American Apparel, Mexican fedora hats and lookbook dot nu.
"Ahh," I said.
He's muttering and stuttering again. I whack him with my silver cane, which I keep within my tie, and he speaks a coherent sentence.
"K-arla said i-i-if uh, we don't get m-money she can't-t buy her thr-ift shopping."
"So the hipster lifestyle caught up with you, hmm?"
"ALT! THIS J-JOB WOULD BE ALT!"
"Dear boy, I am not offering any jobs."
He then takes off his shirt, revealing a tattoo of Thom Yorke and a terribly filthy chest.
I yawn, as Karla, his "partner in love" comes in. Barry White sings as she opens the door. She screams "KAAAAAARL!", where I duck under my desk at her rich-girl shrillness. I can just feel the walls of my office being contaminated with GUESS and Louis Vuitton germs. Yet, no self respecting hipster wears Louis Vuitton- on her body she wears leggings and a white t-shirt, like a impoverished aerobics instructor. But I know that underneath it all, she's still a rich girl. I can smell it on her.
Golly goose, we got into present tense there for a bit! I feel like Nabokov, except not so Russian.
I leapt out of the window at this point, and apologies to the woman who had her jacket damaged by my fall. I heard Karla yelling out the window, some terribly sad story about her young lover needing a job because otherwise they would not be able to afford the electricity.
"Use candles" I yelled back.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Mothers Day
This is a poem I wrote for my dear mother.
Mother, Mother, Oh so dear,
Telling me my hands are ugly,
Smoking with your hands so fair,
Mother, Mother, I shall not bore you,
With my childish talk,
And my whitened hair,
Mother, Mother, I design Chanel now;
Yes Mother, I will not talk of work,
I know how it bores you so
Mother, Mother, I will wear my glasses,
My glasses so dark in the night,
To cover up my evil eye from you
Mother, Mother, how is hell?
Is the devil treating you well?
Does he let you play his fiddle?
Does he have the fire turned on well?
Mother, Mother, Oh so dear,
Telling me my hands are ugly,
Smoking with your hands so fair,
Mother, Mother, I shall not bore you,
With my childish talk,
And my whitened hair,
Mother, Mother, I design Chanel now;
Yes Mother, I will not talk of work,
I know how it bores you so
Mother, Mother, I will wear my glasses,
My glasses so dark in the night,
To cover up my evil eye from you
Mother, Mother, how is hell?
Is the devil treating you well?
Does he let you play his fiddle?
Does he have the fire turned on well?
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Anna Wintour has a wine (or two), or: the Met Gala
This terribly demode Met Gala was held once again, a couple of days ago. It's Anna's little party, though I overheard a little bird wondering whether Anna has gone lesbian; what with the model as muse theme and all. Of course, that's if we define "model" and "muse" by excluding those more unconventional muses- Rebecca Alperin, those of Yohji, Rei, and so on- eventually we end up with a very glamorous...barn of sticks who appear to be impersonating drag queens. So it's unfair to say Anna is a lesbian- she obviously has a thing for drag queens, which is fine. Very J.G Ballardian.
I did not go to the Gala because I don't like parties as a rule. I am not a party person. I am more of a by-myself person. However, I feel that the Gala has outstayed the welcome fashion throws out to it: it is becoming the Fondue Party of this decade. Frankly, the only interesting thing about this ball was mon amour, Jules- she wore a dress by me. Fendi, spring/summer, 2009- look 35 I believe. I got the telegram from her around last month requesting a dress. I tried to convince her that maybe it wouldn't be the best idea; that these balls and galas are terribly demode now; it's incredibly vulgar to stage something like this when people are losing jobs, no? Not just any jobs, but the jobs of seamstresses! If there's anybody almost as important as a designer, it's a seamstress. I was just outside the Chanel headquarters the other day as a seamstress sat homeless on the street, her dress like rags and her eyes a vortex of blazing desperation. I laughed at her, because it was I that fired her. I'm only worried about the good seamstresses.
My driver drove me past the gala, once. We were going out for a late night high-collar feast and people stalking session anyway. Now if this was Yves, we'd be hearing about "Oh how I regret not going to this ball of balls!" I, on the other hand, was stuck by the circus that appeared to be congregating outside- what appeared to be a large yellow bird was smoking a cigarette. I heard snippets of conversation: "Where do you insert a tampon?", "Do you think he's straight?", "I heard Alaia had an affair with Anna."
Oh yes, Alaia! Readers of other media will note that Mr. Alaia pulled out of this little ball. Commentors on say, Cathy Horyn's blog have been positvly enraged by this! Yes, because a designer pulling out of a meaningless ball is very enraging! My Chanel, I feel my ice cold blood rising a degree. Nevermind that our Mr. Alaia is a noted prima-donna (much more than Nigel Barker is a noted fashion photographer) , and what probably happened was someone insulted his shoes. You know, a lot of people praise Alaia, calling him a genius and such. Nevermind most of them haven't seen Alaia's work; he's, like, a totally important designer! It's mostly the critics who like him, of course, because He Has Wine.
I had to go to the gala in the end anyway, Anna passed out. By the time I arrived half the guests had passed out, actually- it reminded me of a gas chamber, but with pretty dresses.
I did not go to the Gala because I don't like parties as a rule. I am not a party person. I am more of a by-myself person. However, I feel that the Gala has outstayed the welcome fashion throws out to it: it is becoming the Fondue Party of this decade. Frankly, the only interesting thing about this ball was mon amour, Jules- she wore a dress by me. Fendi, spring/summer, 2009- look 35 I believe. I got the telegram from her around last month requesting a dress. I tried to convince her that maybe it wouldn't be the best idea; that these balls and galas are terribly demode now; it's incredibly vulgar to stage something like this when people are losing jobs, no? Not just any jobs, but the jobs of seamstresses! If there's anybody almost as important as a designer, it's a seamstress. I was just outside the Chanel headquarters the other day as a seamstress sat homeless on the street, her dress like rags and her eyes a vortex of blazing desperation. I laughed at her, because it was I that fired her. I'm only worried about the good seamstresses.
My driver drove me past the gala, once. We were going out for a late night high-collar feast and people stalking session anyway. Now if this was Yves, we'd be hearing about "Oh how I regret not going to this ball of balls!" I, on the other hand, was stuck by the circus that appeared to be congregating outside- what appeared to be a large yellow bird was smoking a cigarette. I heard snippets of conversation: "Where do you insert a tampon?", "Do you think he's straight?", "I heard Alaia had an affair with Anna."
Oh yes, Alaia! Readers of other media will note that Mr. Alaia pulled out of this little ball. Commentors on say, Cathy Horyn's blog have been positvly enraged by this! Yes, because a designer pulling out of a meaningless ball is very enraging! My Chanel, I feel my ice cold blood rising a degree. Nevermind that our Mr. Alaia is a noted prima-donna (much more than Nigel Barker is a noted fashion photographer) , and what probably happened was someone insulted his shoes. You know, a lot of people praise Alaia, calling him a genius and such. Nevermind most of them haven't seen Alaia's work; he's, like, a totally important designer! It's mostly the critics who like him, of course, because He Has Wine.
I had to go to the gala in the end anyway, Anna passed out. By the time I arrived half the guests had passed out, actually- it reminded me of a gas chamber, but with pretty dresses.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Karl Lagerfeld: The Twitter Interview
fashionpirate@fakekarl i give the best advice, don't I, Uncle? Yes, yes I do. You should get Rei to send me dresses as a reward
Yes niece, you do. Your advice is as delightful as a summer's day, in which I throw things at the fatties, watching in amused yet icy silence as the things I throw dissolve into the fattie's fat. I will speak to Rei, hm? Only because I l- lo-. Well. Anyway.
latto@fakekarl Have you still got your hundreds of 1st generation iPods? If not, which do you own now & how many?
Yes. I also throw them at fatties. I have about 5687 ipods. Which you'll note, is the amount of protest singers around today.
lurex@fakekarl when you will do a new hair cut?
Never. When are you getting a new hair cut? You see, my hair is very long so my brain can function better. Otherwise it grows inwards and clogs up the brain.
teenfashionista@fakekarl What's your favorite way to spend a lovely Saturday afternoon?
Anna is generally hungover from the last night, so I take her to the hospital and they pump her stomach out. This is a weekly occurance. At least. Then she gets drunk again. Repeat process. It'll be worse at the Met Ball, much worse. She used to never drink at those things, but with that Donatella person....oh dear. Here's some dandruff-free advice: don't get drunk with Donatella Versace. Ever.
annabananafish@fakekarl if you could be any dinosaur, what dinosaur would you be and why?? (and don't just answer with "none, dinosaurs are demode")
I tried to find a dinosaur which does not eat. I ended up finding the Weimarosaurus, which you probably will not have heard of. It died at as soon as it evolved, as it refused to eat. But at least it was very chic for the 5 minutes in total that it existed, hm?
queengilda@fakekarl so how many collars do u own and can I get some? :)
78,089,986. If you go outside my Parisian apartment, and if you fight with the Le Skinny Jeans mafia that patrols outside it, you may be able to get some old collars of mine that I throw out the window of the lady who lives above me. Her name is Esme.
jmcleod@fakekarl Might you suggest a reading list or a sequence of events for a young person wanting to become a superlative designer?
And what exactly is a superlative designer? How about a "young person"? It took me a lot of time to get young! I can suggest reading a lot of Nabokov though. And Murakami. Nabokov and Murakami, and maybe a little Pynchon on the side- as for poetry; Dylan Thomas and T.S Eliot. Do not fight in the captain's tower. And don't study fashion at college; it seems to me that the vomit-rate induced by college fashion designs is actually higher than vomiting produced by alcohol consumption at college. Something's wrong if this is the case, no?
Coco_5@fakekarl. Est-ce que vous aller faire une autre collection en partenariat avec H&M?
Non.
idratherbuyshoe@fakekarl how does a lover of fashion, not working in the fashion industry, get tickets to a Chanel/KarlL show?
You purchase them at the ticket office, like everybody else.
lookcloserblog@fakekarl what do you wear to bed?
Exactly what I wear during the day. I'm like the super-man you Americans have; I must be ready all the time, every time! There are no excuses for being late to a tea party. Fashionably late is the domain of teenage girls and their proms.
lavendrdisastr
@fakekarl I SHOULD GET CREDIT FOR THAT I AM CALLING YOU OUT THAT WAS MINE ALL MINE
See the note above. (But please dear, save the hysterics for the bedroom, hmmm?)
lucasvarga@fakekarl I think your comment about old people is so stupid.
I think you are incredibly demode. I am nearing 250 and you don't see me in a "home", hmm? That is because home is where the heart is, and I have no heart! I'm incredibly confused to why you think I care about what you think. The good thing about bars is the the barman pretends to care about what you have to say; I suggest using one.
glamour_puss@fakekarl thank you for validating my existence.
You're welcome. Welcome to the world, Descartes II!
latto@fakekarl You promised to answer us on your blog Haven't seen anything about your famous collection of iPods 1G That's not right...
Oh dear, you'd better write a protest song about it. "Lord have pity because Karl didn't answer my question soon enough."
Judas!
I don't believe you.
sweetarchivia@fakekarl What do you think of shows like America's Next Top Model? Do you think these girls could walk your Chanel runway?
Tyra Banks was once a decent model, before she cheapened herself with that show. It's a terrible show; like the cheese in a McDonald's burger. If you want to be a model, don't go on America's Next Top Model. You'd be better off making sexual advances at me, and I'm asexual. Have we seen an artist emerge from American Idol? Non. And I don't think we're likely to see a model emerge from a reality-show-for-the-plebes anytime soon, either.
CommeTuMeVeux@fakekarl Are grey t-shirts demode? Besides Diet Coke, which other beverage is okay to indulge on?
They probably are. I wouldn't know, because I have never worn a t-shirt in a day on my life. What is wearing a "tee-shirt" like?
Champagne is okay to indulge in if you're Anna. Otherwise, water. It's good enough for the dolphins.
aydapadi@fakekarl Hi babe.
I'm asexual you know!
Yes niece, you do. Your advice is as delightful as a summer's day, in which I throw things at the fatties, watching in amused yet icy silence as the things I throw dissolve into the fattie's fat. I will speak to Rei, hm? Only because I l- lo-. Well. Anyway.
latto@fakekarl Have you still got your hundreds of 1st generation iPods? If not, which do you own now & how many?
Yes. I also throw them at fatties. I have about 5687 ipods. Which you'll note, is the amount of protest singers around today.
lurex@fakekarl when you will do a new hair cut?
Never. When are you getting a new hair cut? You see, my hair is very long so my brain can function better. Otherwise it grows inwards and clogs up the brain.
teenfashionista@fakekarl What's your favorite way to spend a lovely Saturday afternoon?
Anna is generally hungover from the last night, so I take her to the hospital and they pump her stomach out. This is a weekly occurance. At least. Then she gets drunk again. Repeat process. It'll be worse at the Met Ball, much worse. She used to never drink at those things, but with that Donatella person....oh dear. Here's some dandruff-free advice: don't get drunk with Donatella Versace. Ever.
annabananafish@fakekarl if you could be any dinosaur, what dinosaur would you be and why?? (and don't just answer with "none, dinosaurs are demode")
I tried to find a dinosaur which does not eat. I ended up finding the Weimarosaurus, which you probably will not have heard of. It died at as soon as it evolved, as it refused to eat. But at least it was very chic for the 5 minutes in total that it existed, hm?
queengilda@fakekarl so how many collars do u own and can I get some? :)
78,089,986. If you go outside my Parisian apartment, and if you fight with the Le Skinny Jeans mafia that patrols outside it, you may be able to get some old collars of mine that I throw out the window of the lady who lives above me. Her name is Esme.
jmcleod@fakekarl Might you suggest a reading list or a sequence of events for a young person wanting to become a superlative designer?
And what exactly is a superlative designer? How about a "young person"? It took me a lot of time to get young! I can suggest reading a lot of Nabokov though. And Murakami. Nabokov and Murakami, and maybe a little Pynchon on the side- as for poetry; Dylan Thomas and T.S Eliot. Do not fight in the captain's tower. And don't study fashion at college; it seems to me that the vomit-rate induced by college fashion designs is actually higher than vomiting produced by alcohol consumption at college. Something's wrong if this is the case, no?
Coco_5@fakekarl. Est-ce que vous aller faire une autre collection en partenariat avec H&M?
Non.
idratherbuyshoe@fakekarl how does a lover of fashion, not working in the fashion industry, get tickets to a Chanel/KarlL show?
You purchase them at the ticket office, like everybody else.
lookcloserblog@fakekarl what do you wear to bed?
Exactly what I wear during the day. I'm like the super-man you Americans have; I must be ready all the time, every time! There are no excuses for being late to a tea party. Fashionably late is the domain of teenage girls and their proms.
lavendrdisastr
@fakekarl I SHOULD GET CREDIT FOR THAT I AM CALLING YOU OUT THAT WAS MINE ALL MINESee the note above. (But please dear, save the hysterics for the bedroom, hmmm?)
lucasvarga@fakekarl I think your comment about old people is so stupid.
I think you are incredibly demode. I am nearing 250 and you don't see me in a "home", hmm? That is because home is where the heart is, and I have no heart! I'm incredibly confused to why you think I care about what you think. The good thing about bars is the the barman pretends to care about what you have to say; I suggest using one.
glamour_puss@fakekarl thank you for validating my existence.
You're welcome. Welcome to the world, Descartes II!
latto@fakekarl You promised to answer us on your blog Haven't seen anything about your famous collection of iPods 1G That's not right...
Oh dear, you'd better write a protest song about it. "Lord have pity because Karl didn't answer my question soon enough."
Judas!
I don't believe you.
sweetarchivia@fakekarl What do you think of shows like America's Next Top Model? Do you think these girls could walk your Chanel runway?
Tyra Banks was once a decent model, before she cheapened herself with that show. It's a terrible show; like the cheese in a McDonald's burger. If you want to be a model, don't go on America's Next Top Model. You'd be better off making sexual advances at me, and I'm asexual. Have we seen an artist emerge from American Idol? Non. And I don't think we're likely to see a model emerge from a reality-show-for-the-plebes anytime soon, either.
CommeTuMeVeux@fakekarl Are grey t-shirts demode? Besides Diet Coke, which other beverage is okay to indulge on?
They probably are. I wouldn't know, because I have never worn a t-shirt in a day on my life. What is wearing a "tee-shirt" like?
Champagne is okay to indulge in if you're Anna. Otherwise, water. It's good enough for the dolphins.
aydapadi@fakekarl Hi babe.
I'm asexual you know!
Saturday, May 2, 2009
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
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
Friday, May 1, 2009
Letter from Yves
It's been so long! It's been so long since we last kissed, since we last held pale hands together as it rained outside the window, since we last talked. It has been so long since your eyes trailed up the vines and into the veils presented by the trees. Ah, yet it has been longer still, since your voice trailed softly into the distance, a cadenza and a diminuendo. Yet I yearn for you, my heart grows fonder even though I realize the past; in it's crystal clear wine bottle.
Oh, I've missed you. I miss you still- even as we speak- even as I write this on the page. What else can I say? Karl and I, the difference between us is that he has no heart. Our great con-artiste claims to have one- a frozen one, yet certainly a heart. This is a lie. If he ever had a heart, it was ripped out years ago and eaten by his mother. You see, I'm capable of emotions. When you left, my dreams were turned asunder- "what dreams?", I hear a member of the audience say- after all, I'm supposed to be dead. The problem with being dead is that one still has dreams. I don't know where those dreams are anymore: perhaps you have seen them? Are they in an alley some place, or in a cafe drinking?
I wish somebody'd hand me a rose.
Upon the treetrunks which I drew as a boy, I now cry upon. I walked past a willow yesterday, and it wept for me. I mutter to myself, in that adorable French accent of mine: I wish I was loved. I do not mean "Yves Saint Laurent": The Brand. I don't even own that, anymore! Gucci owns it, or someone. Some company that sells pharmaceuticals. I am not a pharmaceutical, lovely and forlorn reader. I am not a plastic pill meant to be popped by peroxide-blonde housewives; nor a cure for athletes foot. Pharmaceuticals disgust me. They are not glamorous. You cannot get excited about toothpaste. Non, I am talking about Yves, the person who's meant to be dead. Yves who wants to be loved. Yves who walks the broken boulevards alone.
Yes, dear reader. Time has passed, seasons have withered away, yesterday's news ceases to even be fish and chip wrapper. Yet I am here, once more.
Love,
Yves
Oh, I've missed you. I miss you still- even as we speak- even as I write this on the page. What else can I say? Karl and I, the difference between us is that he has no heart. Our great con-artiste claims to have one- a frozen one, yet certainly a heart. This is a lie. If he ever had a heart, it was ripped out years ago and eaten by his mother. You see, I'm capable of emotions. When you left, my dreams were turned asunder- "what dreams?", I hear a member of the audience say- after all, I'm supposed to be dead. The problem with being dead is that one still has dreams. I don't know where those dreams are anymore: perhaps you have seen them? Are they in an alley some place, or in a cafe drinking?
I wish somebody'd hand me a rose.
Upon the treetrunks which I drew as a boy, I now cry upon. I walked past a willow yesterday, and it wept for me. I mutter to myself, in that adorable French accent of mine: I wish I was loved. I do not mean "Yves Saint Laurent": The Brand. I don't even own that, anymore! Gucci owns it, or someone. Some company that sells pharmaceuticals. I am not a pharmaceutical, lovely and forlorn reader. I am not a plastic pill meant to be popped by peroxide-blonde housewives; nor a cure for athletes foot. Pharmaceuticals disgust me. They are not glamorous. You cannot get excited about toothpaste. Non, I am talking about Yves, the person who's meant to be dead. Yves who wants to be loved. Yves who walks the broken boulevards alone.
Yes, dear reader. Time has passed, seasons have withered away, yesterday's news ceases to even be fish and chip wrapper. Yet I am here, once more.
Love,
Yves
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