Good day to you, Seg

I seem to get a lot of fanmail these days. Not just the normal kind, either. I attract the nutjobs! But at least they're beautiful nutjobs. I haven't had any pervs lately, which is disappointing. So if you want to send me pervy email, feel free to. The address is fakekarl@gmail.com. If you want to send me "modelling pictures", please do not. If I had any more models I'd feel like that geeky kid who spends all his days in his room covered by a duvet making models of planes and such.

THIS NEXT PART CONTAINS AFFECTION, LOOK OUT KID:
I'd also like to wish "happy new year" to all my readers. Yes, even you. A "thank you" (I have manners. Or at least for people I like), to Jane, my daughter that I discovered this year. Thank Chanel she wasn't demode, ugly, or possessing no taste! (bad taste I can stand, I live with Yves, after all-- her taste, of course; is as good as yours truly.). To Tavi, my niece. To Nico, my architect who is also a very good supplier of underwear models for Anna and I. To Julie Anne; who knows the sun's not yellow (I love you). To Karoline and her hat-wearing Margiela sunglasses-churning boyfriend. To Nea, who isn't in the alley at all. To Xenia, who's the only doll that doesn't scare me. To Cecil B. DeMille, who actually has nothing to do with this at all. To Jeunesse, who made my carols all-the-much-sweeter. To Belle, who is a pirate with some shoes. To Anna, who showed me the true glory of a spiked warm diet Coke. To Nana, who isn't 65. To Alber, who is really quite a teddy bear. To Rei, who uh....well, she's Rei. Zohra, who is quite possibly a niece. Or a muse. Or something, hmm? I guess, there's one for you too Yves. Oh my little silver gloves, this is going to take too long. Anyway, you all know who you are. Vidal, Ms. Butterfly, Deline, etc etc etc. All the commentators, really-- especially the regulars. I would like to not thank Mr. Marc Jacobs. That Babrie doll you sent of yourself was not funny. It was creepy, and this coming from me; a man who has tea with his KarlBear every tuesday, and 11.00AM.
It's cliche to thank "the fans", so I won't. But you may continue reading.
Let's all get to the main course now...it's not like I'm nice or anything. Feel the high collar. FEAR IT.

(By the way, there's a new ipod up. It's mostly noise-music, with the odd other thrown in)

SECTION CONTAINING AFFECTION IS NOW OVER, YOU MAY CONTINUE:


So today I got the email below in my inbox.

"Good Day,

I contact you to be my foreign partner presenting you as the next of kin/beneficiary of US$25 000 000(Twenty Five Million Dollars) belonging to a deceased who died along with his entire family in 2003 during their vacation journey and was a customer to the Bank of Africa (BOA) Ouagadougou Branch, Burkina Faso, where i work as one of the Accounts officers.

I have worked out all necessary modalities to enable us carry out the fund claim under legitimate arrangements and i have resolved to 35%(your share), 5% (probable expenses during the transaction) and 60% (my share).

More details when i receive your positive response.

Thanks and God bless.
Seg Veron."

This is what I wrote back:

Dear Seg,

I didn't know Africa had a bank? I thought they just used other people's banks, kind of like that person who borrows you clothes and never gives it back. I've had that happen quite often in my time, hmm? So, does Africa actually have a bank or does the bank just consist of silly things like food and such?

Anyway, this family died on vacation? How horrible! This is why you don't vacation, actually. You might get killed and then an already Rich Guy like me might become the beneficiary! Anyway, any sort of holiday is boring. Did you know that right now, millions of people in the world-- yes, I kid you not, millions of people are out there celebrating the new year thing. I don't know how the world works in Africa, but here in Europe there's "years" and the start of every year is an excuse to get drunk, basically. Which leaves me all home alone. Well, Alber's playing some videogame-- "Katamari" or something; and I've got Bob Dylan's "Blood on the Tracks" on. But I'm basically alone. Well. There's screaming fans outside, but they're not really humans. They're more like-- sub-humans. They feed on lipstick and high collars. Or is that too stereotypical some people? Very well: let's say they feed on schizophrenics and..models with breast cancer. (Not that models these days really have breasts, so they have gone without for quite some while, hmm?)
But they're most certainly not Real People. I could sneeze and they'd suddenly fall over, because they're like cardboard cut-outs. Not that I would sneeze.

The answer to your question, by the way, is no.

Good day to you,
Karl Lagerfeld, esquire

I STOMP ON THE WALMART CLAD DEMODE

I really didn't intend on two entries today, but this comment which I've deleted-- I don't allowed demode comments on the blog, thank you very much-- is too good to resist. By the way, I know who you are that wrote it. Karl has eyes everywhere.
The comment is...

"Ha ha ha. Oh wow, your wit and humor is about as brilliant as the gray crayon in a box of crayola. How very original and delightful! Eating disorders, and models! Ha ha, truly, I'm impressed! Now do one about schizophrenia! Or breast cancer!"*

Obviously someone wasn't reading the packet right. I love these demode people (like this person) who say things like this, hmm? It gives me a good chuckle, every night. As I curl up upside down in my closet every night and put my extra dark glasses on, with a glass of hot diet Coke, and I chuckle quietly to myself in my Franco-German accent. You can imagine it, I'm sure. It's a deep rumble like oil dropping at the bottom of dry well; amplified by large Champagne-glass shaped microphones.

Now, we all know that this isn't a humor site...but if you insist...

AND HERE IS THE ENTRY PERTAINING TO BREAST CANCER AND SCHIZOPHRENIA:

Models with schizophrenia and breast cancer are the best ones to hire, hmm?
Or even better...schizophrenia with models are the best breast cancer to hire, hmm?
Or simply: schizophrenia with breast cancer are the best to hire, hmm?
Simply or: breast cancer with schizophrenia are models to best hire, hmm?

I feel like William S Burroughs. We now return to regular programming.

*Oh, by the way. The crayons would be black and white. Everybody knows that. Jil Sander or somebody like that would do grey, hmm?

Happiness is a..

The Beatles said Happiness is a Warm Gun, and they're not far from the truth. Happiness is in fact not a warm gun, but a Chanel coat. Yes, yes; I know what you're thinking: "Oh, Uncle's out promoting his label again in the form of a post which may be semi-deep, or at least pertain to be."

But what if I said this well-dressed lady in her warm Chanel coat is lonely? What if I said that she's totally alone? What if I said she was betrayed by a peeping Tom; by someone she thought she could call her friend? Why, you'd probably laugh because that sort of woman is pathetic, hmm? Totally demode. Because you, like me; are totally devoid of a heart. In fact I am "cracking up" (as the kids say) right now, at this image of this woman in a Chanel coat who is lonely, in her Parisian apartment listening to the Parisian equivalent of Tony Clifton, weeping on her Dior scarf, and her expensive perfume made of the bodies of dead models seeping out the window.
What emotion are we feeling now? Well, I'm feeling no emotion. I don't have normal emotions! I have no emotion whatsoever. I refuse to be hurt. I am a robot and I love it. A devil-robot. I am FASHION.

But if you're not exactly me, you may be feeling a little jealous. Because this woman is obviously beautiful; and she's in black and white so she's ageless (most Parisians exist in black and white), and because she has perfume made from models. I mean, who cares if she's lonely and suicidal- she is beautiful! And probably rich! Because these days, inner feelings are worth nothing. Are you going to get another collection done worrying about the friend who doesn't reply to your handwritten letters? No! Are you going to get another ski-house built worrying about what people think of you? No! You should be whipping the architect for you ski-house instead! I whip mine, Nico, everyday. In a non-erotic non-Thierry Mugler kind of way. Do any of you remember Thierry Mugler? Sick bastard. Total fetishist. I went into his workroom one day and it scared even me. All the leather and chains...I thought it was a depiction of a prison run Elvis and a gang of gay, bald men. Maybe it scarred me for life, I don't know. I was scarred before then anyway, so it's OK. It prepared me for Tom Ford, at least.

Maybe happiness is a pair of le skinny jeans.

Coco and Models

I've said it before and I've said it again: models should keep their mouths shut. Do you notice that Brad does not blog here, even though he is a wonderful underwear model, hmm? If I had a blog when I was in the 90's Claudia would not blog there, either. So I was horrified to find that dear Coco Rocha has a blog. I'll tell you, I nearly had an heart attack but then I realized that I don't have a heart. I'm heartless! My heart froze over and fell out, and I stamped a Chanel logo on it and put it in a case for safekeeping; and one day I'll auction it at the Evil Queen in Snow White's yearly charity auction.

Remember what happened to Kate Moss? Kate who, you say? It doesn't matter now, anyway. She's in the past. She was a famous model or something. She bores me. It's not hard to be a model anyway; you just need to have confidence, hmm? And not be fat. Or ugly. And have sex with the photographer if he's not gay afterwards. Not too hard, ja? Fitting into the standards of beauty dictated by the fashion industry (that's me! It makes me feel powerful, hm? I can make jeans so skinny that even paper dolls find it hard to fit into them) is a must. You know, Anorexia is an overrated lifestyle ("Did he just say that?" "Ya-huh he did!"). Genetics are better. We do not like the boobs; so be as flat as Aggy's singing ability and you're almost on your way to being a model. Being white is pretty important: Italian Vogue did an all-black issue and that's very chic, hmm? And I tend to use models of all colours- black, purple, white, beige (actually, not beige. Armani tends to hire all the beige models), brown, pink, green (not too many green models in recent years, it's generally a sign that they're about to throw up); fuchsia, violet (really, only one violet back a while ago; we had a girl who was swollen like a blueberry and we rolled her down the runway-- then we popped her at the end, and she was very very thin- though not thin enough to fit into the new model of Le Skinny jeans that we're currently making. Even I have trouble getting them. Well not really, but I wanted to try and sound vaugely humble there. Humble isn't my strong suit, hmm? My strong suit's Tom Ford).

Oh

I thought I'd just correct the...person who commented in the last post-- who claims I have no family. If you know anything about me, you'll know that I have one or two half-sisters. Tavi isn't the daughter of one of them, because I don't like those sisters. I can't remember how many of them there are because they're so demode. They didn't wear heels. The horror, hmm? I have not spoken to them since I last ate. (1812, at the overture).

So I just made Tavi my Niece actually. Because I'm Karl and I can. And before I had the Olsens-- that girl who exposed her crotch-- and others. However, Tavi isn't boring like them. You see, I've progressed from Niece as fashion accessory- to Niece as human being. I have fingerless gloves now, instead. And collars. Mmm, collars. Lick them, my little babies, but don't touch.

Anyway, I was going through Yves' old photos and I found this one. The best guess to who it is gets a Yohji Yamamoto bat costume!

A response

I was planning on having uh spiked diet Coke all night, but my Niece Tavi sent me this link.
WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE, HMMM? THESE PEOPLE...WHO WEAR THEIR JUICY COUTURE SWEATSUITS AND THEIR RALPH LAUREN SWEATERS AND GUESS PURSES AND THEIR BRITNEY PERFUME WITH THEIR SIGNED JONAS BROTHERS POSTERS ON THEIR WALLS.

Britney perfume! One might as well bottle head shavings and vomit; coupled with the Jonas brothers virginal sweat (I suspect they're as virginal as Madonna as a Catholic schoolgirl). And "Guess" is a brand worn by teenage girls desperate for attention with no taste, hmm? It is a brand worn by the anti-christ herself!

And who is this anti-christ, you ask? It is the woman who wrote the "Time" article. Scroll down if you want to see her; she's too demode for I to post. She is the anti-chirst. Call up the churches, call the Pope, call Obama, call Ron Paul, call the polygamists, call Xenu, call Tom Cruise. Strike that. Don't call Tom Cruise. Call Suri, call Elton John, call Warren Buffet, call every single person in this god damned earth apart from Tom Cruise.
Hell (ooh, burning reference there), even call Rachel Zoe. She'll be happy because she won't have to pay her massive credit card debt for buying that dress. Call the Spanish Inquisition!

...NOT THE SPANISH INQUISITION.

Ahem.

This woman is the anti-chirst, with a vendetta against Anna and I. Next she'll be targeting the sacred estate of Coco Chanel; telling everyone to wear scrunchies and metallic hotpants.

Evil I tell you. And not the good evil. The bad evil. The bad bad evil. The non-fashionable evil.
This woman is probably paid by PETA. She is probably one of the animal-actors in their videos.
NOW, I will have my diet Coke. On the rocks, Anna; on the rocks.

Do they know it's Christmas in chic-land?

Right then. It is Christmas in some parts of the world. In other parts of the world it is not Christmas.
So to answer the question posed by Some Rock Band: Yes, they know that it's Christmas in chic-land. The neighbours have a Christmas Tree and it lights up. Rei's quite amused by this, and turns it on and off, and on and off; and on and off...you get the idea. Well, the neighbours had a Christmas tree-- Anna got underwear model number one to steal it. The neighbours were too star-struck to say anything

We're basically ignoring Christmas though. Would you believe it involves a fat man? Who wears red? Well. Ho ho ho.

Anyway, Merry Chic-mas. And to the few of you that celebrate Christmas...I guess....Merry? I can't say it. Merry's such a demode word. Not a nice, fashionable sort of word.
Merry....