Bob Dylan's 6548th Dream

Hey man, so this one cat told me that I should do some writin' on this blog, 'cause I've got a new record coming out in April and I just thought you should all know. And here's a song I wrote, uh, some time ago back when I was raking in those blondes, man. Could say I was raking in the pennies! I was doing more than raking those chicks though, if you dig.

One time I was walkin' down the streets
I was walkin' down your front town
Where I spotted some kids who were playin' ball
And I walked right over to them
To see what kinda game they wanted to play
They said I look like a panda bear
And I said "well panda bears don't have this much hair"
And they said they did, and I realized they were right
So I hailed a train but it didn't have no bite

I said kids, "could I interest you in some visions?"
Some visions of Johanna, someone's gonna get stoned;
They asked me if it tasted kinda like a milkshake
I said yes, and took out some pills
Then a policeman came most hurriedly
And arrested me on account of free love;
I gave him a receipt, the very next day
And I came back to the kids the very next day

I saw them there, with my friends,
I gave them each a medallion;
I stood so straight and tall, you know
And I said "I'm taller than you"
They said "we know"

Now they started moving all funny, you see
I think maybe something started going out of whack,
I said "hey man! you stonned or somethin'?"
They just starred at me funny so I called up the operator of time;
"Call an ambulance! They're stoned, they stunned!" said I
But all the operator did was tell me it was nine o'clock and I hung up

"What do you want to be" I asked one kid:
He said "a fireman" and I stopped dead,
"You know what a fireman does, don't you?" I asked the boy,
I explained that a fireman has too much lace;
"Oh" said the boy, as I gave him a lolly
And offered him a ride in my Cadillac car
(Good car to drive in a war)

Now at this point the boy's mother comes in,
And she's waving and wailing at me like I done something wrong,
I get on my motorcycle, and I start to crash
And I wake up on the psychiatrist's couch
(Luckily it's a chick)

--

I used the rest of the paper to roll a cigarette, man.

Along comes Brady in his Electric Car

I see my darling Jane has met a nice young man, called Kanye West. You will recall he was my stalker at fashion week. We will be having him over for dinner. I am dreading it, because it means that I will have to smell food. Maybe I can have a bubble constructed, where the young Mr. West can eat whilst I stare at him through my dark glasses. Like in that movie about the bubble boy. I will then ask him questions:

1.) What do you do?
2.) Would you consider powdering your hair?
3.) Why do you stalk me at Paris fashion week with my usual hormonal crowd of female stalkers?
4.) Can I take photos of you? I'm going to, anyway.
5.) I see you wear dark glasses too. Is it because you can kill a person with your stare, as I can?
6.) Does this mean looks can kill?
7.) Are you Bungalow Bill?
8.) If X is W, and V is Z, what is why?
9.) How did Coco Chanel trim "down there"?
10.)Could you please stop touching me? Or else.

I think that's about all I want to ask him, though I may think of more questions once he sits down in his bubble. Any suggestions, dear reader?

A Thank You Letter to Fashionista Dot Com

Dear Fashionista,

I would like to thank you, personally, for ratting out this terrible criminal, who is so obviously copying the sacred trademarks of Chanel. Without your help, I don't know if the sweaty lawyers with their terrible haircuts would've found this site! So, let me give you my most sincere thanks.

I would like to remind everybody that copying the Chanel logo is a awful offence. It's simply horrendous. How do you think Mme. Chanel feels when you create those tacky fakes? How do you think all those rich businesswoman in Hong Kong and Russia feel when you abuse my- I mean, Coco's logo? Do you feel guilty now? You should be. You dirty, vile people.

I showed this to the little old ladies who work at Chanel. The seamstresses. One of them- Antoinette- had a heart attack! She is now dead. See what you've done? You've given poor Antoinette a heart attack and she is now dead. This is not very good, because Antoinette was a very good seamstress.

Anyway, thank you Fashionista for informing me of this great wrongdoing! We must remember that it is not within the society that evil grows, but within every person. The single person can be as dangerous as the whole. The magic of capitalism, my dears.

Love,
Karl

RIP ANTOINETTE. 1899-2008.

After Dark

I am really getting very sick of this.
"This", being the so-called recession everyone's talking about.

Let's start at the beginning.
At 1AM I had Heinrich, my computer operator, read out the searches that people find me by. I am slightly disturbed by whoever searched for me using the term "I see you everywhere Karl Lagerfeld." I imagine this disheveled fashionista, probably from lookbook or the fashion spot or something. They're all the same- people who have failed in fashion so bitch about it to other people who have failed in fashion (or if they do work in fashion, it's an unpaid internship at GUESS.) So anyway, I imagine this disheveled fashionista with hair that has roaches crawling through it, cellulite on her thighs, and her face is a mish-mash of various skin-care products that she got for free from taking the "Free Samples" at department stores, until she became too ragged for even a department store; and now critiques Margiela's latest collection on the street with her other failed fashionista buddies (nevermind the fact that Margiela is right- at this moment- on a Caribbean island lounging beside a pool painted white). She writes "KARL, KARL, KARL" on the walls- and stalks anybody who happens to have white hair. She's the sort of person who hides in the garbage bin which models throw up into, just waiting to get a glance of me. A glimpse.
Suffice to say, I'm disturbed. Do you see me all the time like you see dead people? "I SEE KARL LAGERFELD EVERYWHERE."
Of course you do, dear.

By 2AM I was over that. There's probably a million of those crazy homeless fashion ladies. I cannot remember what I did at 2AM.

3AM I found Anna passed out- regular readers will know that this is no surprise. I found a draft Vogue article on her chest. So I read it. And quelle horror, it was about the recession! It's very sick, I think. All these people talking about losing money. Let's be serious here: I blow my nose on Balenciaga blouses. Where is this recession? It must be some sick sort of joke, I thought to myself.

At 4AM I saw lines of people pouring out of some place with "UNEMPLOYED" stamped on their foreheads. Hmm.

I decided to take part in this joke- and it's obviously a practical joke. I went out on my balcony, papal-like; began to join in:
Me: Ohhh look at me! I am so unemployed! And unfortunate! [I wave around a Chanel jacket at this point]. Oh boo hoo! I was just fired at now I can only afford five butlers!

They are starred at me strangely and I went back inside.

The Best Damn Magazine Ever

I've been getting a lot of whiny letters from a lot of you lately complaining about Vogue magazine. American Vogue. AKA Anna's magazine.
I go out to my mailbox, everyday (yes, I personally check my mail), and there's a bunch of letters- maybe 20 of them- all complaining about Vogue.
"What is this shit?" you tell me. "Why is it so demode?", "Why is it not cutting edge???"

First of all, I don't know why the hell you're sending letters to me anyway. Do I look like Vogue magazine, hmm? Am I even an employee there? Are the Conde Nast head offices located at my little house? Did they relocate?
I'm not too interested in your letters, and most of you are boring. I know I'm a genius, I know I'm the best designer in the world-even-better-than-your-friend-who-goes-to-Fashion-School.
Tell me something I don't know, hmm? Be interesting, for a change. Stop being little snivelling toady tools who wouldn't know an insult from a Margiela boot.

I have a theory to why you lot hate American Vogue: The Best Damn Magazine Ever. You hate it because it's too good!

Month after month, Anna faithfully produces the greatest magazine ever created. I don't know how she does it! Fantastic issue after fantastic issue- each one better than the last!
What I'm proposing is that Vogue has gotten so good that you ungrateful little sods can't handle it anymore. It's gotten to this point where it blows your mind- like a child on a swing that's swung right over it, onto the next level. It's like that swing in that most people aren't aware that it's swung right over the top- they didn't see it; so how do they know? They simply believe what the newspapers tell them. What their bitchy little friends who can afford one Miu Miu shoe but not two, tell them.

The amount of depth that goes into the photographs is simply spectacular. Yet in your letters you write "Every month Vogue is the same! It's just people jumping! Jumping! Jumping!"
Again, why do I care about this? I am not your father. I am not your sweet, rosy cheeked mother. Yet you insist on sending me letters. I don't do prayers, hmm?

So, please, stop whining about Vogue. Actually- take out the please there. It just makes you seem very childish, hmm? I mean- has American Vogue caused any deaths?
-No?! Goodness me. And let's look at Paris Vogue- how many deaths-related-to-bludgeoning-with-fashion-magazine has it caused, hmmm?
-100% of deaths-related-to-bludgeoning-with-fashion-magazine?! Goodness me. That's quite a few. So not only is American Vogue better, it is safer too!

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.