We're now told the girl on the left is Lilly Burns, daughter of Ken. So imagine this panning over and zooming in on this photo while Morgan Freeman talks over it. [Ed. She's never heard that one before.]

Also, any ideas for captions in comments. The winner gets theirs up and possibly a sparkly chicken outfit. No promises.

So, did everyone have a good time? I wondered about that as I embarked on my final night out as Gawker's Fashion Week Party Correspondent. I personally did not get into any of the A-list soirées: I was barred from the big Marc Jacobs/Lady Gaga blowout, told that "the list is closed" at Alexander Wang's gas station gala, and couldn't score an invite to the T Magazine drink-up at the Standard, just to name a few indignities. I must confess that at times I wished I could have shape-shifted into the form of Josh Hartnett. Or better yet, a baby unicorn.

But I thoroughly enjoyed all the parties that would have me. You see, for me Fashion Week harkens back to a mythical era in New York nightlife when you could hit two or three decent events a night, guzzle rivers of free booze and gobble enough cocktail weenies or mini Pop Burgers to make it through the evening. The Fashion Week party circuit is a welcome flashback to those decadent times, and that's why I love going to them like a clown loves riding a tiny bicycle.

I began my final fashion night out at a "presentation" at Milk Studios showcasing the work of 26-year-old designer Kimberly Ovitz, daughter of former Hollywood super agent Mike Ovitz. A presentation is where the models stand there wearing the designer's clothes for a few hours instead of strutting a catwalk, and where people can show up late and mingle. I asked billionaire Ron Perelman if he had a fun Fashion Week. "Years ago when I was younger and more adventuresome, I went to shows," the Prada-clad mogul told me. "I'm working too hard now. No parties, either. But I think any attention that can be given to the fashion industry is a welcome thing." I resisted the urge to hit him up for, like fifty bucks, and creepily crept over to Martin Scorsese.

This was kind of amazing because I had been thinking about Scorsese's Taxi Driver, particularly that Travis Bickle line about wishing for a rain to come and wash the scum off the streets, when Fifth Avenue was jammed with even more slow-moving tourists than usual courtesy of the consumerist dystopian nightmare that was Fashion Night Out. Scorsese said Ovitz's was the only show he had seen this week, even though he's always been fascinated by clothes.

"For me, what people wear is character, and costuming in film is as important as the actors, is as important as the story," the legendary director told me. "So over the years I've been drawn to many fashion figures, particularly Giorgio Armani, and others. I'm constantly amazed at the look, how fabric is used, and the extraordinary visual impact of a lot of what I see." That's all I got before he abruptly said "thanks" and walked away.

This was my first show since I sat front row at Heatherette in 2006 with a stripper I met while doing a story about Scores for GQ. (Perhaps my proudest Fashion Week memory). I had forgotten about all the bright and shiny spectacles you see while walking around a rag trade beehive like Milk Studios. Look, there's Anna Wintour in a snazzy snakeskin jacket coming out of the Proenza-Schouler room! OMG, it's Carmen Kass wearing a sparkly zebra-print dress! Holy hobgoblins, there's a bunch of bony models scurrying around backstage! It's kind of fascinating for about ten minutes, and then you want a beer.

I found a cold one at a funky little party at Milk for boho jeweler Pamela Love, where I met Andrew Mathers, a videographer for Elle.com who films shows and interviews designers. "I've covered 60 shows and I can't remember any of them," he told me between swigs. "The Zac Posen show was cool. The Giorgio Armani after-party at Indochine had a great vibe. This will be my 7th year, my 14th season doing it. I really love it. Its just a way to indulge and escape from the reality of the world, which is what we need right now." Amen to that, brother. Clink!

Next thing I know I'm at Flannery's, an Irish pub on W. 14th Street, downing whiskey shots with a few pals. There were some ruddy-faced oldsters at the bar, but no models or designers, or anyone remotely attractive or even freshly-showered. We decided to relocate down the street to Norwood, a members-only establishment which is kind of a like a slightly more tolerable version of Soho House. I asked our waitress, Gisele, a pretty brunette wearing knee-high black stockings, if she had any enduring Fashion Week memories. "I went to the Marc Jacobs party and another party that my friend modeled at," she said. "There's a lot of parties and a lot of tourists in town. That's about it. I'm not really into fashion, I'm into music. I play bass in a band."

Seeing a band sounded like a good idea, so my boozy crew resolved to hit Santos Party House, where style website Refinery 29 was throwing a party that featured a performance by Of Montreal. Our decision was influenced by the fact that people had started moving away from our table after my friend, the wacky painter John Newsom, inexplicably began free-style rapping. Like, really loud. Before we left Norwood I asked BlackBook Media publisher Ari Horowitz to describe the strangest thing he witnessed during Fashion Week. "Probably some dude with a top hat and a really long coat running down the street in the West Village," he said. "My Fashion Week was relatively uneventful. But I loved it. It really energized New York." Hey, I'll drink to that! And then I did.

Of Montreal rocked so hard, they nearly blew my pants off. Their psychedelic party pop and cheesy laser light show bathed the crowd in good vibes. There was even a heart-shaped disco ball hanging over us. It seemed like a groovy ending to a long week of crazed party-hopping. But of course, it wasn't. We made more stops at Don Hill's, Avenue, and finally, Milady's, the beloved jukebox and pool table joint on Prince Street.

It was there at about 3 a.m. that I met Ronaldo Brunet, a 77-year-old artist and photographer originally from Chile. He wore a fedora and showed me drawings in his sketchbook at the bar. I'll give him the last word:

"I used to work in fashion. I used to photograph the beautiful women. I love looking at women. I love seeing them in their beautiful clothes. I love the little ones and the tall ones and the young ones. And that is Fashion Week. That is what you get to see. Just enjoy what you're doing, and do good things, that's all I can say."

Actually, I want the last word. Thanks for reading these posts. It's been a blast. Now, if you'll excuse me, this mannequin torso I ordered online isn't going to have sex with itself!

Yeah, I know that it's been three years since Varvatos transformed the skuzzy CBGB space into a tasteful showcase for his high-end suits, leather jackets, and rocker boots, but last night's "Free the Noise" concert was the first time I had seen live music there since I was a 14-year-old punk at a hardcore matinée headlined by Agnostic Front. The sight of scarily-tattooed L.E.S. tough guys nearly made me poop my Pampers back then, but this time around I'm almost old enough for Depends. Or at least I enjoy wearing them on weekends!

Last night's show was a battle of the bands between three unsigned acts. The winners were local favorites Reckless Sons, who scored a record deal with Island/Def Jam and a Varvatos ad campaign. I heard they were pretty good, but I missed their set because I spent most of the night in a big black bus parked in the alley behind the store. That's where I met the judges of the contest, Jane's Addiction's Perry Farrell, photographer Mick Rock, Spin editor-in-chief Doug Brod, and Varvatos himself, just before they went inside to hear the show.
Perry wore a black vest, silk scarf, slim-fit shirt and pants, and pointy black boots. He sat next to his distractingly buxom wife, Etty, who was encased in a sequined mini-skirt from Top Shop in London, a black American Apparel tank top and YSL pumps.

"Where are you from?" he said.

I'm from Gawker.

"You're from Dockers?" Everyone laughs. "I'm like, 'How does a guy from Dockers get on here?' That's about the only pants in the world I can't wear. I'm wearing Varvatos from head to toe."

Had he seen any shows during Fashion Week?

"We went to one show," he said, already bored. "We saw a lot of sneakers and tall girls."

I asked how they were preparing to judge the bands, and Varvatos made a smoking-a-joint gesture. What are you listening to these days, John?

"Kings of Leon, Bravery, The Killers, My Morning Jacket. There's a brand new band called Alberta Cross, which are unbelievable." Seen any good fashion shows? "No," he said.

Mick Rock, who is best known for his iconic shots of a Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie, has a model daughter who probably walked in this week's shows. But he was more interested in busting on me than talking fashion. "I wish you were better looking," he said. "I want some young boys for the evening. You're very nice, but I don't find you attractive. It's problematic."

Then everyone got off the bus, including me. I ran into another famous rock photographer, Bob Gruen. What was his favorite shot he took at CBGB? "That's like having a favorite kid. But the Runaways were one of the best shows, in '76." Had he seen any fashion shows? "My wife, Elizabeth, is a designer. But we don't really get involved in the shows. It's not about fashion, it's about commerce."

Nobody I talked to seemed to care about Fashion Week anymore, including me. So I went back on the bus, and met Bobby, a forty-something nightclub promoter. He told me he was really into models. A few tall, pretty girls he had invited began to arrive. Soon, he was showing me pics on his iPhone of himself partying with topless girls in a hotel room. In some of them, his pants were undone, and his junk was exposed. This was starting to get weird.

A few hours later, the fridge full of Heinekens had been drained, and Bobby was handing out shots of Patron. Perry Farrell and his wife returned. Perry looked at all the strange people on the bus, said, "Whoa!" and went to a curtained-off nook in the back.

I started talking to Perry's wife, Etty. "We've been married 7 years," she said. "I've actually danced with Jane's Addiction since 1997, and that's how we met. I was wearing a fishnet body stocking and pasties. They had a two-story high stripper pole. And ultimately, as we got to know each other, I got more clothing. I got a bra, and I thought, 'This is great. I have a bra."

She invited me to come to Rose Bar for a drink with Perry's assorted hangers-on, but I felt like I had already worn out my welcome. Besides, I was as bored of this scene as I was of Fashion Week itself. Before I went across the street for a nightcap at the Bowery Hotel, I asked Perry if he had any parting advice for me. "Never wear a shoe that makes your foot look small," he said.

After all, it is still Fashion Week, right?

I'm actually not sure about the centaur part, but I imagine that's how fantastically decadent the most buzzed-about bash of Fashion Week was. I tried to beg my way onto the list, pestering the p.r. company who ran the door, the liquor sponsor, and a friend who worked at Hiro, all to no avail. I skipped the sad final scene of pushing past the braying hordes and the security guys with earpieces to plead with some clipboard-wielding door girl to part the velvet rope. Marc Jacobs is evidently not a big fan of Gawker, and that's cool with me. The truth is, my week-long Fashion Week party binge had sapped my usual desire to make out with an open bar and mingle with drunken drag queens and barely-legal Latvian models. My nasal passages were badly clogged, I had an old man cough, and I basically felt like a pig had shit in my head. So I stayed home, put on fencing mask and a pair of Spanx, gulped a fistful of poppers, and danced the pain away to "Poker Face" in front of a full-length mirror. You wouldn't believe how good my abs looked!

I'm feeling much better today and will be out again tonight, most likely wearing a crotchless gold lame' jumpsuit. For those of you who care, this evening's festivities include supermodel-saurus Linda Evangelista's party at MoMa for avant-garde artist Ron Arad's latest exhibit, a screening of "Coco Before Chanel" at the Paris Theater followed by a dinner hosted by Audrey Tatou at Monkey Bar, a big Dsquared Eyewear get-down on W. 28th Street, and a Fashion Week battle of the bands at the John Varvatos store judged by Perry Farrell, rock photographer Mick Rock, Spin editor Doug Brod, and Varvatos himself.

Now if you'll excuse me, this clown porn DVD isn't going to watch itself!

When I heard Leigh Lezark was hosting a party at the Tribeca Grand Hotel to hype her new Dossier magazine cover, I thought it would be a great opportunity to help rehab her frosty image. Leigh, as many of you know, is the Queen of the MisShapes, which for several years has been New York's most in-demand deejay trio. Gawker famously nicknamed her "Princess Coldstare," and has been pretty relentless in tweaking both Leigh's haughty 'tude and the MisShapes' coolest-kids-in-the-room status.

As I made my way to the Tribeca Grand on a drizzly Friday night, I wondered if Leigh had gotten a bum rap. Maybe she had become the target of so much mean-spirited internet bile because, well, she was kind of a big deal, and people were jealous. I imagined getting her to open up about what was really going on inside that pretty little head. We'd talk about music and fashion, love and life, and by the end of the night we'd be sharing iPod playlists, clinking Champagne flutes and perhaps even planning a nice, long vacation together. Preferably somewhere warm, and without an extradition treaty!

I was still considering all of this when I saw Leigh holding court at a table near the Tribeca Grand's crowded bar. She went outside to smoke with two pals, and well, I guess I needed one, too. I followed them outside and bummed a light from one of her friends. "Aren't you Leigh?" I asked. "Yeah," she said with a big smile. And then I dropped the rancid stink bomb that I was writing about Fashion Week parties for Gawker and wanted to do a quick interview that would make everyone love her.

"Nope. No thank you." she said, pulling up her jacket's hood and looking away from me, her cigarette hand trembling. I started explaining how I just wanted to talk to her for a minute, but it was too late. Her male friend, a delicate-looking man in a red sweater, hissed, "It's not going to happen." I rambled for a few more seconds. Then a brunette in a black dress, said, wearily, "She said no nicely, so...." Feeling like a pedophile who had just been turned away from a petting zoo, I apologized for bothering them and and finished my smoke on the other side of the crowd in front of the hotel.

Back inside I was nursing my bruised ego with a drink when I was approached by the party's publicist, Krista Freibaum. I said that Leigh had just shot me down. Krista offered to talk to Leigh and vouch for my good intentions. I thanked her, and watched her walk over to Leigh's table. Pretty soon, both women were arguing and gesturing wildly. Clearly, this wasn't going well.

"I told her you were a nice guy and you were trying to change the way she was represented on Gawker," Krista told me when she returned. "And she said, 'I don't care about Gawker. They're just gonna spin it in a way that makes me look bad.'"

I really couldn't argue with Leigh's reasoning, but I still wanted to talk to her. I saw one of her fellow MisShapes, Geordan Nichols, heading outside, and stopped him on the stairs. I asked if there was one song that embodied the ethos of Fashion Week right now.

"I think that's an idiotic question," he said. "There's no song of Fashion Week." Ok, well at least he was having some fun with me. He was explaining that, much like a snowflake, no MisShapes set was exactly the same, when Leigh walked by and snapped, "Geordon!" before stomping away.

"She won't talk to me," I said. "I know, she hates you," he said with a smile. I told him that I was nominating Lele's "Breakfast" as the official song of Fashion Week after I heard the MisShapes play it at a party at the Versace store. "It's a great song, we all love it," he said. I asked what Geordon thought the message of the wonderfully dirty dance jam was. "Breakfast, bitches, pussy....I don't know." Then he said he had to get his friends inside and handed me a drink ticket.

Skye Parrott, the co-founder of Dossier, the biannual arts and culture mag that was throwing the party, photographed Leigh for the cover. Besides having a cool name, Skye was nice enough not to call me idiotic or refuse to talk to me. She even said she was tickled when this website recently wrote about her rash of mentions in New York Times. "I get all my news from Gawker so I was very excited," she said. "The only thing I regret is that somebody told me before I got to see it myself. It's really the first site I check in the morning."

Well, it was nice to know that somebody there loved me. But the party was almost over and I was about ready to bolt. I looked over at Leigh's table and she was yelling into the ear of a tall rocker dude with a shag hairdo. He gave me a conciliatory head nod. Meanwhile, it was just as clear that I was talking about her with my friends. Seriously, this was getting embarrassing.

I went outside for a final cigarette of the night with my friend George before we split for the Tribeca Tavern. I saw Leigh smoking near the scene of my earlier humiliation. She's looking over at me and I'm looking over at her. "Go talk to her, dude," George said. "She wants to talk to you. Give her one last chance."

Then I made my move. I walked over to Leigh and said, "Look, you don't have to be nervous. I'm writing about you and I'm writing about this party, and I just want to find out where your head's at tonight." A male friend of Leigh's urged her to give in and talk to me. "He's a cool guy," he said.

She accompanied me to a empty pocket near the hotel entrance. She is very small and strikingly pretty up close. She wore a black Chanel dress and black Chanel shoes, and her fingernails were painted blue. I turned on my tape recorder.

So how do you stay sane doing these events every night?

"I'm used to it. I've been doing this since I was 17. I'm good to go."

Are you nervous?

"I'm busy, honey! This is work."

Are you sure you're not nervous?

"I'm not nervous. You're saying that I'm nervous. I am not nervous."

I tell her that I'm nervous.

"Good, you should be. You're writing for Gawker."

I say that I've been made fun of by Gawker too. I understand why she was leery.

"Then why are you writing for them?"

Because they asked me. And because I felt like doing something different.

"Do that, then." She points to a short bald guy with devil horns on his head.

Do you think they're permanent or just for the party?

"I hope that they're permanent, but I doubt it. They look like Ricky's stick-on horns"

She starts to relax a little bit. I ask if she has any post-Fashion Week plans. "It's Fashion Month for me. I go to London on the 17th, and then Milan and Paris, and after that I go to Turkey, and then do a whole Asian tour, and then a whole South American tour. I'll be back in New York in the New Year."

Wow, that's like going on a world tour with a band. Do you have groupies?

"I don't know, define a groupie. We have people that will drive pretty far for it, yes. People have come to parties in New York from all over the world. I don't really know about the other countries, they just come."

I mean do you have obsessed male fans that send you, like, a Leigh Lezark diorama, or anything that has really weirded you out?

"I'm not going to tell you."

I'd love for you to tell me!

"I'm not telling you so long as that thing has a blinking red light."

Just then a European guy with frizzy blonde hair asks her to pose for a picture with him. He definitely looks like he has made a Leigh Lezark diorama or two. He's the the first of a stream of fans, both men and women, who approach her during our chat.

"I don't have any stalkers," she says. "I'm a normal person just like you. I'm trying to make a living. I'm trying to have fun."

OK, what do you think about the whole Princess Coldstare thing?

"I love it. Why not? It was silly at the time and still is silly."

So all those Gawker items written about you don't annoy you?

"It doesn't bother me. Its just silly and why would I involve myself in something that I find completely ridiculous."

Well, that's a good attitude, I guess.

"That's the only reason why I told you that I didn't want to talk to you."

What would you be doing if you weren't doing this deejay/model/downtown style icon stuff?

"I'd probably be a doctor. I always liked blood and gore, why not? I love to fix people."

I told her I was nominating "Breakfast" by Lele as the song of Fashion Week.

"I don't agree with you. That's just a fun, funny song that people don't expect to hear."

She wouldn't name her Fashion Week song, but said everyone should download "Animal" by Miike Snow.

"They're three producers from Sweden," she said. "They're good."

A woman kisses her cheek. "We're wrapping it up," she tells me as she heads back inside. And then she was gone. Well, it was fun while at lasted! Actually, not so much. But I truly did appreciate her taking the time to talk to me. Thanks, Leigh.

Now it's up to you to decide which song is better to listen to while fiercely dry-humping Fashion Week!

"Breakfast" by LeLe

"Animal" by Miike Snow

That's all for now. If you need me, I'll be making a diorama. Top photo of Leigh was taken by Skye Parrott for Dossier magazine. Here are the rest.

The MisShapes are DJing a glitzy bash at Versace's Fifth Avenue boutique, Gossip Girl Taylor Momsen's band The Pretty Reckless will terrorize eardrums at a free concert on Bleecker St. hosted by Teen Vogue, supermodels Karolina Kukova and Coco Rocha are prettying up the DKNY store on Madison Avenue, Blake Lively and Bar Raefeli have RSVP'd to an art auction at the Ralph Lauren Rhinelander Mansion, Hugh Jackman and Sean Avery are appearing together at Jeffrey, IMG is hosting a hoedown at Indochine, Oscar de La Renta is singing songs at his Madison Avenue store, a couple dudes from Vampire Weekend are spinning at a "street trunk party" on Howard St. catered by Momofuku Milk Bar, turban-topped jeweler-to-the stars/Wes Anderson player Waris Ahluwalia shows off his baubles at Barney's, oh, and the Olsen Twins are bartending at Bergdorf-Goodman!

Now, if you'll excuse me, this pint of Haagen Daaz isn't going to eat itself!

Last night Gawker slipped into a private party at Rose Bar to mingle with Ford's most beguiling catwalk creatures. The darkened confines of the Gramercy Park Hotel hotspot, a lounge that is to model-gazing what the Serengeti is to spotting lions, was an obvious choice of venue. We came to this sexy safari equipped with a tape recorder, a camera, and an imperviousness to the embarrassment of asking tall, skinny girls with perfect bone structure silly questions. Because that's what we do.

If there is a rising star among the Ford fillies, it just might be Indian supermodel-in-training Lakshmi Menon. Only in the biz for a few years, Lakshmi has already graced the cover of Indian Vogue and Dazed & Confused, and is owning the runway this week at Rosa Cha, Carolina Herrera, Jason Wu...Oh, you want more? Trust us, you'll be seeing her smoky pout all over the place. But despite her surging career, all was not well in Lakshmi-land.

"There is stress in being a model," she confided, somewhat darkly."These days models are a little
undervalued, unlike in the '90s, when you had Naomi Campbell and Cindy Crawford and Kate Moss. They called the shots. But now its not so much about the models, it's more about the designers and the photographers and the art directors...."

OK, that's great and everything, but what we really want to know is, how does a guy get to romance a super-specimen like yourself? Would he need to own a private island or something? A gold-plated Cessna? Or at least a really nice yacht?

"He needs to be a good human being," Lakshmi said. "He needs to be loving, caring and above all, he needs to have a good sense of humor. I don't care about money because I'm making my own. To me, being rich is a turn-off."

This revelation was like a sucker punch straight to the beanbag. Was it true that some models were actually offended by the existence of incredibly rich dudes? We approached a stunning six-foot brunette to find out. Her name was Nika Lauraitis. She was 19, had bangs that grazed her eyebrows, and recently bagged a Moschino campaign. She was discovered when she was 15 at a Chicago mall. She laughed easily. And she was refreshingly honest when it came to potential boyfriends.

"If they tell me they're rich, I'm immediately interested," she said. "I like the trust fund type." Are there any dealbreakers? "Guys who are shorter than me. You've got to be over six feet." So you would never date a dwarf, even if he was your soul mate? "If he was rich!"

Had she ever been propositioned by sleazy photographers? "I've had my fair share. There was one guy from a magazine I won't name who came onto me. He was speaking Spanish. I didn't know what he was saying, but I knew it was dirty." So game was Nika, in fact, that Gawker operative Stephen Kosloff suggested she pose for an arty shot while lying on the pool table. She tentatively agreed. But a male friend of hers, a floppy-haired blonde dude who appeared to know his way around a runway himself, convinced her to nix the idea. Thanks a lot, buddy.

Then there was 19-year-old Polina Sova from Norway. She recently walked for Givenchy in Paris, and was scheduled to strut today for some line that she couldn't recall. It was late and she was tired. When Polina was done with Fashion Week and she didn't have to worry about fitting into tiny designer frocks, was there anything she really wanted to gorge on? "I would say marshmallows in the fire," she said in a thick Norwegian accent. "I'd eat a whole bag."

Karolina, a 25-year-old Polish model who looked like a young Natassia Kinski, used to starve herself so much that she'd have dreams of chasing pizzas. You may have seen her staring down from a Target billboard in Times Square dressed as a "little school teacher, really cute and hot, with thigh-high red boots." Karolina was kissing off the catwalk this year. "I'm going for the money jobs," she said. "Not too many shows pay. It's a lot of running around and competition. When I was a little younger I did it." And why did Karolina think that she was getting those money jobs, anyway? "I'm unique and I have a look that not a lot of girls have. A lot of photographers say I'm more like an actress. I like to go into character."

Did she miss those days as a struggling teenage model scrounging for runway gigs? "No," she said. "I lived in a model dorm when I was with another agency There were 6 girls in one apartment. We'd all have to share the bathroom. There'd be one in the shower, one in the mirror, and one on the toilet. We wouldn't forward each other's phone calls and we'd throw pillows at each other."

By this point, most of the girls had left to get up early for another round of castings and shows, the open bar was closed, and the Rose Bar regulars were trickling in. Russell Simmons, in a baseball cap and sweater vest, posed for a Polaroid with Mollie Gondi, 29, who was slated to walk in Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B. show at Milk Studios today.

She had short black hair, some tattoos, and was from Tampa. "I play drums and I curate art shows," she told me. "I'm not some robot girl walking down a runway. It's exhausting and tiring, but being a model is in no way hard. It's long days and you don't sleep much and there's a lot of drama. But you're traveling and shooting for amazing magazines. I mean, come on! This is a pretty good life."

Photos by Stephen Kosloff. You can see more of his work here.

Despite the current economic apocalypse, there are still places where semi-employed journalists like myself can suckle at the teat of an open bar, subside for days on passed hors d'oeuvres, and listen to the plaintive rumblings of famished supermodel stomachs, even when the DJ is playing Lady Gaga really loud. They're called Fashion Week parties, and Gawker has asked me to go to as many as I can stand.

Last night Paper magazine kicked off the liver-damaging fun with a 25th Anniversary blowout at the New York Public Library, where hundreds of invitees in "creative black tie," including Kanye West, Mischa Barton, Sean Lennon, Lydia Hearst, and a couple of Hanson brothers, jammed the lower level for live performances by the Virgins, Queen Latifah, and one Liza Minnelli. I'm not ashamed to say that I shed a tear into my black sequined handkerchief during her blustery rendition of "New York, New York." It was that good, even though I'm more of a Carol Channing fan.

But in between lurking near the Absolut-sponsored open bars and watching the towering drag queen Lady Bunny preen for photographers, I wondered how my already-decaying internal organs were going hold up over ten late nights as Gawker's Fashion Week Party Correspondent. Or why I agreed to do this in the first place. So I asked people for advice, and they tried to help. Really, they did. Basically it boils down to doing the right drugs, wearing the right shoes, and little bit of crying.

Mark Ronson, who was DJing between live sets, said that with the exception of his fashion designer sister Charlotte's after-party, he hadn't gotten many invites."The MisShapes and all those people get all the cool, trendy things. I had that era ten years ago. I'm not really that guy anymore. But I would just tell you: Adderall."

Fair enough, but that stuff keeps me up all night. I headed upstairs for a vodka and soda and bumped into Bob Morris, the author and former New York Times Sunday Styles columnist."This is a party in a library for people who don't read," he declared. Did he have any survival tips for me? "If you wear really neat shoes, they just fly you through the whole thing, with Anna Wintour-like gloss and grace. Also, do a lot of Ritalin."

Paper editorial director Mickey Boardman, rocking a "custom-made sparkle tuxedo" and glittery ballet slippers from Century 21, recommended watching reality TV. "I have to go home and watch a few hours of Food Network Challenge, to just like, you know, diffuse. It's my favorite show."

While puffing away outside, I was approached by Kenley Collins, the cat-throwing cutie from Project Runway, who was escaping the sweatiness inside. Did she have any tips for me? "I'm still reccuperating from Vegas," she said. "I showed at Magic. I'm only going to this and my own show's party. I'm doing one at TenJune and the Edison Ballroom. It's the 12th and the 16th. You should come." I promised I would if I wasn't already dead by then. What else is Kenley up to? "I'm pitching a reality show. Its following me and my support system and my entourage. It's like the real Entourage. It is going to be good." You know what? That actually sounds kind of awesome.

Also heading outside was Andrew WK, the rocker behind the anthem "Party Hard" and owner of Santos Party House. He was bound to have some good ideas."You have to wear a double pillow-cushioned insole," he advised. "You one to put at least one piece of lace on you, whether that's a woman's panty, or a male panty. A lace bra or a little doily in your purse or your pants pocket. You wanna lace up and you wanna put insoles in your shoes. Thanks for asking. I live in Times Square. And the fact that Fashion Week is happening is a great privilege of the neighborhood. Now go have some fun!"

Next I awkwardly sidled up to Kanye West, who was flanked by some beefy security dudes and his mohawked girlfriend, Amber Rose, who wore robotic-looking wrap-around shades. He leaned over my tape recorder and said, "I don't do any press." This rule, I can assure you, includes Gawker. The newly-single Topper Mortimer, in a crushed-velvet blazer with a blonde on his arm, was also wary. "I don't go to any of the parties. I wouldn't know where to start on tips." The gal with him said, "Drink a lot of water!"

Shortly before Liza came on, kewpie-lipsticked fashion scribe Lynn Yaeger told me: "Don't be ashamed to cry. It's very rough. I try to be home by 10 o'clock. If you go to the parties and the shows, you'll never get any work done. But this party is really fun."

I ordered yet another vodka and soda next to Fern Mallis, the IMG senior v.p. who is credited with creating Fashion Week. She was sipping a flute of Champagne and agreed with Andrew W.K. Sort of. "Wear comfortable shoes. Forget all those platform monstrosities.You've got to drink lots of water. You need to get a little sleep and you need to be hydrated. That really helps."

But it was Ira Silverberg, the noted literary agent for "The Game" author Neil Strauss and many other writers, who really laid it out for me.

"Take a lot of Niacin in the morning," he said. "There's a fizzy vitamin called Berocca. Never drink too much coffee. It's harder on the system than the booze is. But the truth is, I don't go out during Fashion Week. That's the secret: Don't go out during Fashion Week! It's like amateur night. It's like New Year's Eve in Times Square. It's a bunch of fucking people from Jersey, who like, throw up their dinner, and are wearing knock-off shoes. That's what Fashion Week is all about."

Thanks, Ira, but I won't be taking your advice. Except for maybe the Niacin part.

Photos by 217design/Liz Brown

Your lone fashion week outing, and some old guy spoils your chance to sit next to the editor of Vogue. Sorry, Serena. But at least the clothes at the Ralph Lauren show were totally worth it. (And, hey, maybe Safer's Wintour profile will give you a reason to start exploring this "news" programming you've heard so much about.)

(Photos: Getty Images)

Basically the war between NBC/Universal, whose Bravo network for gay people aired the fashion design competition series for its first five seasons, is locked in mortal combat with the Weinstein Company, the series' production house, who sold it in a late night deal to Lifetime, hoping for a quick buck. Harvey & Co.'s little gambit didn't pay off quite the way they'd hoped though, as promotion and scheduling for the sixth season have been completely hindered by an NBC/U lawsuit trying to get their little boutique cash cow back.

But they're still allowed to film, so film they did. The collections were presented anonymously, so neither the fashion doyennes in the audience nor we playing at home could possibly figure out just who is behind the garments. Judging from photos, below, we can tell a few things though. Basically, someone's really into black leathery domination gear. Someone else is into draping and sweeping dresses. Another person is into little turnips-from-Mario 2-shaped cocktail dresses. So just follow those patterns whenever the show airs, and you might be able to cobble the answers together. Of course, this season might never air at all. If NBC/U eventually wins their suit, it's possible (though according to some, not likely) this entire iteration will be scuttled and all of it will have been for naught. Pity for all involved. Either way, here are the clothes.

All images via AP

Diane von Furstenberg

Rebecca Taylor

Anna Wintour!

A Ramone

Olivia Palermo

Exactly.

All pics via Getty

dado's new line beats the original, Area Teen Just Thrilled to Be at Fashion Show.

OK, here are some not-so-little people:
Caroline Kennedy at an Armani store opening.
And, of course, Peaches Geldof with some skinny boy thing.
All photos from Getty, except last two, from AP.