A Tour of Fashion Week

The catwalks, the clothes, the chit-chat: "Which of the Palin men do you think is cutest?"

The next day at Rodarte—a hot ticket that I'm very happy to have—the models are made to wear humongous platform heels and walk down a steep ramp (who says these teenagers don't earn their money?). At Betsey Johnson, my friend Mickey Boardman and I seem to be the only ones eating the free cupcakes. (C'mon, people, these are healthy, CFDA-endorsed snacks!) Outside the Dennis Basso show, the PETA picket line is chanting "Gassing! Trapping! Anal electrocution!" (Lucky I already ate that cake. I'm losing my appetite.)

This is fun, but quite frankly, I've almost had enough. On Wednesday, I go to Philip Lim, but I hate my seat, and because I hate people who complain about their seats, I descend into a self-loathing vortex that only lifts when I attend a party that night honoring famed street photographer Bill Cunningham at Bergdorf Goodman. (Full disclosure: A gigantic picture of me that Bill took a few years ago is in the window of BG as part of this tribute. I am ecstatic about this.)

Thursday's here! Do I schlep back to the wilds of Chelsea for the delicate meanderings at J. Mendel? Or trek uptown for Calvin Klein? Or brave the tents one more time to see what's shaking with wunderkind Zac Posen? It's 9/11, they're reciting the names of the dead on TV all morning, but so what?—Fashionland started treating this anniversary as nothing special years ago.

Hot ticket: Rodarte's runway
Karl Prouse/Getty Images

Hot ticket: Rodarte's runway


Can you believe it? Just when you think you can't stand another minute, it's the last day of Fashion Week! I check the schedule, but who am I kidding? Even if the runways featured Michelle, Cindy, Hillary, and Sarah donning Galliano couture and dancing the hula, I don't think I could stand to watch another fashion show. Know what I'm going to do instead? Rest up all day, then put on my best raggedy downtown duds and go to the Costume National store in Soho for a fete hosted by the glorious, ageless, incomparably chic Patti Smith.

Now there's a fashion icon.

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