The crew is up at Trump Tower filming Miss Universe. So you know who overslept. Today I'm feeling more uniform, so we'll do a black Jil Sander leather jacket, a black Gap turtleneck, black McQueen cashmere slacks and (sigh) The Rifts. Bump into that Molinari icon Tasha Tilberg who is exiting the (boring) Jill Stuart looking all butch, in her now fashionable combat boots. Girl nearly takes my arm off when she punches me on my biceps. (Owwwww) "What's up? " she demands. "I'm burnt baby," I croak rubbing my bruised arm.

"Hah," snorts Tasha "Try being fuckin me!" and stomps her way off to her car. Walk down to the Manhattan Center where everybody clamors effortlessly into the Isaac Mizrahi, but I get the dubious gig of waiting for Veronica Webb (the host for this segment) to arrive. Veronica Webb? That does it. TV is not me. Far too democratic. Veronica finally gets there, interviews Isaac and Shalom and then parks herself in the front row with The Mogul, his Fiancee and Puffy Combs and their personal TV crew. In the cavernous unheated expanse of the Manhattan Center I begin to feel a suspicious soreness in my throat (uh oh). Remember last season Echinacea cough drops? That was a brilliant idea worth repeating! The party Marc Jacobs elected not to have surfaced at the Rifat Ozbek. Oceans of champagne, supermodels arriving late from the Mizrahi, Alek finally deeming to say hello, Tasha Tilberg sneering at the paparazzi, Cryto-Asiatic looks on Big Girls. It is all too deleriously out-of-control. Margerite from DNA is there. Perhaps I can get her to set up that much needed Audrey Marnay interview. Have you noticed how fast the designers are turning the models over these days. And this Sunniva. Is she the next Karen Elson. Come to think of it. Where the hell is Karen? Medical note: Champagne does wonders for a sore throat.

FRI

I have it. That thing you get from too much mwah - mwahing. The Fashion Flu I mean. The dirty little germ that has been falling girl after girl, that has taken the spark from Kylie's gait, that has made ice queen Kiara all paranoid (hair diva Marcelino is greeting Kaira and naughtily sticks his tongue between her lips causing her to hop up and down in disgust). Boy do I have it. On the day of the Calvin Klein, which would have provided the only Kate encounter. Oh well. I don't think that the coscegneti would have apreciated the lush display of self-perpetuating phlegm that I hack and spew all morning. I really didn't want to go to the Stephen Sprouse, really I didn't. Anyway PR insists its going to be great so I make the sacrifice. Deep in my mind I'm convinced its a hoax, since the Sprouse invite never did arrive, but as we coast down Broadway on P.R's thunderous motorbike the surfeit of limos and town cars docked at Staff USA assures us that there is something going on. After crawling out of the elevator, we get hit with the scene...of a fashion show already in progress. Ooops. I think someone got his showtimes confused. I mean the strobe lights are going and some superblondes are stalking down the catwalk serving severe Pocohantas visuals on an Ian-Asbury tip (remember The Cult). The main diva is our beloved Esther Canadas and she is letting the crowd have it, giving glowering face and a shimmering sneer, and this is late Friday mark you, when the girl had been working non-stop for like, three months. Then a suite of Fierce Black Girls led by Kiara come rumbling on their heels and I realize that Christiaan, Godhead stylist that he is has used strands of hair to create the Indian headband look and, Oh-My-God, the print dresses are from the Warhol / Basquiat series and there's a live DJ. And some pervert has seated Polly Mellen alongside freak designer Walter Bierkenstock and I get totally stoked cuz...THIS IS WORKING. I kick myself for not getting here at six so I could have lurked backstage. On the way down I overhear this junior editor congratulating Stephan Gan on the Visionaire party. "The one in Paris?" drawls Mr. Gan. "No" goes Junior Editor. "...The one at Flamingo". "Ohhh," sniffs Gan, rapidly losing interest in the conversation. He knows his debacles, non? One last spin, the Emporio Armani. I'm breaking into cold sweats and shivering down at 55 Wall and its not because I'm loving the clothes. We get there late, so once again, we have to stand and while its one the most overwhelming shows of the week: (Giorgio manages to render Manhattan's lushest venue antiseptic) it feels colorless and looooong. I mean I apreciate the hi-tech hair and make-up but its resonance to grey lilting pantsuit after grey lilting pantsuit is lost on me. After waiting for Adia to emerge (she never does) I spend the rest of the show show staring at Sophia Loren and her aerodynmaically impossible cleavage. Its spooky, I tell you Thanks a million Rogers and Cowans. You managed to make Naomi's Nelson Mandela benefit at Odeca Li so tense, essentially NOBODY has a good time. Ingrid C.in a powder blue sweater, open to show her taut little tummy is clearly intending to find some company for the night but no-one's having her. Chris Paciello (not his real name) recepient of a fantastic piece of publicity from the Village Voice is a bad accessory tonight luv. Marc Jacobs and Christina Cruse huddle miserably together. James Truman and Steven Meisel look lost. You could have been there too. For $75. That high school caste system is in full effect. The Cheerleaders: Amber, Nur, Shalom, Michelle Hicks and Helena at the A-table. The juniors: Bridget Hall, Jamie Rishar and Chandra North at the B-table. Valeria Mazza at the C table. Poor little Karen Elson is banished to the misfit corner. She knows they're all whispering that she has gained too much weight to fit her clothes this season but I heard the same thing about Naomi and how much did she gain? 3 pounds? Please! Fugee-guy Wyclef keeps playing these infernal cover tunes. The Mogul is here enacting rapture with his Fiancee. The Hip-hop crowd fails to intermingle with the fashionista or vice versa. Naomi makes a valiant attempt to cross the lines, but you know where she ends up at night's don't you? And concerning that Pamela Anderson-imposter. I heard it was a drag queen. I didn't check for proof however.

SAT

Fashion Week has done it again. If this were a movie, the camera would be panning over my devastated body. My eyes are bloodshot and I'm lying prone in the rubble of dirty laundry, free magazines, dead cell phones, defunct plane tickets, condom wrappers,free Evian and crumpled twenty dollar bills. And lots of sticky little napkins. The phone chimes. (Owwww).

"Yeah? I'm wrecked girl. I think its bronchitis. (Cough Cough) I'm not being melodramatic. I'm never going out again. Hepatitis? E-U. No wonder she looked so out of it. What Mr Chow party? Is China still doing Marky? Really? John Forte is going? Is he still with Amber? Shalom left Elite! Did Paul get her? No Way! Clara left Ford! For Major? When did all this happen? The rehab model? You mean It wasn't ............... We do have to convene baby. Put me on the list. See you there. Mwah.