Talk of the Tents

Dear Beautiful People,

Thank you for allowing me to breathe your air, look at your clothes and watch you live better than the rest of us on the bottom deck of the Titanic.

It was very nice of you to allow a sports writer to delve into your world for a few days. It was especially gracious of you to offer me champagne and the chance to pretend to be both hoity and toity at the same time. All people should be as lucky as myself.

As my nose begins to aim downward again, I shall never forget the smell of your rarefied air. As I pay my own bills, vacuum my carpets, pump gas into my 98,000 miles-and-counting car, work 40 hours a week in an office, bust my patoot for less than what you make in two days, I will be able to tell my children I roamed the same planetary ground as you all and never once got into any legal hassles.

For this, you are to be commended.

It is clear after this week that my haircut stinks, all my clothes are terrible, my socks should be embarrassed by the shoes in which they must contact and my personal sense of style should be insulted by my personal sense of style. I should be forced to sleep in an exfoliating loofah bed for two months to cleanse my body of its steerage toxins.

My one-week pass into the beautiful world has expired. Keep it real.

Best,
Mark La Monica

By Mark La Monica

I'm done. I quit. I'm tapping out. No need for the sleeper hold, camel clutch or figure-four leg lock. I voluntarily submit to ending my seven-day reign as Blog King of New York.

Too much fashionism, too little time.

The breaking point came moments ago inside The Bryant Park Hotel. The Front Row Daily, a fashion week rag mag, had been advertising free massages in their office. That office is on the 24th floor, but you wouldn't know that without asking the right people.

After lugging around a laptop and 20 other pounds of notebooks, peppermint patties and other free junk all week, the lower lumbar region begged for some love. So why not enjoy a little free massage at the end of a long week of fashioning. It's akin to raging in Las Vegas for 48 hours and then wrapping up the weekend with a schvitz at the spa three hours before the flight home.

I arrived on the 24th floor and walked into the office. Remember that college party at that awfully small apartment of your girlfriend's artist friend? This rivaled it. Personal space and comfort was at a premium. The Bacardi bar was nice, but it took too long to get a fresh-made martini, so I passed. There was a hair and makeup room. Whoa! That was not in the advertisement.

The massage table was nowhere to be found. Allegedly, there was some room with a door closed and a long line, and frankly that's just way too shady a combination to deal with in some random office that caters to the fashion world.

So I left. Grumpy. Achy. Ready to return to reality.

By Mark La Monica

It stunk. There, I said it.

The Vera Wang show figured to be good based on my simple theory: If I have actually heard of the designer, then the designer is quite popular with the masses and that will produce celebrities.

The only celebrity I could recognize was Greta Van Susteren of Fox News. Geez, I'm more famous than she is. I could get a better seat than her if I put three man-hours into it.

Odds are people higher up on the food chain were in attendance, but I probably couldn't see them. Then again, the paparazzi didn't fall all over themselves at anyone, so maybe not. Backstage afterward didn't provide any more visual information on this topic, another bad sign.

Speaking of fall, that was the highlight. One model in a long white dress stumbled a bit and nearly took a tumble. It was magical. I felt bad for her, especially when all the photographers started clicking and groaning, but it still was funny.

The same two songs were looped the entire show, and they weren't very good. It was Bill Murray in "Groundhog Day" but with dark and weird-looking clothes.

If you're going to have an off-day, make sure it's not during the biggest week of the season.

By Mark La Monica

And the winner for best free thing under the tents is . . . Delta's free cell phone charging service.

If your cellie's battery has decided to get uppity and stop working, you can drop it off at the Delta Cell-cierge. They have connectors for virtually every type of phone. They'll hook it up, plug it in to a small generator in a hip bag and then go on about their way while you watch high fashion and sip champagne.

It's beyond convenient, especially since we're in a big friggin man-made tent with no usable outlets for the not-so-beautiful people.

Good job, Delta! Maybe you'll climb out of Chapter 11 bankruptcy a few days earlier than expected.

By Mark La Monica

With that cream cashmere overcoat, I'd be walking like a panther. With that anthracite suede trench coat, I'd be bigger and deffer.

Whether the fabric is rayon, silk or maybe even denim, it really doesn't matter as long as I'm in 'em.

LL Cool J debuted his new clothing line today in an extremely cool atmosphere at The Carlton Hotel on Madison Avenue. The line is called Todd Smith, two-thirds of his real name, and it's jingling baby.

After sipping champagne, loungin' and schmoozing with a few around the way girls because I need love, I decided it was time to meet the man who will rock the bells for future entertainers looking to branch out into fashion.

I somehow talked my way into a sit-down interview with J, and I brought along my peoples - Journalista friend Lauren and Fashion friend Anne. How I pulled this one off I'm still not sure, but I eliminate punks and cut 'em up in chunks because I'm bad. Or maybe I'm just something like a phenomenon.

An LL Cool J gathering is more my style than any of these other fashion shows. I grew up in Pumas and Kangols.

In this session, we're No. 4 on J's list of interviews. Everyone will have already asked the same questions. Nothing we can do about that, but J and I both understand the same thing: he wants the pub and we want to give it to him. However, I'm the type of guy who won't waste an opportunity. I immediately started thinking of what ridiculous thing I could ask at the end to make us stand out at the end of the day when J and his boys are hanging out reviewing the day.

Style TV, print reporters and NY1 took their turns. Clearly no one there has even thought about asking anything different.

Uh oh, we're up. Should I ask why none of the models are wearing bamboo earrings (at least two pair) and a Fendi bag? Nah, too cliche.

It's readily apparent that J is genuinely a nice guy. Sure he has to be that today considering he's doin' it, doin' it and doin' it well with his new clothing line. But still. It's refreshing.

We ask questions, he answers them. J makes it a point to explain that this is Todd Smith's clothing and that it has nothing to do with LL Cool J, rap music or anything like that. One look at his gear and you'll see he's correct.

It's a smart business move for J. His persona will garner plenty of initial publicity and create a huge buzz, but eventually if his design concept remains true, the distinction between LL Cool J and Todd Smith will exist peacefully in people's minds and closets.

I ask J a question about his clothes and suggest I was going to steal that cream cashmere overcoat. He laughs and talks about the coat, the fabrics and designs.

Here's my chance!

"So, you're basically the new Cut Creator," I said.

J does that half head-turn people do when they're stunned by greatness. He gives a genuine laugh, points his finger at me and says, "That's funny."

Don't call it a comeback, I've been here for years!

We wrap up the interview and thank him for his time. I extend a handshake as is customary with my interview subjects. He obliges and then I say, "LL, you're going to answer the same questions all day, but you know no one else will call you the next Cut Creator."

"You're right."

Go Cut Creator go.

(Note: For those not in the know, Cut Creator was the DJ on LL Cool J's early albums.)

By Mark La Monica

First rule of Fashion Week: Upon entering the tent, get a WE bag. They make great gifts. And they're free.

On Wednesday morning, I followed the rules. On Wednesday afternoon, I tried breaking the rules by going in for a second bag on the same day. That's a flagrant violation of WE protocol.

Seeing how I stick out here like a homeless guy drinking at Tavern on the Green, the lady recognized me.

"C'mon, it's for my mother," I said.

She didn't believe me, which was smart because I was lying. But she insulted my manhood. No self-respecting man can allow such things to go unchecked. The WE girl will be made to repent!

Determined to exact revenge, I went into the WE booth this morning fully armed. I had Mama La Monica on Ready 5.

Once again, the WE girl remembered me, most likely because of my adoring smile and green, brown and blue eyes.

She said something to the effect of "This is for your mom, right?"

I admired her punkish attitude, but she clearly didn't know who she was dealing with. I'm the king of the check, meaning when someone gets uppity, I check them back into Reality Hotel.

"It is," I respond. "Don't believe me? Here, talk to her."

I handed the WE girl my Razr cellie. They spoke. I got the WE bag. It's not for my mom.

Want the eBay link?

By Mark La Monica

It's 9:37 a.m. Thursday, my final day on the top deck of the Titanic.

There is so much still to do. I keep trying to purge myself, just to get the true model experience, but every time I try to pull the trigger, I hear my brain say, "What the hell is wrong with you, moron?"

I will invoke the Life's Moral Imperative clause and try again shortly.

There's the little matter of free massages across the street at the Bryant Park Hotel. And yes, I will bring some mimosas with me to that.

Must also add a famous person to my Nicky Eyes Hit List. The best potential for this is some type of LL Cool J function today, a function I will figure out how to attend.

I still need Lindsay Lohan's phone number, but I think I lost that opportunity last Friday.

Another WE bag. They make for great free gifts. And there's the eBay factor to consider.

And we need to see more famous people so I can taunt Cartoonist friend Harris.

By Mark La Monica

Took in the Anna Sui show on Wednesday night. Lots of bright colors and crazy clothes. Good beats. All around, it was a good experience for my first after-dark show of the week.

And Naomi Campbell opened and closed the show. Damn, that chica is hot. How you like me now, Skirts?

But the most enjoyable part of the evening was supplied by the people at the Lycra booth. Free mini-bottles of Moet! In search of the full experience of the good life, I had no choice but to accept such bubbly bliss.

The cupcakes were explosives. Cupcakes? At a fashion show? Cupcakes! At a fashion show!

By Mark La Monica

The question was met with stunning bewilderment. What could my answer possibly have been to a question like this?

Waiting in the holding are for the Carmen Marc Valvo show with Web compadre Sheed, we were asked, "Do you guys want runway access?"

Um, er, uh, excuse me? Did our new favorite fashion organizing person really use those words in the interrogative form?

I paused for roughly .23 seconds to analyze the situation and proceeded with a simple "Yes!"

It would appear Valvo is a fan of Newsday, most likely because he got some good play in the newspaper one day. But, really, who cares why? In fashion, it's all about who you know and how far that can get you.

[Public disclosure: Access works like this for the media: It is at the designer's discretion who goes on the A list, who goes on the B list and who goes on the F- list. One show, you're a prima dog. The next, you're a dog with fleas.]

Armed with "Sorry, Mr. Security Man, but you can't stop me now" passes, Sheed and I decided to maximize the moment. Much needed to be done. We had to walk around and look for famous people if for no other than we could walk around and look for famous people. After spending all the shows in the pit with the grimy paparazzi (and a few nice ones, too), it was time to stretch our legs. Plus, there is the fact that we can tell our grandkids, "Oh, modeling? Yeah, yeah, I been there, kid."

Runway access allows the media to get closer and more personal to famous people, which apparently is more important to some photographers than the clothing.

For much of my time on the runway, we had no celebrities to gawk at. Just some dude in a half-Prince, half-David Lee Roth 'Just a Gigolo' suit with an orange feather sticking out of his purple hat.

That's typical La Monica luck.  Then, just as I was being asked to leave the runway for the third time, Vanessa Williams strolled by. I won.

By Mark La Monica

It appears by his text messages that Cartoonist friend Harris is none too happy with me at the moment over this Vanessa Williams situation.

His phone call let me further know his displeasure. It would appear that my being in the presence of the lovely Miss USA 1983 and his not being in the presence of the lovely Miss USA 1983 gets his jealousy gene into a huff.

"Why did I give you my number, so I could get a call from you?" Harris said. "She's supposed to call me. Not you. Good looking out."

Hey, Harris:

Click on the photo. That's as close as you're gonna get, pal. How you like me now?

By Mark La Monica

Paradise ended at 11:18 a.m. Wednesday. But for two hours, I mingled among the beautiful people backstage at the Michael Kors show.

Jesus.

Forget VH-1, Peter Brady and Adrianne Curry. This is the surreal life.

On the left side is more makeup than Barbie could imagine. On the right is the hair palace. In the middle are racks of clothing sectioned off by the person who will be wearing them.

In between . . . models, models, models.

And they all manage to somehow look the same. Literally. I know that's the popular concept and most of the time, it's not true. This time? Hello, Stepford!

I slink around trying to absorb the visuals without looking like a crazy stalker. Access is a wonderful thing. I debate trying to snag a few minutes in the makeup chair for a quick puff to remove the shine. Could be funny. Could get me evicted from Paradise. Too risky.

There's a food table near the entrance. Muffins, bagels, danishes, croissants, fresh fruit, orange juice, champagne. Welcome to Carb Hell for models, which explains why only non-models were enjoying the perishables.

Amid the sea of superficiality, photographers and TV people swim in search of photo ops and soundbytes. They grab models by the arm as they walk by and ask to take their picture. On the street, that's called harassment. Backstage, it's called normal. Backstage seems more fun.

Michael Kors gives interview after interview and never moans or groans. Then again, this is his Super Bowl, so he has to enjoy it.

A champagne-and-Red Bull concoction is being passed around on, no joke, silver platters. It's served in a champagne flute and I'm feeling classy. Sure, it's only 10:45 in the morning, but I gotta look the part.

Celebrities wishing to avoid the steerage in the front of the tents enter through the backstage. But before they are escorted to their seats, they get their pictures taken and their words written down. It's all about being seen being someone being somewhere.

The fashion and style people fall all over themselves as Hillary Duff chats about her clothes with boyfriend Joel Madden of Good Charlotte standing nearby. Two women comment to themselves about how the good girls always go for the bad boys. I need a tattoo and three piercings.

Duff, who is actually very attractive and very short, finishes an interview with some international station. Upon completion and after Duff walked away, the camerawoman says, "Lindsay who?"

I nearly interject my displeasure with that statement, but I'm still in Paradise and after the La Piazza snubbing, it's not worth risking eviction.

"First looks! First looks!" a fashion person starts yelling. She approaches me. I'm thinking I might enjoy getting a first look at these ladies.

"Who are you shooting for?" she asks.

Damn.

"Uh, Newsday?" I respond.

"You're not on the list."

"Nope."

"You have to leave."

"OK."

Paradise ended at 11:18 a.m. Wednesday.

By Mark La Monica

I'm furious. Furious, I tell you.

There's a headline in today's The Front Row Daily that reads "Blogger Pajama Party!"

What the frig?!? How did I not score an invite? Someone call Lawyer friend Steve and have him draw up a legal complaint and file it with the Fashion Police. This is madness. I will never read this rag again.

OK, I lied.

More perusing of this fashion week magazine yields a picture of star crush Lindsay Lohan being smooched by designer Marc Jacobs on page six. This is not good.

Web compadre Sheed never read The Daily. I suggested he start. So, Sheed just up and swiped my copy and played the scratch-and-win game for a free Michele watch. He lost. Ha! Now he wants helps on the crossword:

60 Down: Two-letter word for "Guy."

37 Across: Eight-letter word for "Karl's new daddy."

30 Down: Five-letter word for "Newly engaged dermatologist."

16 Across: Seven-letter word for "Has yet to attend Fashion Week in New York."

First one to post the correct answers wins three free peppermint patties and two bottles of Aquafina.

By Mark La Monica

Cartoonist friend Harris gave very simple instructions: When you see Beyonce or Vanessa Williams, call me.

Ring, ring, Harris.

Vanessa Williams and her beautifulness enjoyed the Carmen Marc Valvo show from the front row. And I had runway access. How you like me now, Harris?!?

Strolling in to Michael Kors via the backstage entrance was Grace, aka Debra Messing. She's quite stunning in real life.

Journalista friend Lauren called in from the paparazzi pit with her sightings of Ivanka Trump and Nicole Richie, a pair of famous daughters.

Tennis star/fashion designer Serena Williams, singer/actress Hillary Duff and musician Joel Madden of Good Charlotte also took in the Kors show.

By Mark La Monica

I finally slinked my way backstage to one of these shows. Michael Kors, to be precise. With no previously arranged time or my name on any list, I said "My camerawoman is backstage and I'm late for my stand-up. Can you hook me up?"

Damn, I'm good!

Once backstage, I took copius visual notes and I'll transcribe them later for you. In the meantime, here's what backstage looks like through the eyes of the Razr phone (click on photos to see larger size):

Hye finds a moment in front of her locker without a locker to chat with someone on the phone.

Where would this model, believed to Tatyana since she was sitting in front of Tatyana's closet on a rack with no door, be without her Red Bull and cell phone?

This genuinely attractive model, whose name I could not figure out, does a quick interview with VH-1 before getting ready for first looks.

En route to her clothing for the show, Hilary is stopped for some quick closeups.

Tennis, anyone? See earlier posting about Serena Williams.

Damn, Hillary Duff is extremely attractive in real life. Mad short, but extremely attractive. The dude to her left is Good Charlotte's Joel Madden.

By Mark La Monica

This is simply fantastic. The "this" is a handwritten sign in magic marker posted on the wall next to the walking directions for the models backstage at the Michael Kors show.

It reads as follows:

You are the most gorgeous
girls and guys on the campus.

Everyone wants to be in your fraternity or sorority . . .

but they can't get in!

Be UPBEAT!

Keep up the pace
Sexy and have a good time.

Remember, You're in Love!

Deal with that, America.

By Mark La Monica

As resident pet chimp, I get to do dumb things. One of them was to turn the attention on myself on Tuesday with a silly outfit, then ask the beautiful people what they thought of it.

It's fairly embarassing, but extremely hysterical, or so my friends thought.

Have a look and cast your own thoughts.

http://www.amny.com/entertainment/custom/fashion/fashionshows/am-markinterview-video,0,3279464.wmv

(Note: The part where I told the artist guy that he was "wearing a Michael Irvin suit" didn't make the final edit.)

By Mark La Monica

West Coast friend Allie Skirts, a retired gossiper, e-mailed me his fashion superiority the other day.

"Skirts always had first row seats for every show at Bryant Park. Unfortunately you wont ever know the surreal sight of watching Cindy, Elle, Naomi, Linda, Kate and Tyra strut down the runway. Those were the days. Now you get anorexic Eastern Block [girls]."

Such jealousy does not become you, Skirts. Although the veracity of that statement is undisputed, too bad you missed the real issue. All the female models here this year are fully covered.

So, if you must mock me, mock my keen ability to pick the year when fashion buttons up.

This is more upsetting than watching the Playboy channel on scramble. There's been an occasional exposure, but nothing that could even match the Vanity Fair cover with Keira Knightley and Scarlett Johanssen that made a stir on Tuesday.

Word on the street is that I would have enjoyed the Reem Acra show on Monday. That would have been a nice piece of information to have at say, oh I don't know, Monday!

By Mark La Monica

It's 8:45 a.m., about three hours or so earlier than my normal wake-up time as a sports guy.

But I'm masquerading as a Fashion Week journalist, so it's all about little sleep and an appointment with an internist next week.

There is only one good thing about the morning being the start of my day rather than the end: primo real estate in the media section of the tents at Bryant Park. I secured one of the six gray leather chairs instead of one of the four gray carpet stairs that I've called home the past few days. Damn, I may not get up the rest of the day.

The general public cares very little about media accommodations, and for good reason. They just want the news. We just look for things to whine about.

But this one requires a few moments of pondering.

The fashion folks and celebrities need the exposure the media gives them. (How else can we explain the "fame" of Nicole Richie and the Hilton sisters?) So, they give credentials to hundreds of people with big cameras, little cameras, video cameras, camera phones and laptops.

Then they create a media section, which seems appropriate. I want to meet the architect who designed this area. Think small studio apartment on the Upper West Side. Now, take that image and cut in half. Mix in grimy paparazzi crawling on each other.

Math skills must not be a requirement to work in fashion. Common sense surely isn't.

By Mark La Monica

Stuck among the beautiful people for another day of high fashion and hoity-toitiness, I finally stumbled upon a little snippet of reality.

And of course, this came simply by walking out of the tents to get some lunch. Turns out today was a splendid sunny February afternoon. Who knew? Up until then, the brightest thing I saw was fake smiles and some Luca Luca designs.

Being among the steerage as I crossed 42nd Street en route to Cosi for a sandwich felt real. Real world. Real life. Real problems.

Inside the tents, the biggest problem is some rich person sitting in some other rich person's seat. Inside Cosi, the smallest problem is real. Bills. Kids. Family. The Boss.

It was a nice reminder that I have to pay the car insurance and some other creditors upon my return home at the end of the week. Not nice that I have to pay these people, but nice to know that I haven't lost my sense of reality.

However, I was quite concerned that four bites into my $7.19 sandwich, I felt like throwing up. Looks like I'm fitting in entirely too quickly. Someone order me a meatball hero and bring it to the tents on Wednesday.

By Mark La Monica

This is no . . . champagne . . . in the champagne room. Well, there is but it's locked away and beautiful guarder of the bubbly, Carolina, doesn't have the key.

Alas, after three days of recon, I finally put my olive oil voice and guinea charm to work and talked my way past the velvet rope into the party area of the Moet & Chandon booth inside the tents. Actually, it really wasn't that hard, but I want to appear more important than I really am.

Tonight's invite-only party will feature Moet's Brut Rose, which Carolina says is her favorite. Mine, too! Truthfully, with those eyes and that smile, she could tell me mixing tequila with strawberry milk and Gatorade tastes great and I'd be at the store four minutes later buying tequila, strawberry milk and Gatorade.

Inside the champagne room, which at the moment has no music playing, there is soft lighting with pink neon bulbs at the bar. It has the aura of a classy lounge where people such as myself would have to save up for eight months just to front for one night.

Roughly 96 champagne flutes line the bar and two side tables. Then there are 108 of Moet's signature tulip glass, which is only for private parties. It's a champagne flute, but the base is designed to look a like tulip and the drinker holds it from the stem. These, too, are pink. Along the wall, there are even more of these tulip glasses, creating a cool garden effect.

There's only one major problem: NO CHAMPAGNE!

By Mark La Monica

Spotted coming out of the backstage area for the main tent were Julianna Margulies and Kyra Sedgwick. Seeing how Sedgwick is Kevin Bacon's wife, the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon game seemed appropriate here. I tried to play it with Margulies, but she was being whisked away by Sedgwick before I had a chance to see if she could get from Andrew "Dice" Clay to Bacon in less than five steps.

But then things got observationally amusing.

The paparazzi stationed outside the tents found the two actresses and followed them along with walkway. The ladies turned around to go in the other direction. The paparazzi ran in front of them. The ladies turned around to go back in the original direction. The paparazzi ran in front of them. It was like a bizarre game of human Duck Hunt.

Cynthia Nixon of "Sex & The City" fame was seen walking into Bill Blass. I never liked that show, not that she cares. But flashbacks of being forced to watch it paralyzed me, which probably saved me some embarrassment. Besides, then she might have directed her cusses at me instead of the person she was cussing about to a friend.

Old-school model Janice Dickinson made her way into the Blass show, as well. Aging can be rough on some.

Beth Ostrosky is very blond and very nice to look at. Howard Stern lucked out landing her as his girl.

Fred Armisen of "Saturday Night Live" fame walked unmolested out of the backstage area before the Luca Luca show. My Tina Fey radar is on red alert.

Another Laguna Beach girl reveled in her absurb celebrity status but they all look the same, so I won't attempt to decipher which one she was.

By Mark La Monica

The Front Row Daily is rapidly becoming the must-read mag of the week. It's disturbing but oddly and unfortunately compelling.

It tells us everything we missed and everything we didn't know but think we need to know. Among them:

- Jenna Jameson was at the Badgley Mischka show on Sunday. That bit of information kicked me right in the gut.

- Free massages at the Bryant Park Hotel through Thursday.

- The horoscopes, which are all positive so far and can be summed up with this: "You're fabulous and you should let the world know it because you're somebody too."

- The scratch-off contest to win a new Michele watch. I don't know if that's good or not, but winning free things is never bad.

- Party Alert tells us all the people having bashes and where they are. They also imply that we're not invited.

But nothing beats the quote of the week so far. It was overheard at the Charlotte Ronson show: "This room is so crowded, but it's all fashion people. If I wave a big baguette in the air and go, 'Hey, watch out for the carbs,' do you think they'll move out of my way?"

By Mark La Monica

The popular and easiest question to ask the fashion folks is "What are you wearing?"

The "what" really means "who" but I can forgive the occasional misuse of interrogatives.

The askers don't really care but it's a natural ice-breaker in this kingdom. The askees just fulfill handshake obligations to shout out the people who give them clothes for the relatively low price of free.

Seeing how there are no models around at the moment, you'll just have to settle for this dialogue. The role of both people will be played by Mark La Monica:

"So, Mark, what are you wearing?"

"Well, Mark, I've got on a pair of sneakers from the 2005 Nike crosstrainer collection. And these artificially faded dark pale blue jeans were from Calvin Klein's Fall line. This fake tan khaki three-button sportcoat is an Alexander Lloyd, which means I don't know what."

"And the shirt, Mark?"

"The shirt? Oh, yeah, the shirt. Wo Hop."

By Mark La Monica

Those who taught me my craft said the best way to be a good beat reporter is to absorb everything about the topic you are covering. Know the ins and outs, who drives which car and what it's like to walk in their shoes.

When I landed this outrageous assignment in a world I'm unaccustomed to, I knew exactly what had to be done. I had to live the life of a model. That is an explosively humorous statement seeing how I'm a bit, uh, thicker than typical runway people and my preferred "couture" is track pants, a sleeveless t-shirt and a bandanna.

The first step in this one-week mindset makeover was to secure lodging in New York City because to be a player, you can't say things like "Let me check the train schedule." There is no nobility in riding the LIRR.

So I set up camp at Party promoter friend Jann's Greenwich Village apartment. An aerobed with a slow leak will suffice for a few days. After all, I'm only subway-setting, not jet-setting.

The second step was to put together some clothing ensembles that were quirky enough to appear cool. Hello, tan sportcoat, white Wo Hop t-shirt and black GT bandanna. Will it work on this Tuesday morning? If I were famous, yes. If I looked like Brad Pitt, yes. I'm not famous. I don't look like Brad Pitt. But, hey, I've got a great personality.

Step three: Starve myself. On Monday, Day 2 as fashion journalist and Day 1 as a 212 resident, I woke up around 6 a.m. I had a peppermint pattie around 9:30 when I arrived at Bryant Park, and another around noon or so as I chatted with the cute pattie pusher. Three bottles of Aquafina were mixed in during the day, along with a 3:30 mimosa and a 6 p.m. bottle of Coke Zero. I lost four pounds keeping track of all the food I didn't eat.

Step four: Binge. Purge. After work ended around midnight, Party promoter friends Jann and Briana and  I traveled to 17 Mott St., a New York landmark. Wo Hop. It's an old dirty Chinese restaurant open 24/7. I splurged: small wonton soup, two ribs, 10 tablespoons of chicken fried rice. One can of Sunkist. I was quite excited to consume real food. I was really excited to make myself throw up Tuesday morning at the tents before the shows started. It seemed the appropriate thing to do.

Step five: Cocktails. A nice 2 a.m. Grey Goose and tonic to cap off Night 1 of Model Madness.

Which brings us to right now, 9:37 a.m. Tuesday inside the tents on three-plus hours of sleep. Today's free stuff includes more bags but a quick glance into my Razr camera phone tells me I already have two -- one under each eye. This will be a rough day. The only things missing from Monday were four packs of cigarettes, a superficial attitude and four grams of smack.

It is now 9:42 and I'm wondering how I'll make it to 9:44 before my stomach tells my brain that I'm an idiot. Must pull trigger. Must pull trigger. The transformation will be complete.

By Mark La Monica

One of the more puzzling questions around these tents is what is a sports guy doing covering Fashion Week. I still don't have an answer for that other than it gets me out of the office for a few days and that if I'm going to switch things up for a few days, this seems a lot more fun than being the guy who replaces toner in office copiers and printers.

As the beautiful people were ushered into the Oscar de la Renta show, the gamble paid off.

Omar Minaya, the general manager of the New York Mets, strolled in unmolested by the photographers and the 86 fashion and style networks I never knew existed.

Baseball is a ferocious beat in this town, so Minaya is used to being bombarded by the media. This had to be a welcome feeling to go unnoticed.

Near as I can figure, there were three people in the Tent who knew who Omar Minaya was. Those three were Omar Minaya, his wife Rachel and myself.

For a few minutes, I was king of the journalism jungle. The guy who knew who someone else was without asking the nearest important-looking person.

Minaya climbed the 12 or so stairs to his seat in the balcony. I caught him on stair No. 3 with an "Omar, no front row for you today?"

He laughed. "No, not today," he replied.

Maybe de la Renta didn't appreciate the trading of starting pitchers Kris Benson and Jae Seo.

The show went on as planned and I decided to be one of those stalker fashion journalists. I waited by the runway for Minaya to leave.

He walked by and I introduced myself as a sports guy masquerading a fashion guy for a few days. I asked his thoughts on the show.

"I like Oscar," Minaya said. "I've met him before. I'm definitely a fan."

Fair enough. He made some pretty fly gear for this show.

But it was time to get Minaya's answer to the question I haven't been able to reconcile.

"What is a sports guy such as you doing here?" I asked.

"My wife," Minaya said. "She likes fashion. And right before spring training, it's a good change of scenery."

Good call, Omar. Now, about those recent trades with the starting pitchers?

By Mark La Monica

Where else in the world but Bryant Park this week could you hear this array of musical treats: "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas, "Passin' Me By" by the Pharcyde,  "Please Mr. Postman" by The Marvellettes, "Hung Up" by Madonna, "Push It" by Salt 'n Pepa and a little Juelz Santana for good measure?

For these reasons, along with all the other unmentioned songs played in the Promenade, the Betsey Johnson show definitely wins the Beats of The Week award.

When the photographers in the pit are dancing and several reporters in the stands can be seen shaking what their mamas gave them until Joey Headsets tells them not to bounce because it may shake the video cameras, you know you've got yourself a one-of-a-kind show.

Johnson's shows are always nutty, or so I'm told. The clothes were pretty cool if I were on "Laguna Beach," which might help to explain why the people of Laguna Beach seemed to enjoy the show.

Capping the show, Johnson ran down the runway and did a cartwheel. I'm not really sure why, but it seemed appropriate.

Eventually, the shows all run together. Here on Day 4, most of the people, clothes and models all look the same. They all walk funny and have bad-ass looks on their mugs. Johnson's musical selections and some of her Christina Aguilera-ish designs definitely set her apart from the others.

By Mark La Monica

"Fashion shows starting late are great for people watching," Freestyle friend Cristina called to tell me in the waiting moments before Oscar de la Renta's show started.

True indeed.

Oscar de la Renta did not disappoint, either. His dresses looked quite fly and the famous people looking at them were equally fly. So it's time for Round 3 of Celebrity Sightings. Keep in mind these are just people I could see and recognize.

On the scene in the front row was Nicole Richie, famous for being Lionel Richie's daughter, getting dumped by Paris Hilton and losing weight. A number of people in the photographer's pit gabbed away at how thin she looked and how it's not healthy and they wanted to help her. Disclosure to America: Listening to regular people talk about famous people as if they were their own daughters is beyond hilarious.

Having seen Thalia glam it up on the runway Friday at the Heart Truth show, I believe the sexy Latin singer was in attendance as well. However, after reading in The Front Row Daily, this week's on-site fashion magazine, that there was a Paris Hilton lookalike in the front row, I won't confirm Thalia's presence. But I did drool quite a bit as she walked in, so I will lay the points and bet that it was her.

(Note: That The Front Row Daily came in handy during this week is an upsetting reality. This better not be a trend.)

Serena Williams could kick my patoot. I know this because she walked by with three tickets, one for the fashion show and two for the gun show. That girl is ripppppppped. And quite fly in person.

Elle Magazine fashion director Nina Garcia took in the sights from the front row. This doesn't do much for me, but she's a big dog in the fashion world and this is Fashion Week, so its reporting seemed appropriate.

Style guru Andre Leon Talley rolled in to the show as well. That I can recognize him and, even scarier, know who he is and what he does speaks volumes to the fact that I have watched entirely too many countdown shows on E! and VH-1 in my lifetime. Another industry sighting like this and I'm canceling my cable.

Mets general manager Omar Minaya enjoyed the show with his lovely wife, Rachel, who is definitely the best acquisition he ever made. She is a striking woman.

After the show, NASCAR driver Jeff Gordon was spotted in the front row of the balcony. I immediately felt the urge to recite the Nelly lyrics "Drive fast, see, call me Jeff Gordon, in the black SS with the navigation." I refrained, out loud that is. In my head, I was on stage at the MTV Awards with a Band-Aid under my right eye, three gold teeth and a St. Louis accent.

Also spotted, albeit in the memory card of a digital camera belonging to new fashion friend Pilar of Bogota, Colombia, were Oscar de la Renta and the King of Spain's son-in-law. Pretty cool.

Even cooler is when Pilar returns to Colombia, she's going to have to explain to her people who that guy in the $6 argyle woolie is.

By Mark La Monica

Journalista friend Lauren advised an early entrance in the Oscar de la Renta show. Wise move, considering how all the eavesdropping I did today centered around this Oscar fella and his big show here at Fashion Week.

In the ultra-competitive world of fashion photography, it's all about getting primo real estate in the risers. I'm rocking front row on the ground at 12:34 p.m., but that will soon pose a problem. The Aerosmith roadie lookalike is making some noise and there are several other photographers mulling about looking for the perfect spot.

Uh oh, it just got worse. Where about an hour away from showtime (these things never start on time) and some fashion fella just announced "Ladies and gentlemen, Oscar de la Renta will be using 63 models and they will not be stopping."

This bodes not so well for me - a lowly word guy - as the photo and video people will be on amber alert now that the tall and lanky people in nice clothes will not be pausing for photos. There just might be a few misunderstandings with some of these people. If they get uppity, there's going to be some furniture moving around these parts.

Time to start the celebrity hunting as Journalista friend Lauren and I ruminate on how our wardrobes stink, our haircuts are awful and we will have to sleep in an exfoliating loofah for two years just to feel better about our non-celebrity lives.

By Mark La Monica

It would be highly unAmerican to not enjoy free stuff with no catches.

Here in Fashion Land, you can't walk 20 feet without having someone hand you something. Bottles of Aquafina. York peppermint patties. WE bags. Fashion Week magazines. Notepads from Pantone.

After a John Belushi training table breakfast of three peppermint patties and two bottles of Aquafina, I began the quest for knowledge. Just how many of these things are given out for free each day in the name of marketing and brand building.

Lauren from Aquafina estimated about 2,000 12-ounce bottles per day, which seems fairly accurate.

A lovely young lady from the WE booth reports that 625 of their now-famous red WE bags are rationed out each day.

Now for these patties. April Henry, a vivacious "singer/songwriter/actress" from South Florida, could not approximate a number. But she took it a step further. She went by weight, which is an amusing category to sort by at a fashion festival.

One box weighs 20 pounds. About one-quarter of that box fits in her pattie bag. Quick math says that's five pounds. There are at least four people with these pattie bags and one dude working with a pattie tray. They fill up several times a day. So we're talking roughly 50-60 pounds of delectables being dished out to passers by. That's a lot of peppermint!

But what is a singer/songwriter/actress doing dealing in patties? "The experienciality of it," she said.

We both agreed that wasn't a word.

"But that's truthiness, so it's OK," I responded.

Props to Stephen Colbert for that conversation-sparker.

For those not under the spell of Comedy Central's Colbert and his hilarious show The Colbert Report, truthiness is basically defined as something you believe and want to be true even though it isn't.

April and I continued to chat about patties, about life. She got all Brooklyn on me, so I had to return fire and get Long Islandy. I demanded she bring me some patties and an Aquafina whenever she sees me writing. I'm 1-for-1 so far.

By Mark La Monica

A media credential or a ticket to the shows is not the only thing needed to make it through Fashion Week.

After 1.2 days on the beat, I've developed The La Monica Fashion Week Survival Guide which I will list here now and sell next year on eBay to the 2007 journalists who wish to consort with the beautiful people.

As best I can figure it, a Fashion Week attendee needs the following:

- A backpack to hold all the free junk.

- Binoculars to see who everyone else is drooling over in the front row.

- An extra rib cage to replace the one you'll break when cameras and elbows get shoved into your back and sides.

- Proper attire. Here you have two choices: To the Nines, or To the Twos. To The Fours and Fives will not suffice. If you're gonna go grimy, go all the way.

- Water. Big tents, lots of people. Proper hydration is a must.

- Journalists need an extension cord and three-prong adaptor. The "media center" is woefully inadequate for the hundreds of people here with laptops, cameras and camcorders.

- High tolerance for standing around. This would also require comfortable shoes.

- The talent to leave reality on the subway or in the taxicab.

- Desire and ability to verbal and physically jab people to get what and where you need.

- Attitude.

- Willingness to accept living on York peppermint patties and mimosas until dinner time.

- Bono shades.

And there you have The La Monica Fashion Week Survival Guide.

By Mark La Monica

Best way to describe the soft orange half lip-half clam shell chair I'm sitting in right now awaiting the Carolina Herrera fashion show: If these chairs didn't come from Elton John's house, they should have.

But they are comfortable.

(Note to self: Never thought I'd ever use the phrase "awaiting the Carolina Herrera fashion show.")

I'm reading Sunday's edition of The Front Row Daily, or maybe it's The Daily Front Row. The front cover's design makes it difficult to figure out which one it is.

Either way, it's a magazine which, you guessed it, gives daily recaps of the shows and a bunch of other mindless nonsense that people love. Daily horoscopes. Big photos of the beautiful people in clothing the steerage can only dream about. Gossip on where the parties are going to be . . . written as if the general public has a chance of getting in to these shindigs.

Apparently the return of Daria, a Canadian-born model, to fashion week is "more beauty than you can handle," according to the front cover. Such a huge return this is that is got . . . one paragraph and a silohouette photo on the bottom of page 3. Hmmm.

By Mark La Monica

Monday mornings will always be Monday mornings, meaning these are the worst moments of the week. Being on the LIRR does not nothing to appease the pain.

The hope is that life will pick up at 1 p.m. for the Oscar de la Renta show. Not that I could afford any of his clothes, but it's a big name in fashion and big names in fashion mean big names in celebrity land.

And frankly, who wakes up at 6:06 a.m. and again at 6:23 just to watch waifs parade around in clothes they don't own?

Give me some famous people to gawk at, a nice selection of A-listers to namedrop at my next social gathering. Heck, I'd settle for some B-listers too if necessary. Just someone famous so I can pretend to be cool for three or four minutes of life and watch the paparazzi trip over themselves trying to get that one "oops" pic that lands them a sweet paycheck from some European tabloid or naughty web site.

By Jamshid Mousavinezhad

Fashion Week can be a madhouse behind the scenes.

First you get your credentials checked at the door; then you wait in a long line where people aren't shy about pushing and shoving; then you get your credentials checked again; then you're herded into different lines depending on how important you are; then you watch as haughty johnny-come-latelys are ushered past you; then a rope is dropped and the mad rush for the actual show tent starts; then you elbow and maneuver for the best view; then you stand around and wait with music blaring and bright lights flashing as show techs do their last-minute checks and people try to steal your spot; then it goes dark and everyone hushes; then the show starts. Then the show's over, and the pushing and shoving start up again.

And all that's just to get into the press section.

Which may be why as the Diane von Furstenberg show ended Sunday, a nasty fight broke out as the lights went up.

It didn't escalate to fisticuffs, but for a few minutes a videographer screamed and cursed at a photographer for allegedly interfering with his shot during the show. The photographer yelled and cursed right back. Everyone else just hustled to get out and make it to the line for the next show.

By Mark La Monica

12:05 p.m, Saturday afternoon. No luck yet. 12:07, nothing. 12:12, I walk out the door because even I have some principles in life.

Stranded at the pizzeria, branded a jerk. What will they say Monday at work?

En route to the La Monica family compound, I "accidentally" swung by La Piazza around noon, just to see if my star crush Miss Lohan had read my earlier postings. What the heck, it's only four miles out of the way.

I know exactly what you are thinking right now and you are correct: I am simply not a winner.

This is true, but think of the story if it had worked.  I'd be the all-time mack. And I'd put match.com and eharmony.com out of business.

But now that I wrote this, I can put in for the mileage reimbursement. Hello, business expense! With gas prices where they're at now, this bit of self-implicating public humiliation was certainly worth a few minutes on my off day.  And it was a good slice of pizza.

By Mark La Monica

We're going to cheat a bit on this one and here's why: All the well-groomed, well-dressed people sitting in the front row of these shows look like they should be famous and some of them likely are and, well, my celeb-spotting skills don't go below the A+ level. Unless of course they were on an episode of Law & Order, in which case I can tell you if they were found guilty or not.

Here's the list of famous musicians are varying types who strutted their lovely stuff on the runway at the Heart Truth show, a Red Dress collection for 2006. And of course, here are my comments on them, in order of appearance:

Lindsay Lohan -- Simply ravishing, although I admit to some personal bias on that one.  But as far as opening acts go, that's quite a lovely way to begin. (Note: Linds, in case you missed the earlier postings, meet me at La Piazza for a slice at noon on Saturday. My treat. Any topping you so desire.)

Nelly Furtado -- Looks different with lighter hair. Then again, who doesn't?

LeeAnn Womack -- Saw her outside while getting snubbed by Joey Headsets backstage. Seems like a nice lady.

Fergie -- Her humps, her humps, her lovely lady bumps. (Hey, those are her lyrics, slightly modified.) Although, the Chick Pea crystallizes my theory of hot vs. attractive. We'll deal with that later in the week.

Jossie Perez -- Dashing looks and booming opera voice. Splendid combination.

Deborah Harry -- 50 years and she still brings the house down. During the show, when each woman walked out, they played their particular song, which was a nice touch and effective way of bringing the celeb to life even more for those in the audience. "Heart of Glass" still has legs as a club anthem. Strange, but true.

Natasha Bedingfield -- Wow! These words. I've got none other than a bunch of random syllables strung together to form gibberish. That's a good thing, by the way. She crystallizes the other side of the hot vs. attractive.

Kelly Rowland - One word. Bootylicious!

Cheryl Bentyne -- Not sure who she is, but Google tells me she won a few Grammys as part of the group Manhattan Transfer. Fashion Week, fun and educational.

Eartha Kitt -- Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarcus! And a standing ovation for the still sultry Miss Eartha. I resist the strong urge to stand up and scream "Stran-zhay! Stran-zhay!"

Emmylou Harris -- Country rocks.

Yolanda Adams -- Great voice, great legs. I'm just sayin.

Christina Milian -- DJ friend Rodney is going to be furious I didn't call him about this, but that's what he gets for not playing Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam at the bar a few weeks ago when I requested it.

Bebe Neuwirth -- She was awesome in "Chicago" and is an underrated little hottie, but she'll always be Lillith Sternun Crane in my book.

Jojo -- Cool dress.

Patti Hansen -- Keith Richards' wife gave everyone satisfaction as she pranced her lovely self down the runway.

Sheryl Crow -- Lance Armstrong is the baddest dude on the planet. (Note: That was before 10 p.m., when a story hit the wires saying that he and Crow split up. Oopsies. Sorry about that salt in the wound, Sheryl. All I wanted to do was have some fun with this blog thing.)

Audra McDonald -- No idea who she was. Sorry, Audra. No offense. You did look good on stage, though.

Amerie -- There's just one thing that's got me: those legs. Damn!

Michelle Phillips -- Still bad-ass after all these years. America wins.

Thalia -- She knows exactly what to do when the cameras point in her direction.

LeAnn Rimes -- She's not 15 anymore, is she?

Elaine Stritch -- The only way to close the show to support and raise awareness for heart disease is with Stritch singing "You gotta have heart."

Great ending to a great show. It's one thing to see famous people in the seats. But to ogle then on the runway, well that's a whole other thing entirely. And a heck of lot more fun.

By Mark La Monica

Give a guy a headset and he thinks he's king of the world.

Slotted for a 1:45 p.m. trip backstage before the Heart Truth show, I arrived early. I wasn't about to miss my chance to chat up Miss Lohan about all things Merrick. Is she a Bagel Boss fan, or does she prefer Bagel Town a little farther down Merrick Road?

Alas, two guys in headsets told video friend Amanda and I they were running late and that we were up soon for our 15-minute look into the preparation that goes into a fashion show.

What a bunch of yang!

At 2:45, still no love for us. Just a bunch of "soon" and "I'll do the best I can, you're so close."

I managed to procure a credential to get backstage because I'm nice like that. I had a decision to make: sell out Amanda and go hunting for my star crush, or be the responsible professional and give Amanda the credential so she could do her video.

Damn these responsibilities!

I gave Amanda the cred, because I'm nice like that, too.

So it's my hunch that backstage is overrated, seeing how it's 3:51 p.m., I'm sitting in the paparazzi pit and the show hasn't even started.

Alas, my Lindsay. Some other time. If you're reading this, meet me at La Piazza at noon on Saturday for a slice.

By Mark La Monica

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-yeah!

Word around the tents is that Lindsay Lohan is going to rock the runway at 3 p.m. for The Heart Truth show. It's then on me to rock her world with my olive oil voice and guinea charm. And  maybe a little shout out to Merrick, the hometown that Lindsay and I share.

Sorry for this divergence, but everyone has their star crush. So goes life. I'll get rejected hardcore by her and Dikembe Mutombo will appear out of nowhere and start wagging his finger at me, but I don't care. Life all comes down to a few moments. This is one of them.

Time to make my entrance backstage and see how quickly I get kicked out.

By Mark La Monica

Every show has its own vibe, which breathes life into the atmosphere around the runway because, let's face it, 90 percent of these clothes are unaffordable or unfittable for the majority of Americans.

(Note: One of those words may not technically be a word, but after a champion's breakfast of one York peppermint pattie and a Delta-sponsored mimosa, this is acceptable.)

Michael Westely's show had some fresh beats and some fly clothes. It was like a hip-hop lounge but with plenty of room to actually lounge. The beautiful people lit up the crowd like lights on an airport runway.

Attached to the beautiful ones were three-day stubble, which appears to be the 2006 answer to the 1973 mustache, woolies and the aura of flava.

And Westely's designs were pretty dope, not that I know how to critique fashion other than by what I think looks good and what doesn't. Then again, fashion is all opinion anyway. So here's mine: If I had the money and the clothes came in my size, I'd be rocking Michael Westely gear more often than not.

By Mark La Monica

The fellas from the Broadway production of The Color Purple exchanged the stage for the runway today at the Michael Westely show.

Led by Lou Myers, who's been in dozens of movies and television shows including the role of student cafeteria manager Mr. Gaines in "A Different World," they drew a nice ovation from the crowd.

After the show, the biggest u