High Fugshion

And we're back! We had a last bit of fun at Tommy Hilfiger -- a show we didn't expect to pan out into anything, but which ended up yielding a semi-fresh crop of people that did not include Alice Cooper, unfortunately -- and did a wrap-up post with some bits and pieces that didn't make it into the other daily stuff, and then we hopped a plane and flew back to warmer climes.

So what did Los Angeles do to welcome us back? Why, it played host to a 12-hour cold, rainy front, with the clouds settling in almost exactly as our flight landed. Granted, it was a brief moment of misery, but we can't ignore the timing -- we're trying not to be offended by that, L.A., but you are on VERY THIN ICE for that little piece of potential symbolism.

With thanks to the folks from New York magazine's online crew, we're now back to our regularly scheduled fuggings.

The celebrities are continuing to play hide and no-seek, except for the same old faces. We wish we had great first-hand stories of catching Britney in the bathroom hoovering up something illicit, but alas, we haven't seen anything much more noteworthy than Anna Wintour acting blase when Diane von Furstenberg crouched by her seat to chat.

• Jeffrey Sebelia loves Vera Wang.
• Here's hoping Miss J. really does come out with an album; until then, we'll have to keep ourselves warm with memories of him instructing reporters at Badgley Mischka to call the boring blonde singer next to him a muse.
• Man falls six feet out of seat at Y-3 show; people care more about French soccer star.
• Oh, Amber Tamblyn. You can't have it both ways -- either you attend the shows you're fortunate enough to be invited to (like Anna Sui, among a bunch of others), or you deride them as bullshit. Grow up.

We've seen Rachel Zoe around enough that we're pretty sure she's going to start recognizing us, figure out who we are, and have us killed and/or skinned for our impudence. Aside from fearing for our lives and a few really maddening incidents involving subway trains deciding not to run, we're plugging along and heading into the home stretch.

• Rachel Weisz looked super hot at Narciso Rodriguez; we didn't mention it in the piece, but according to the photo sources, the scraggly orange-turtlenecked man with her was apparently her husband, Darren Aronofsky, looking a bit more like a faintly bloated McConaughey than we thought he did. Huh.
• Paris Hilton was allegedly too hung over to show up at Heatherette; conversely, the experience of trying to get into that show was so maddening AGAIN that it drove us to drink.
• Finally, we have a reason to write about the other Fergie.
• A runway show at a venue with a floor made of bathroom scales? Yep: Too good to be true.
• Last year Posh was all for Proenza; sadly, this year, the show lacked Spice. (Har, har. Yes, I am ashamed of what I've become, thank you.)

After two days of freezing temperatures, we realized two things: We are much tougher than we thought, and wearing three pairs of socks at once is really not all that uncomfortable.

We miss updating and are eager to get back to whatever Oksana Baiul is barely wearing, but thanks for your patience. Here's a couple links, just in case any of you still think we're lying about our whereabouts and are actually sunning ourselves in Tahiti.

• Rev. Run sat back and let Betsey Johnson preach fashion to him.
• What's that on your ankle, Michelle Rodriguez? Gotten into some trouble lately?
• Max Azria had the balls to send skinny girls down the runway to a song about how big girls are beautiful. Amusingly wry, or just asshattish?

When Accuweather.com told us that we'd be enjoying the winter-fresh breath of an arctic blast - excuse me, ARCTIC BLAST -- on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, we chuckled a little and assumed the forecast was just going to be wrong. I mean, they're always wrong, right?

Wrong. The weather reports promised increasing misery and subzero windchill, and boy, did New York deliver. We are currently planning to write a book entitled Fahrenheit Minus-10, so named for the temperature at which our exposed skin starts to turn pink, wither away, and fall off into the lap of Anna Wintour as we scurry past her in the tents.

However, we lived. So far, anyway. And we made it to a few more shows.  Here's the latest:

• J.C. Chasez blows Jill Stuart up with his love
• Kim Cattrall was at Carolina Herrera, looking much healthier than when she was Samantha.
• Handbag designer Lulu Guinness waited with the plebes at Matthew Williamson.

Fashion Week has been frustratingly devoid of clusters of interesting celebrities -- well, at the shows we've been to, anyway. So we've been reduced to discussing the follicular issues of Trump offspring.

JESSICA: Who's that guy over there? The press is kind of into him. He's handlng it well, too.

HEATHER: I can't tell. He has really weird hair, though. He looks kind of like an oily chipster.

JESSICA: Oh, it's a Trump.

HEATHER: So, definitely an oily chipster.

JESSICA: Aha, yeah, the girl he's with is Vanessa Trump -- she's married to Donald, Jr.

HEATHER: That must be who the dude is, then. Wow. I guess that right there refutes any argument that Donald Trump's hair is fake.

JESSICA: Seriously. He's clearly passing that mess down the line.

HEATHER: Unquestionably a Trumpian eruption.

JESSICA: Never say that again.

The Trump in question turned out to be Eric, brother-in-law to Vanessa, who kept her company at the BCBG presentation and was -- to give credit where credit is due -- very cheerful throughout the whole dog-and-pony show of getting your photo taken, shaking hands with socialites you probably don't really care about, and watching a bunch of women's clothes come down the catwalk.

Other than that, though, it's been lots of Mary-Lynn Rajskub of 24, with a healthy dose of Kelly Rowland, and a tragic missed Britney sighting at Baby Phat. Until we can update regularly, come visit us at the New York magazine blog via the Show & Talk page or the links below.

• Alicia Keys Is Bored With Tracy Reese, Life: Sunday, Feb. 4
• No, we weren't kidding -- they were actual trash bags on models at Alexandre Herchkovitch.
• Damn you, Britney, for escaping us at Baby Phat.
• Nobody loves heart disease, but that doesn't mean we had to love the Heart Truth Red Dress Collection show, although Billie Jean King waltzing down the runway to "Billie Jean" was pretty outstanding. Almost as good as Katharine McPhee nearly colliding with Danica Patrick at the top of the runway, which caused organizers to change the flow of the celeb models' exits.
• Fashion Week thinks we're fat. Seriously.
• Liked Baby Phat? Then you'll love the fall efforts from Rock & Republic; needless to say it terrified us.
• When the all-musical hour of 24 comes out -- picture it: terrorists unleash some gas that causes Los Angelenos to break into song and dance numbers at inopportune times -- Chloe will be favoring us with clog dancing.

JAIME KING: Remember when I used to date Kid Rock, and I was a clammy-looking kid who couldn't focus her eyes? Man, I have totally turned it around.

ERIKA CHRISTENSEN: I am totally going to smack this Rossum kid next to me. Seriously, I can't even look at her, in her little poofy white thing and all that face paint. My OC-6 would audit the HELL out of her snooty ass.

EMMY ROSSUM: If I can just sit here and look as human as possible, nobody will notice that I'm plugged into an outlet underneath my chair.

ERIKA: That's right, White Wedding, you sit there in your sheath and fan your pancaked skin. Don't worry about anything. Certainly not THESE BABIES right here -- I'm SURE nobody is staring at how huge they look in this dress. Heh-heh. Drink it in, photogs. Like sands through my hourglass, so are the days of your lives. Praise Xenu for a supple chest, and not a case of the ice princess's raging Dutch Elm Disease. I've eaten nails less brittle.

JAIME: ... KID ROCK, people. We didn't even wash our hair. NOBODY thought I was going to bounce back from that.

EMMY: Thank God for these frumpy white dresses -- they keep my motherboard cool and nobody can see my wiring. Now, what is it that real girls do, again? Fan themselves? Ignore their own kind? Wait, was I supposed to change my facial expression at some point in the last six months? ... Shoot. I think I need a software upgrade.

The madness will never stop if the people who actually MAKE the clothes don't snap out of it:

Even she looks sort of ashamed of herself. In fairness, I don't know if any of what she's wearing was actually made by Cynthia herself, but still. Wearing it is implied consent. And nobody should consent to a bra-style top that commits that heinous a crime against a bosom and a body. Even if she actually is pregnant, which is how it looks, the black swatches where her chest should be are made for someone with at least one cupful more than she's pouring.

I bet if she'd eaten any carbs at all in the last six months, she'd have had the energy to shop for something else -- something that didn't require leather leggings and which didn't make her look decrepit and drained. I don't dislike her, but this? This is a cry for help. Help, and starches.

Donna Karan's dress is:

a) Part of her new couture line, "Brown Baggin'," which will come with purses shaped like bottles of Colt .45

b) An ode to her personal hero, the one who represents who we all are inside: Mr. Snuffleupagus.

c) A fourth-grade class's art project

d) UPS's latest marketing campaign

e) What the bridesmaids will wear when Courtney Peldon gets hitched.

I do love the mysteries of a designer's own closet.

Um, Drew? Hey! Hi! How are you? Enjoying Fashion Week? Me too. Um, can we talk? Great, great. Um, how should I put this?

Look, you are so cute. You seem really fun and nice and I think you have an adorable little body. But, and I know it's Fashion Week and people get a little avant garde, but...tights are not the same thing as pants. They're just not. And I'm pretty sure you're wearing a shirt as a...dress? Is that what you're doing? I'm kind of not sure.  It's kind of not working. I think I have some jeans in the car! Do you want to borrow them? You can totally borrow them.

Because the thing is, I know you can look totally fab! See, look yourself earlier this week:

Fierce! Fierce and hot! So maybe later, when you're getting ready to go out again, you should hold the latter look -- fierce and hot! -- in your mind, instead of the former. Which was, I really hate to remind you, but it's for your own good, I promise, sort of, um...pantless and bizarre.

Okay! Loved you in Firestarter. Really!