• What do you want to be when you grow up? This is the question you must ask yourself now, Rachel. Out of scandal comes opportunity. But you must know what you're pursuing if you are to achieve it. Think about it. We have some ideas too!
• Only talk to your friends. The corollary of this being, "Know who your friends are." The New York Post is not your friend, Rachel. It is not anyone's friend. So why oh why did you give them the big interview today? The gist of your interview was "I barely know Tiger Woods and nothing happened between us." The cover headline: "TIGER & ME: Beautiful 'other woman reveals the truth about her relationship with sports' biggest star." See how that does not serve you well, since many more people will read the headline than will read your actual words? Yes. A "friend" in the media is an outlet that will cede you friendly coverage in exchange for access. And don't go too far downscale. RadarOnline, for example, would just make you seem like more of a nut. Aim for Barbara Walters. Settle for Bob Costas.
• Pick an image and stick to it. From a BlackBook interview, June 2008: "Although I've been romantically linked to a famous baseball player, a Broadway star, a musician, and various film and television actors, I will never kiss and tell!"
  From your New York Post interview today: "It doesn't look good because of stories in the past about me and other celebrities, and everybody thinks I'm just a celebrity f - - -er. Well the truth is, I live alone, I don't have a boyfriend, and I have my gay best friend staying over most nights. I'm a recluse. I don't go out, I stay home with my dogs and friends."
  So which is it? Clearly, it is "Celebrity fucker," in truth. Which is okay! Many people in this world aspire to become a celebrity fucker, but few ever live that dream. You have, and you should not be ashamed. Just go with it.
• Work that nightlife angle. Hmm, what would be a perfect industry in which a woman such as yourself could use the fame associated with vague celebrity sex scandal to her advantage? An industry in which the mystique cultivated by more silence, Rachel,selective silence, could be beneficially used to draw people into your orbit? And industry in which you already know everyone? Yes. Nightlife. You should right now be out hustling investors to open your own club down the road. A sexy and dangerous club. A club where the notoriety that goes along with fucking Tiger Woods et al. will not be shameful. It will be celebrated. It will make you popular. And you will win.
• Calibrate your edginess carefully. Nightclub, yes. Porn, no. You're no Ashley Dupre.

This week it's the turn of Little Italy restaurant Civetta, which is reopening as some kind of mysterious hotspot. Everyone from Sevigny to The Box partner Serge Becker, Standard Hotel owner Andre Balazs, the Pope and Michael Jackson is being touted as behind this saviour-of-nightlife move.

A source points out that Sevigny is in Paris so no deal is complete, that the restaurant only has a license until midnight during the week and 2am at weekends and that any deal is not for the ownership of the space, just for promotions. "Andre Balazs and Serge Becker are not involved, from what I've heard," adds the usually reliable insider. "There's only one project that even comes close to being the new Beatrice and that's the Soho space," he/she/it said, referring to this.

Retail developer Jack Menashe masterminded the whole transformation. A look at the Limelight Marketplace website and this Real Deal article feature the pictures of the new space, which intends to be stores, restaurants, specialty food shops, and little carts all selling crazy fun things for tourists to haul back to wherever they came from. Sadly 75% of the 60 store spaces are already leased.

Established retailers that have already signed on are Caswell Massey, America's oldest retailer (they made George Washington's cologne), and Hunter Boots, the 150-year-old firm that supplies boots to England's Royal Family. New York newcomers include Mari's New York — Mari Tuttle was a chef at Balthazar's, and this is her artisanal brownie business — It's Sugar, a candy store created by Jeff Rubin, co-creator of Dylan's Candy Bar, Carter & Cavero Old World Olive Oil, and Silly Souls, a baby goods store.

It's basically going to be South Street Seaport on Sixth Avenue and 20th Street, where murderous club kid Michael Alig once walked around dressed as a demonic Ronald McDonald and handed out tablets of E like they were chicklets. Ah, progress.

Thankfully, the former church will retain some of the architectural flourishes that made it distinct, but its soul will be crushed by the feet of ten thousand fat visitors from Texas.

This is the first time we've ever seen the outside of the Limelight in the daylight.
In 1996, we once saw the inside of the Limelight in exactly the same way. Massive doses of Ketamine were involved.
They're going to have cotton candy! Just what we needed.
The real problem with this whole scheme is like it is a club with no velvet rope. "Real" New Yorkers will never shop in a place that looks like a mall where all the visitors go.
There will be carts at the Limelight Marketplace. If you need to get a hat embroidered with the name of your boyfriend, you'll know where to go. Also, no sophisticated shopping space has carts.
They also plan on selling a lot of food. We know this is a country full of fat people, but this still seems odd.
The first floor will host all the little gourmet food stores and restaurants. And don't forget the festival of shops. They're so happy to be there, it's a party!
The second floor is where all the home goods and beauty supplies will be. It is also home to the sneaker gallery, in case you ever need to go somewhere to see children and straight boys pout when their mothers or wives won't let them buy a ridiculous priced pair of rainbow-colored Nikes.
This is where the VIP bottle service is. Ha! Just kidding. But there will be music and fashion!

• In 1991 Obiang went to Pepperdine University in Malibu, where he studied English as a second language. The same year he was rumored to have been arrested for cocaine smuggling. He was sentenced for similar crimes in France twice in that decade.
• He owned a record label, called TNO Entertainment. It's now defunct, but the website is cached here. Ron Carter, who used to represent Michael Jackson and Quincy Jones, did the PR for the label. He said, via email, that Obiang now also spends a lot of time in Mali where he may have further assets.
• Obiang once hired Microsoft billionaire Paul Allen's 300-foot yacht Tatoosh for either $400,000 or $700,000, depending on who you believe. Why? To impress the rapper Eve, who he's been on-again-off-again dating for several years. The Times of London report that he took her on a Christmas cruise on the boat - he apparently likes cruises: Harper's magazine report that he had another woman airlifted to shore after an argument on another cruise-ship. He is also rumored to have dated model Noemie Lenoir and actress Tiffany Limos.
• His property portfolio includes a $35m estate in Malibu, purchased with cash, where neighbors include Dick van Dyke, James Cameron and Mel Gibson, as well as a couple of estates in Cape Town, South Africa. His fleet of cars includes a couple of Bentleys and a Lamborghini. The New York Times report adds a Gulfstream V jet to his extravagant modes of transport.

He's not the only dictator's son who leads an obscene lifestyle while his people suffer. And he's not the only one to do it with the tacit backing of a Western government. More soon!

(Also: if you've run across Mr. Obiang, or any similarly nefarious characters, email me or tips@gawker.com.)

Since summer people in the nightclub industry had been talking about a big spending arms dealer who was keeping them afloat with his profligate spending. When the Post broke this story about Jho Low, and his cavorting with Megan Fox, it was assumed that it was he. But it didn't quite fit — weapons don't seem like a young Ivy League-grad's first occupation. An anonymous source even specifically told Page Six, apparently unprompted, that Low is not an arms dealer.

In separate interviews since the story broke nightlife sources who have spent time around Low and his crew have aired their theory that he "is just a surrogate, for one of the Arab or Balkan guys who are always around," said one. "I heard that the big spender in the group was a kind of 'I may not be alive tomorrow' type, not a U Penn dude," said another, by email. "He's the guy behind the guy. He works for some sketchy people who don't want to be seen spending," said a third.

The only associate of Low's named in the coverage so far has been a Kuwaiti called Hamad Al Wazzan. There are a few companies based in Kuwait under that last name. The only one that directly mentions anyone named Hamad is The Al Wazzan group of companies, of which Hamad is the chairman and CEO. The group seems to have its fingers in many pies - the website lists automobiles, healthcare, construction and road safety among eleven very disparate fields. 'Security' is included, as is the vague term 'trading'. No further details are given.

This is just conjecture and may, of course, be an entirely different Hamad Al Wazzan, though the size of the company and the vagueness of its interests seem to fit the profile of the man-behind-the-man several sources have described.

In any case it seems there's more to the hundreds of thousands, or even millions, of dollars now washing around the city courtesy of some combination of Low and whoever is funding his high-jinks.

The report said that no-one knows how Taek Jho Low, a 20-something Wharton grad, has so much money. Reliable sources say that despite his cuddly appearance, he is actually quite a dangerous character. More when I get it/do not fear death. As well as racking up $160k in one night at Avenue, he bought Lindsay Lohan 23 bottles of Cristal on her birthday, and regularly drops $50k in Pink Elephant - after one party he flew eight waitresses back to Malaysia with him. He also rolls with an entourage of 12 and pays about $150k a month in rent in Diddy's old building, the Park Imperial on 56th Street (where his fleet of Escalades annoys the neighbors.)

As well as spending 2006-levels of money on an average Tuesday, he joined the ranks of the hyper-rich who (allegedly) pay to get up close and personal with women they see on the TV when he flew Fox out to his party. Ron Burkle was accused, in a book earlier this year, of paying to watch Paris Hilton get some girl-on-girl action. And British model/magazine cover regular Sophie Anderton admitted recently that she'd been a high-end hooker, selling her services for about $25,000.

There is, of course, no evidence that Fox did anything but discuss the weather with Low.

The Parisian magazine magnate has long been a fixture on the Manhattan scene; he even sometimes gets his own area at high-end parties in which to take pictures. But, apart from his own musings on nightlife in the city, has mostly avoided doing press. Now Blackbook has picked up on this Japanese magazine interview with the indoor sunglasses-wearer.

"People recognise him," says the unnamed journalist, "by his signature tousled hair and stubble, a pair of tear-drop sunglasses, a tight-fitting leather jacket, pointy boots, a gold wristwatch… an intriguing mix of sexiness and discretion."

"This is a disguise," explains Zahm. "Five or six years ago, I decided to wear this kind of outfit and behave as if I were a celebrity. It's not out of narcissism. It's for the magazine. For an independent magazine to exist, I had to incarnate it personally,"

Take a look at these pictures, from Zahm's blog, and judge for yourself. There are plenty more if Thursday morning is a pensive, French, black-and-white kind of time for you.

A naked lady in Paris:

Terry Richardson leaping:

A naked lady in Paris again:

Paul Sevigny with a surfboard:

The Jane was closed down last month after a concerted campaign by yuppie neighbours who were shocked to find that downtown Manhattan is not monastery-quiet and hired a PR guy. Beatrice was closed down earlier this year under similar circumstances. (Yes, I am linking to an article by me, sorry!)

Rumors flew that the Jane had reopened on Monday, but they were apparently false; people who attended said the small front bar was open but not the main room. Now someone died in the hotel. Actually literally died, not 'oh my god I just DIED' died. A Texan visitor, staying in one of the $99 rooms, noticed a bad smell. And, after hearing the usual excuses about plumbing, found the room next door sealed with Police DOA notice on it. "Older guy, lived here," explained one employee.

As for Beatrice Inn, this post on Purple Magazine's Olivier Zahm's page got the plaid-clad masses frothing over a pre-Christmas reopening. Because Zahm is friends with the owner Paul Sevigny. Sevigny is not a huge fan of the press but people working on a new deal with him told us the following:

"He's still fighting to open Beatrice," said one. "But if it reopens, Beatrice won't be the same because of the neighbors, so that plan is to move the controversial party downtown to a space that does not have the same sound issues." Until that happens expect to see various swaying French people at Hawaiian Tropic and Hooters.

Purgatorio is a three-level nightclub that is brilliantly conceived and elegantly executed. Every nook, cranny, hallway, and bathroom is designed with the theme in mind and no detail has been over looked. However, it is kind of like partying in the world's classiest PATH train station, because the crowd is the worst in New York. Guys in untucked button downs and their girlfriends drunkenly wobbling on heels that are too high and in tops that are too tight abound. Even at the VIP opening reception, things weren't any better. Overly boozey broads caused trouble in the stairwells while the well-heeled and hip tried to stay out of their way.

The clash was even evident in the night's celebrities. Official host Perez Hilton may have been a draw for the targeted crowd, paying $39.99 and up, but he couldn't get celebrity guest Jude Law to hang out with him.

And it's a shame that the crowd may turn people off to the joint, because it is really something to behold. Viewers enter through a Victorian-themed funeral parlor that is staffed by a bunch of freakish-looking extras from the last Addams Family movie. They are then transported down to hell, the venue's first level. The path is one of the scariest and brilliant things I've ever experienced. In hell, a lounge-themed bar full of ghouls and gorgeous girls, a creepy show awaits before everyone graduates to Purgatory above. It is like the world's classiest S&M club, full of raunchy go-go dancers and several vocal and acrobatic performances. Attendees are then free to travel up to Heaven, a space dominated by a gorgeous chandelier looking device and dirty dancers dressed as angels. There's also an outdoor lounge for smokers and such with a great view of the Midtown skyline. There is nothing about any of it to improve upon, except the door policy.

Hammerstein and Weiner, the pair behind Lower East Side hotspot The Box know something about creating a unique space that is full of provocative performances. They also know something about the velvet rope. For the few who can get past the doorman at The Box, they'll find a paradise of beautiful people, crazy acts, and a devil-may-care attitude that is far too wanting in post-Guilliani hot spots. If The Box is a high end restaurant, then Purgatorio is that same restaurant during Restaurant Week, when it's more affordable and open to the rabble.

And isn't that the problem with Halloween in general, when the zombie denizens of the city's nightlife are forced to cede their exclusive realm to the spirits of girls in slutty costumes and the boys trying to get them drunk and out of those tiny little outfits? It's become an even bigger amateur night than New Year's Eve, and no matter how classy you may be, you're going to have to make room for the less qualified.

[Image via Getty and Thom Kaine]

This morning, Page Six reported the following quote from Amy herself:

"I have no idea where these rumors are coming from. We are really just renovating the space . . . It's just taking a lot longer than I had planned."

It's kinda like what Eater's Ben Leventhal reported on Friday!

"I just finally got the blockade reopened on the block after 3 long years! I am redoing the entire space to give it a facelift, that's really all. I am not closing.."

Which kinda corroborates a report someone else put together Thursday night!

The neighborhood's shed some of its worst clubs over the last year or so (Home, Guesthouse, Prime, and less recently: Stereo) and Sacco seems to be trying to position herself within that boneyard to re-launch Bungalow 8 as the hot destination it once reigned over New York as. We're also told that she was offered to go in on a club with someone else recognizing Bungalow's downturn in business, a sexy spot still in the construction phase looking for a leader. Sacco rebuffed their offer, letting them know that she's more than capable of doing it on her own. Burn.

Looks like that stupid reporter's source rolled him the same press line Sacco tested before hitting Eater and Page Six with it. So she's on point with the message. And for all we know, we have to take her at her word. But, real talk:

A re-launch is gonna be hard for Bungalow to pull off. The place used to be legendary, no question. In the pantheon of nightlife history's legends, Amy Sacco was one of, if not, truly the first woman to knock the boys off their feet.

Can you give an old club a new rope? The name means nothing anymore; it's like saying you're going to eat at Spago: Timeless, to be sure. But does anybody really give a shit? The biggest "big" club in town right now is Avenue. The trend is putting nightlife in a bunch of smaller spaces with insanely tight doors. Does it matter that she's going to be the only one left in a neighborhood left for dead? Wouldn't that be the kind of thing to work against her?

We'll find out. It's not like we're rooting for her to fail. If anything, Sacco's success is good for these pages: if the new Bungalow can be anything like the old one, there're plenty of awesomely ridiculous celebrity shitshows to fall out of there, literally.

But there's hope for Bungalow 8 yet. It can turn itself into something useful. Just today we learned that the former Limelight might go from being just one crappy store toa whole bunch of crappy stores. And maybe restaurants. Progress!

Studio 54
Era: 1977-1980
Past the Velvet Rope: A disco-fueled coke den with an balcony full of pre-AIDS wanton sex.
The Scene: Michael Jackson, Liza Minnelli, Bianca Jagger, Andy Warhol, and Halston fighting over the last bump.
What It Is Now: A theater.

Danceteria
Era:1982-1984
Past the Velvet Rope: An artsy after hours that was more about grit than glamour.
The Scene: Madonna passed out on the floor after a coat check shift, Keith Haring working as a cocktail waiter. Lots of New Wave.
What It Is Now: Apartments

Area
Era: 1983-1987
Past the Velvet Rope: You never knew. Every six weeks Jennifer Goode redesigned the space to fit a specific theme.
The Scene: Basquiat installing some crazy piece of art, Michael Musto when he used to be a club kid.
What It Is Now: A fond memory.

Limelight
Era: 1983-1985 with a resurgence from 1994-1996
Past the Velvet Rope: An old Gothic church tricked out into several amazing spaces.
The Scene: The first time around celebs too uptown for downtown, the second time around Michael Alig and his crazy-dressed cohorts.
What It Is Now: A ramshackle store.

Tunnel
Era: 1987-1991
Past the Velvet Rope: A long, cavernous room with a booming sound system.
The Scene: The beginnings of the superclub scene, lots of E.
What It Is Now: A restaurant.

Twilo
Era: 1996-1999
Past the Velvet Rope: We did too much K, we can barely remember, but there were some stairs and a big dance floor and a very '90s futuristic VIP room.
The Scene: Ravers, glow sticks, Junior Vasquez, Chelsea queens, the '90s.
What It Is Now: It was BED, and then we lost track.

Bungalow 8
Era: 2001-2004
Past the Velvet Rope: A California Bungalow, with palm trees, banquettes, and a concierge service that would get you whatever you wanted.
The Scene: People so fabulous and wealthy you wouldn't even know their names. Until the B&T invaded the Meatpacking and scared them all away.
What It Is Now: Closing.

Marquee
Era: 2005-2007
Past the Velvet Rope: A balcony, a dance floor, lots of banquettes, tiny tiny tables.
The Scene: The height of the bottle service era as Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan and others dance on said banquettes.
What It Is Now: Sad, and full of B&T.

The Box
Era: 2006-2008
Past the Velvet Rope: A neo French bordello with the focus on the infamous stage, but really just dark and full of cigarette smoke.
The Scene: The hippest of the downtown, with artist types getting ready to check out naked people in the infamous shows.
What It Is Now: Recovering from the economic meltdown.

The Beatrice Inn
Era: 2007-2009
Past the Velvet Rope: It was small and cramped and the ceiling was low.
The Scene: Olsens, hipsters, skinny jeans, smoking, and watery drinks.
What It Is Now: Empty.

The Jane Hotel
Era: Right this second until about two weeks from now.
Past the Velvet Rope: A small lounge that opens up into a bigger room. Very luxe and loungey.
The Scene: Everyone from Hugh Grant to Kirsten Dunst has boogied here and woken up the neighbors.
What It Is Now: Embattled.

The Hotel's representatives say that it is not closed, but they are making some changes based on the violations that the Fire Department and the Department of Buildings found on Friday night when they raided the joint. It's all petty things—like broken emergency lights, where the fire extinguishers are hung, operating with the current licenses—but these are the minuscule infractions that add up over time leading to a nightclub's demise. Check out the documents below.

After the city's first volley has lead the club's management to "voluntarily choosing to make a few minor physical adjustments to the ballroom space to insure that the entire venue is in 100% compliance with all codes and ordinances," according to their spokesperson. While that happens, the ballroom will be closed for the next several weeks and only the front bar will be open to the public.

So, there you have it folks, start picking out your funeral attire.

Teri Karush Rogers, who writes for the Brick Underground Blog, posted a lengthy story about the battle that Jane Street United is waging against their new hard-partying neighbor on the blog. She states that it was going to be the cover of this weekend's real estate section, but her editors killed the story after Richard Born, one of the owners of the hotel, called her editors and claimed that an anti-nightlife post she put on her website proved she was biased against them. They agreed, she claims, and now the story will not run.

Born and Sean MacPherson, who co-own the joint with Eric Goode and Ira Drukier, both commented for the story, as did a number of the residents who are against the hotel. Here's what the Times doesn't want you to know:

• The owners have sunk $37 million into the hotel, and the nightclub inside makes between $15,000-$20,000 a night.
• Barry Mallin, the lawyer hired by the Jane Street residents, fired a complaint that the hotel owners mislead the neighbors when it said it wanted to have "background music only."
• Born says, "That application was made about two and a half years ago. Whatever we wrote on the application was the intention at the time. Are we operating legally within what we're permitted to do? I think the answer is yes."
• The nightclub doesn't allow smoking or dancing but, um, hello.
• One hotel resident claims that partiers have asked him where to get drugs and if he wants "a date." He did not supply his answers.

While the story was very informative, the biggest lesson we learned is that the Jane is not going to go quietly into that good night. Both sides seem to have lots of money, and with big business and property values on the line, this is going to be a long battle.

[Image via Getty]

A tipster let us know that the concerned citizens on the block have started both a blog and a Twitter feed, both called "Nightmare on Jane Street." Both are very well designed in an NY Mag style with yellow backgrounds and a roach motif. Not only do they look great, but their bitchiness is pretty amusing as well. Some of our favorite tweets:

"Jane Hotel guards traded in the absurd orange hazmat trench coats for slightly less offensive, but still utterly ridiculous yellow jumpers."

"Wall St 2 filming has begun at Jane Hotel this morning. Perhaps they will be quieter than the hotel's usual crowd."

"Another night at Jane Hotel: 'No one got hurt….except that one girl who had to be carried out by security.'"

"Jane Hotel street patrol debuting their neon orange coats. Perhaps to celebrate Fashion Week b/c it certainly isn't helping with traffic."

"Looks like the Sex and the City mobs from earlier today have started sauntering west to the Jane. oh joy."

The blog is a little long-winded and sincere, but it gives a good account of what goes on every night at the club and just how loud it gets. Also great commentary on the nightly melee outside the front door which, face it, is all that most of us will ever see of the Jane. And, hey, if we're going to have to listen to complaints, they might as well be entertaining ones. @NightmareOnJane, consider yourself followed.

With the death of the Beatrice Inn all the celebs and people who are too cool to talk to you needed someplace to go and drink expensive drinks and pickle in their own exclusivity. That place became the Jane, which rose to prominence this summer with a host of sightings in Page Six, hot parties, and general fabulousness outside its velvet rope. Along with a good party inevitably comes lots of noise, and the fuddy-duddies in the West Village are not going to stand for that.

Guest of a Guest got a hold of a newsletter for the Jane Street Block Associate that tolls the death knell for the club. They have retained a lawyer and are petitioning the State Liquor Authority claiming that their original license claimed the club would have "background noise only." Just as happened at the Beatrice, once a bunch of well-to-do residents with a lawyer get a bee in their bonnet, a venue is doomed. The cops, the health department, the fire department and rest of the regulators will start showing up to enforce how many people can be in the club, how loud it is, that the coolers are at the right temperature, that the limes are cut a certain way, or any of the million draconian rules that govern how a bar operates. If the residents have enough money and tenacity, they can hold out forever and eventually drive the place out of business, dispute its liquor license, or have it shuttered for good. This may be the opening salvo in the war, but congratulations, Jane, you have about the same chance of survival as the polar bears.

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!