On Monday night, we borrowed wannabe rock star Gary Benchley, of Morning News fame, to report from one of those especially twisted Manhattan oddities: B-List-Celebrity-Studded Life-Threatening Disease Benefit #4958. Armed with photographer Eliot from Slower, young Gary got an ugly taste of red carpet culture. Above: Ex-ultramodel Janice Dickinson, celebrating a half-century of exceptional service.

Says Gary:

After a week of dead Reagan ("Ronnui"), Gawker wanted a dose of glamour, and sent photographer Eliot Shepard and I to Continentale, or something like that, on Bowery to bear witness to the Michael Awards for the Fashion Industry, a benefit for the National Children's Leukemia Foundation.

Russian mactress Irina Pantaeva with... I guess you'd call him a "consort"?

I'd never seen a red carpet before, and I was a little disappointed. It looked like something you'd find in a dorm room. Before long, Janice Dickinson appeared, and she told us she was in Halston. Later, she bumped asses with Eliot after they shared a joke, and he suavely shrugged it off, and I vowed to watch and learn from him.

The Susan Lucci Replicant.

Janice popped the cork on the evening, shilled her book, and made way for a runway interlude from Francis Hendy. One of the models was shaved bald and had big, strong legs that made me think things.

Yep.

Now came emcee Thomas Ian Nicholas, star of the American Pie Trilogy. No mere friend of a piefucker he, Thomas Ian Nicholas told us about his directorial debut, L.A.D.J. ("People who live in trailer parks have dreams too!"), and someone nearby said "that [movie] has as much chance of succeeding as a Beatles' reunion."

"Give it up for New York," Thomas Ian Nicholas said, and up it was given. For a moment the cheers drowned out the sound of millions of bulimic teenage girls, each with Elle in hand (and in our gift bags), vomiting their dinners into the nation's collective toilets.

Look out, Denise Rich — Star Jones is gonna get you from behind!

I was shy, but Eliot was not. He followed Regis into the bathroom, tried to get up to the room marked "Model Holding," and chatted with a man named Roland who was dressed for a beheading at Versaille. While I admired Eliot, Star Jones named Denise Rich Woman of the Year. I wasn't sure who Denise Rich was, but later I learned that she had been involved in politics. "Children are the future," she said, and spoke briefly of her daughter, who'd died from cancer at 27. Then, looking wistfully into the audience, she excused herself to go to another benefit, called Lifebeat. "Jessica Simpson is performing one of my songs," she said. With those words, several hundred people realized they were riding coach when they'd been sure they were in first class.

Star Jones lurks in the wings.

It stung, but the sight of a dozen children on stage in Petit Bateau clothing soon reminded us that things could be worse. Then Regis Philbin received the Best Dressed Man of the Year award. "50 billion people have experienced his clothing sense," said Regis' producer, Michael Gelman. Regis spoke little of himself, but noted that his wife was a fastidious dresser. "She takes an hour and a half to make herself up, but she looks good getting the paper," he said.

Angel Faith, a 16 year old who writes her own songs, followed Regis, in a triumph for the robotics industry. Event sponsor Century 21 received an award, and Susan Lucci was there. And even more, which I will not detail here. Just know that the night wound down, and around the world, children with leukemia smiled, safe in the knowledge that Karolina Kurkova was Supermodel of the Year.

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