In October of 2013, Adam Levine partnered with Kmart to produce a menswear collection over which he claimed to have complete creative control. On September 17, 2015, Kmart’s Adam Levine Collection hosted a NYFW runway show that Adam Levine did not even have on his calendar.

In 2008, Lauren Conrad (of Laguna Beach, Calif.) made her runway debut at L.A. Fashion Week with the Lauren Conrad Collection, a now-defunct line she said was inspired by “a trip to Paris.” It was so panned by the press—New York called it “sad” and “bizarre”—that LC never attempted a fashion show again.

Designer and Occasional Thirst Trap Marc Jacobs is hosting a party during New York Fashion Week for the release of Gloss, a new book about the work of famed 1970s photographer Chris von Wangenheim. Invitations, which were recently sent out, detailed—in ALL CAPS!— Jacobs’ absurd dress code requirements.

Let's, for one minute, forget that Kanye West is a platinum-selling, chart-topping music artist who has released six highly regarded solo albums in the last decade (to say nothing of his recording broship with Jay Z, production work on various rap and R&B albums, and outsized influence on popular culture). I want to talk about Kanye West, Fashion Designer of Dope Shit™. I've previously considered Kanye's multitudes and his import as a public figure on Gawker—he's "helped to unsettle this idea of how a black man should act or talk or love when others are watching"—but the New York Fashion Week debut of Yeezy Season 1, his first Adidas Originals collection, warrants examination once again, of both the designs and the designer.

Life's all no shirt, no problems when you're Miley Cyrus. Last night, the pop star-cum-provocateur arrived at Alexander Wang's super secret New York Fashion Week after-party in Bushwick naked from the waist up, save for a set of tasseled ice cream cone pasties and a pair of plastic pill covered cat-eye sunglasses (see above). She greeted the designer with a friendly open-mouthed kiss, then proceeded to twerk, toke and 'gram the night away. It was, she claims, the "Best night eva." And we'd believe it.

As the New York Times reported this week, one fortuitous result of the relentless battering of icy precipitation on New York City is a favorable uptick in boot sales. Several vendors around the city have reported to being knee-high in profits, but strapped for future customers as in-store availability becomes barely ankle deep.

It is two nights ago—Wednesday, September 4, 2013—around 8:15 p.m. At this precise moment, you are enjoying yourself, conservatively, one thousand million times more than Kate Upton is. I know this, because I am in the same room as Kate Upton, and a man she does not know is bellowing at her to tell the hundreds of people seated around her what she would do if she had a penis. Kate Upton and I are at the 2013 Style Awards.

When I tell the young Marie Claire assistant seated next to me at the Reem Acra Fall 2013 fashion show that I write for Gawker, she becomes very excited because she attended Northwestern and sometimes Gawker writes about Northwestern.

Approaching today, the first anniversary of the death of Whitney Houston, I have been thinking about the way the pop star voiced her displeasure with her career during the last 10 years of her life. She became increasingly irritated by the attention she received, ranting about it in song and on reality TV. She was sick of sharing her amazing gift with the world, a gift that she neglected over time by smoking things like cigarettes, marijuana, and cocaine. She had been one of the most famous, most objectively talented people in the world and she got sick of it.

My friend Chaia and I are sitting on a low brick wall on the patio of a club in the West Village. An inebriated young man, late twenties, early thirties, introduced himself to me a few seconds ago as a representative from "the office of Chris Christie." I have just asked the inebriated young man why a representative from the office of New Jersey's Republican governor is attending a Fashion Week party being thrown by OK! Magazine in the West Village on a Monday night.

For some of us, Fashion Week is one of the more confusing/ignorable times of the year. For others, it is THE MOST IMPORTANT TIME OF YEAR, by a long shot. For obvious reasons, Jennifer Eymere, an editor of the French fashion magazine Jalouse, falls into the latter category. In fact, it's so important to Eymere that she's willing to commit battery just to prove a point.

Here is Mercedes-Benz FashionWeek as explained by a construction worker across the street from Lincoln Center yesterday, on whom I eavesdropped because I was too scared to talk to anyone else:

Zelda Kaplan, the hard-partying 95-year-old socialite who has been a fixture of the New York scene since the '60s, collapsed right in the middle of the Joanna Mastroianni fashion show at Lincoln Center yesterday, just as the second model walked past her. She was later pronounced dead. This is the first time a fashion show has literally been deadly boring.

It's surprising that Occupy Wall Street hasn't yet paid a proper visit to New York Fashion Week, that sparkly distillation of all things 1%. That will change tomorrow, when Occupy Wall Street marches on the last day of Fashion Week, and perhaps attempts to shut down a Calvin Klein show.

Not many people want to go to fashion shows, but even fewer end up getting invited. Thus, the art of sneaking into shows at New York Fashion Week is perennially well-documented, to the point that one suspects bloggers are paid to sneak into fashion shows to give a fashionable air of danger to the whole enterprise. So let's go further, shall we? Let's go backstage.

To many people outside of New York, fashion shows are full of glamorous people, gorgeous models, and mouth-watering clothing. They think of the goodie bags, the celebrities, and that warm fuzzy feeling you must get on the inside knowing you're part of the elite. Sorry to tell you, but it's never really like that.

That soft galloping you hear is the clack of a million pairs of high heels marching off into the distance. Yes, fashion week is ending. And while we'll miss our time in its glamorous thrall, we think we'll survive until February.

Like a runaway train on a runaway track, Fashion Week is still hurtling into the horizon, wrecking everything in its path. Well, it's at least littering it with sequins and empty champagne bottles. Let's look at today's flotsam and jetsam.

You may not give a flying caftan that it's still Fashion Week, but all the very fashionable people and retail stores and models and kids who go to FIT care, so we have to appease them with some photos of the goings on, don't we? Yes, we certainly do.

That wonderful scent of stale champagne and hairspray haze you smell is the waft aroma from the continued residence of New York Fashion Week at the tents in Lincoln Center. What did the models, designers, celebrities, and assorted mayhem makers get up to today. Let's look.