Stop reading now if you really don't want to know. Seriously, we're not going to tolerate any hatemail from you queens who couldn't resist reading.

Pictured is Teri Hatcher, who in a moment of sheer inspiration, realized the best way to shift the focus of Grammy Awards coverage away from its tedious obsession with "music" and "nominated artists," and over to the far more fascinating subject of herself, was to show up in an outfit sure to be talked about in cramped office kitchens across the country the next day.

In our quest to identify the nameless victims of fashion week, we present some revisions, courtesy of readers:

We're going to continue yesterday's mission to give name to those whose identities have been otherwise snatched away: the nameless vagabonds who appear in photos with their more-famous companions and are thus captioned as "and friend." Today's selection of orphans looking to be reunited with their identities:

[Click to enlarge.]

It's Fashion Week in New York, when armies of skeletal, bored-looking (but secretly loving every minute!) models clomp down runways in every available large, indoor space in Manhattan not already occupied by a class of middle-school math students. With so many companies showing so many lines, it would seem almost impossible to have your young fashion house's designs land on the backs of Hollywood's red carpet elite. That is, unless your company is called Marchesa and you're screwing Harvey Weinstein:

In our continuing coverage of ex-Observer reporter Jessica Joffe's every movement during Fashion Week (a crucial, make-or-break time for a "girl about town"), we've found proof that Joffe is indeed hard at work, doing important research at Behnaz Sarafpour. Atta girl!

Oh, lamentable runway of death! Fashion's center, stained with grief! At right, Vogue fashion news/features director Sally Singer sacrifices her young son at the altar of Marc by Marc Jacobs. The poor boy doesn't know what hit him; his eyes are cold and dead. Mom's such a bitch, man, picking out his stupid clothes and making him talk to these stupid old people. As soon as he gets to high school, he's dropping out.

We love it when New York bmag's Look Book features darling old biddies, like Lois Evans. Lois is an ex-diplomat whose job was to greet visiting dignitaries like Indira Gandhi and tardy Trudeau. Lois is a lady with an undoubtedly shady past — her husband was a legal partner of Richard Nixon's — but she's not talking. What she will reveal, however, is that she showed her knees in Tonga, which makes her a depraved criminal. We like that!

A reader writes:

From Fashion Week Daily's coverage of designer Bryan Bradley's Tuleh collection in Bryant Park:

What do Hollywood's hottest starlets do when they need to make an awards season splash? That's right, say the folks at E!—they wear bright red dresses to indicate that they like having sex during their periods!

Based on our past experiences, the above video montage captures the best of Fashion Week as we know it: Nazi guards keeping the less fabulous out of the tents. Models in various stages of undress doing the "oh-I'm-so-cute" shtick for the cameras. Reality television stars acting like they care about the collections. Intolerable crowds of people and errant rock stars. And, of course, sponsors up the ass. Watch and spare yourself the pain of actually being there.

The surprising (in that it didn't come on Thursday) last graf of Eric Wilson's Times report on menswear shows over the weekend:

If you can swallow your pride just long enough to peruse the Fashion Spot message boards ("where the fashion industry meets online," of course), you can learn some interesting things. For instance:

This is neither the time nor the place to get into our very conflicted feelings about Park Slope, but suffice it to say we think The Muk Report's proposed t-shirt designs are hilariously funny:

It's time for our favorite Friday fuckwit funfest: Blue States Lose, where we sort through the galleries of blissfully retarded hipsters at The Cobrasnake, Last Night s Party, Misshapes and Ambrel so you don t have to. After the jump, Joey Arak shows you how it's done.

Today marks the first day of our favorite elitist ritual, New York Fashion Week — meaning that it's a big, skinny Christmas in Bryant Park right now! If you're not one of the chosen fags and accompanying hags cruising the tents with an invite, however, the Wall Street Journal reports that you're kind of screwed: security knows your type, and they know you only want to go to Marc Jacobs and Tuleh because you want to smell Bee Schaffer's hair.

Frederica Monaco is truly blessed: Aside from being featured in this week's edition of New York mag's Look Book, she's totally French and didn't have to wait on the list to score her offensively colossal Birkin bag. She's been in the United States for eleven years, during which time she worked at the French consulate and grabbed herself a husband while she was at Barneys; Frederica is now a mother who takes "shopping days," which are devoted to buying beige items. Admit it: you wish you could spend your life purchasing beige. Either that or, say, punching your monitor right now.

Really, it's not even so much the suicide bombings and the river-to-the-sea and the death-to-the-infidels and all that. When you get down it, it's simply: These people wear three different clashing plaids?