By Simon Doonan

September 18, 2005 | 8:00 p.m

This is going to sound insane, but the biggest mood swings I have ever had in my entire life occur during New York—sorry, I mean Olympus—Fashion Week. And they’re getting worse. As, with every passing season, the hoopla gets bigger and the number of shows increases, my mild bipolarity are becoming more and more pronounced.

“Oh,” I hear you saying, “you’re just a blasé old fag who has been habituated to the glamour and froth of La Mode.” Not true! Nothing, I repeat, nothing gets me more excited than the sight of a hip chick or bloke strutting about in an innovative, well-designed, alluring ensemble. Every season, twitching with optimism, I charge off to Bryant Park in the hope of seeing such things. Fingers crossed! FRIDAY As I entered the tents, I was set upon by hordes of fashion groupies with alcohol breath—free booze is offered to anyone resourceful enough to talk her way into the lobby—braying at me about their soon-to-be-launched online newsletters and/or shoving their self-congratulatory résumés into my available orifices. I can’t help feeling that shows like The Cut and America’s Next Top Model (yes, I’ve appeared on both) have spawned this generation of demonic Eve Harringtons. This is surely the same genre of lottery-mentality loony who swarmed at the gates of old Hollywood studios in search of unspecified osmotic satisfactions. The amusingly dorky men’s clothes at the Duckie Brown show—all drooping crotches and pen-protectors—put a smile on my face, as did my front-row neighbor, Style Channel hostess Lauren Ezersky. When I asked Lauren if she too was subject to Fashion Week mood swings, she validated my suspicions about the source. “Everything has become so annoying because of all these pains-in-the-ass, bullshit-artist assholes all wanting something, but they don’t know what,” said the earthy-but-elegant Ms. Ezersky. Rummaging through the goodie bag, she added, “Thank Gaaawd for the free shit!” Tommy Hilfiger and John Varvatos would have been next on my schedule; however, these designers saw fit to schedule their shows right in the middle of the time when all normal people stroll home to have dinner with their husbands. Thank Gaaawd for Style.com! After dining, I returned to the fray for John Bartlett’s show. Taking inventory of the unguent-packed goodie bag alongside Cargo magazine editor in chief Ariel Foxman, I became privy to some shocking insights into the exploding world of men’s products. “Our focus groups show that men, straight men, are now totally fascinated by grooming and skin-care unguents,” said the good-looking, young Mr. Foxman, adding: “Even more than electronics.” The depressing idea that heterosexual men were now obsessing about the merits of Clarins “fatigue fighter” instead of doing what they’re supposed to do—watching videotapes of Paris Hilton, drinking beer, being lap-danced upon and punching each other—precipitated another huge mood swing. Inspired, according to the press release, by “the well-traveled, well-groomed essence of a man just back from safari,” the entertaining Bartlett show contained every male archetype imaginable, from beefy Cherry Grove hustlers to Steven Seagal types with startling cummerbunds and satiny pants with crystal trim by Swarovski (another sponsor). The talented Mr. Bartlett himself was wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the numbers 563-483, the dates of Buddha’s birth and death. All right already with the Ab Fab spirituality! SATURDAY It’s hard to imagine the fashion slags and hags of yore—the Diana Vreelands and the Carmel Snows—lashing themselves into a frenzy by attending a zillion fashion shows on a beautiful sunny Saturday. They would have done what I did: They would have spent time with their husbands, and they would have visited relatives and friends. So, instead of going to see Kimora Simmons’ Baby Phat line, I went to see a fat baby, my new nephew Harry. Resigning myself to his beauty-product-oriented future, I brought Harry his first bottles of gunk (graft from the Bartlett show). His mother seemed perturbed by my desire to try the Clarins Auto-Bronzant Visage Self Tanning Gel on his six-month old skin. We had more success with the Baume Hydratant Moisture Balm, alleviating a little patch of dryness on one of his little tootsies. I have now begun to anticipate his rites of passage with enthusiasm: Instead of taking him to Scores for his first strip show, we will skip off to Elizabeth Arden for an uncle-and-nephew facial. SUNDAY As a favor to my old pal Gladys, who runs the fashion department of the San Francisco–based Academy of Art University, I schlepped to the Bryant Park tents for the show held by their graduates. This was against my instincts. I am now extremely ambivalent about doing anything that might produce more Eve Harringtons. Fashion is, after all, a Darwinian– American Idol process: If you make good shit, you will survive, and you’re much more likely to make good shit if you are riddled with low self-esteem, as opposed to being riddled with high self-esteem as a result of having been prematurely told how fabulous you are by people like me. It is with great reluctance that I publicly acknowledge that the kids did an astoundingly good job. Bravo, Gladys! One of the reasons that Fashion Week might induce mood swings, I mused as I walked past the red-faced funsters revving up outside Hogs and Heifers on my way to the Diane Von Furstenberg showroom on 12th Street, is that nothing much happens. There are very few remarkable occurrences. Despite the celebs and the paparazzi and the after-parties, there’s a dearth of newsworthy incidents. And then came Hurricane Diane. The show was finishing. Everyone was clapping. Suddenly, there was a collective gasp. As I turned round, a 20-foot-long chunk of black scaffolding, encrusted with heavy show lights, crashed onto the seated attendees about three feet from where I was sitting. Talk about a mood swing! The models lurched out of the way. Everything went into slow motion. I saw various people clutching their heads, notably Teen Vogue editor in chief Amy Astley and Hilary Alexander of the London Daily Telegraph. There was blood. There was mayhem. “Get out! Get out!” screamed a Von Furstenberg operative at the non-injured. As costume designer Pat Fields, socialite-artist Ahn Duong and I backed away, the paparazzi swooped in for the kill. Not since the live goat fell off the runway at the fall 2001 Miguel Adrover show had New York Fashion Week been electrified by such a jarring and horrid incident. Staggering backwards from the carnage, I ran smack into Paris Hilton, looking surprisingly untarty in a chic black halter, wearing an engagement ring bigger than her head and more or less the same color. She was already on her cell phone recounting the drama–à la Geraldo—to a friend. I sidled up to her, hoping to overhear her describing the chaos as “hot!” More shoving and surging. Then I found myself next to Ellen Barkin and Ronald Perelman, who informed me that, after initially being seated under the falling rig, they had been mysteriously relocated right before the start of the show. Haunting! We squished out onto the street in time to see the ambulances arriving. The Daily Telegraph’s Hilary Alexander is in heavy rotation on New York 1. There she was, being loaded into the back of an ambulance on a gurney wearing a neck brace. She looked very Thierry Mugler/Alexander McQueen. The sight of the effervescent Hilary laid low induced a dire mood swing. Hilary is one the most delightful and amusing of the European press attendees. She would be sorely missed. MONDAY It was hard to concentrate on the luscious parade of embellished dinner dresses, black faille cocktail numbers and organza hostess skirts at Oscar de la Renta. Everyone was glancing up at the lighting rigs to see where they would fall. Privileging spectators over models, they were suspended fairly and squarely over the runway. “I am O.K.! My back is a bit cut up, but the real tragedy is my ruined Prada sweater!” said D.V.F. casualty and Teen Vogue editor Amy Astley when I asked how she was feeling, adding: “Ah, fashion. Now I am a real victim!” Re the clothes: New York Observer alumna Candace Bushnell—resplendent in lipstick red, fuchsia and purple satin—deemed the luxurious garments “appropriate for Victory, Wendy and Nico,” the overachieving shagadelic heroines of her new book, Lipstick Jungle. Back downtown for Proenza Schouler and what one can only assume is more jerry-rigged lighting. These talented lads make gorgeously hip, exquisitely detailed, tailored clothes for anorexic girls. It’s so hard to imagine anyone with any boobs or internal organs fitting into them. The pretty, murky hues of their collection—Armani charcoals and smoky greens—will no doubt give rise to lots of fashion commentary about how in sync Jack and Lazaro are with the post-Katrina zeitgeist, despite the fact that the fabrics were bought months ago. To start one hour late or two hours late, that is the question with Marc Jacobs. On Monday night at about 8:35 p.m., Vogue editor in chief Anna Wintour accomplished the impossible. Rumor has it that Ms. Wintour recently called up Mr. Jacobs and threatened to make a plant hanger out of his gizzards—I’m paraphrasing—if he pulled another one of his two-hour delays. Merci buckets, Anna! The show at the Lexington Avenue Armory started a civilized half-hour late, with a fabulously mood-enhancing high-school marching band named the Nittany Lions. A naughty-schoolgirl aesthetic dominated the extremely wearable, nifty collection: According to Mr. Jacobs (I was fighting for his attention backstage with a soon-to-be-incarcerated Lil’ Kim) the demure and delightful clothes were inspired by those badly behaved schoolgirls who smoke in the bathroom.” Re badly behaved girls: The celeb turnout was, as usual, like a pastiche of a parody of a celeb turnout. There were so many incredibly beautiful girls with oversized heads and tiny bodies in the front row—i.e., top-tier movie actresses—it was hard to know at whom to gawk. Selma Blair, Lindsay Lohan (with Diddy), Kirsten Dunst (with Sofia Coppola, her Marie-Antoinette director), Desperate Housewife Eva Longoria, etc., etc. However, the real star of the evening was the aforementioned Ms. Alexander. From the front row to the gurney and back to the front row, all in the space of 24 hours! “Anna Wintour sent me a sports masseur, very good-looking, but I’m not in the mood for any hanky-panky … yet!” cackled the resilient Hilary when I inquired about her health and her mood. Ms. Alexander, who should probably be on bed rest for a year after having taken the full force of the falling pipe on the top of her head, was dolled up on painkillers. As clouds of glitter snowed from the ceiling during the finale, Hilary wore a decidedly blissed-out expression. She left the show in Diane Von Furstenberg’s chauffeur-driven Bentley, shrieking, “She’s loaned it to me for the whole week. Isn’t that sweet of her?” No Bentley for moi. Unable to get a cab on Park Avenue, I hopped aboard the M1 bus. By the time we reached 14th Street, I became aware that a significant number of my fellow passengers were pointing at me. I initially attributed this to my reality-show appearances, and to the fact that I have a big head and a small body. I braced myself for an onslaught of Eve Harrington–ing. But the gawking continued down Broadway without any résumés being exchanged. Catching my reflection in the window as I rose to exit the bus, I finally saw the cause of all the commotion: My head was totally covered in large chunks of Marc Jacobs glitter, and it looked rather becoming. Vive la mode!