Anna! Glenda! Andre! Greg? Battling an Ambien hangover, our diarist discovers that fashion does a poor imitation of Christ

Fashion is a circus, and like every good circus it needs a clown—a sad clown with a rubber nose and a willingness to utter unspeakable truths. Unfortunately, Andre Leon Talley is under contract at Vogue, so we sought out Greg Gutfeld. At Radar's behest, the high-flying former editor of Stuff, Maxim UK, and Men's Health flew in from London to take a peek at life inside the tents. Fashion Week may never be the same.

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Before my visit to Olympus Fashion Week, I ordered some fabulous business cards. Unlike everyone else's, which list names, occupations, and telephone numbers in a style so last year that they seem to whimper "This is so last year," my cards are black. Completely. No numbers, no name—just darkness.

This is not so much a statement about the current state of race relations, the content of my soul, or the color of my Versace microfiber thong. It's to point out that fashion is all about perception. It's not about seeing, but about how you, yourself, are seen.

When I say "you," of course, I really mean "me." I am the least observant person I know—and yet I can't take my eyes off me.

And neither can you. I am a corneal magnet, attracting orbs effortlessly and rendering pupils powerless, while I barely notice you at all.

This is because I am nearly legally blind. I also suffer from ocular migraines, a painful disorder that manifests itself after prolonged visual exposure to blended fabrics. My only remedy is to sit in a dimly lit room, sip a Jamba Juice and stare at my dozing black wetland nutria, Ebony.

Out of necessity and self-absorption, blind people are seen by all. But those who are most observant—weathermen, meter maids, Dan Abrams—are often those who are completely ignored. It is a tragedy especially for Mr. Abrams, whose hair is both overlooked and under-seen, mainly by stylists.

One who is never overlooked? Cupid, the Roman God of love. Love is blind—yet we're always looking for it. The great French painter Degas was also nearly blind, but centuries on we can't take our eyes off his magnificent artwork. And of course there is Helen Keller, who to this day provides many a young man with fantasies too dark to print here, even in a nonprint medium such as this (the Internet).

Not seeing is believing. And on Sunday, I made a point of not seeing the Tuleh show, at the Promenade in Bryant Park. To be honest, my Air India flight was delayed—or rather, fashionably late. According to a new law, the Department of Homeland Security reviews the status of every passenger entering America, and if you don't make the cut, you're forced to deplane. One man didn't make it, and was removed—along with his baggage. I believe it may have been Ben Kingsley, because the luggage reeked of sausage and pornography.

Tuleh, a 9-year-old label, run by the stylishly alliterative Bryan Bradley, has been described as ultra-feminine and fun. Girly even. Sadly, I didn't see the sly flourishes that have won Tuleh such kudos from in-the-know fashionistas: the fur, the feathers, the furry feathers. Instead I was ensconced in my shabby-chic hotel, taking a bath to wash off the curry I had spilled down my chest after taking three Ambiens mid-flight. I read somewhere that Tuleh is heralding a return to "glamour" and "refined beauty," so perhaps it's a good thing I missed it. I am filthy. Inside and out.

But am I as filthy as the homeless I see wandering along the perimeter of Bryant Park? Ah, there is a fashion statement if ever I didn't see one. Transient and free, unencumbered by wealth or status, they roam the street, saying, "Look at me! Look at me!" Is it any wonder then that no one looks? Or wants to look? These soldiers of the night are hopelessly out of season, with their grease-smeared, voluptuously distressed jeans. I think both Kyan and Jai would agree: These boys could certainly use a queer eye.

The homeless, however, would have felt entirely at home at the Imitation of Christ show. IOC has been described as "ultrahip," "beyond hip," and "überhip," mostly by people who do PR and/or received a free shirt. Chloë Sevigny worked for the label, before she gave Vincent Gallo a blow job—something regarded as nutritionally lacking and highly unfashionable, like inhaling a Twinkie while wearing capri pants. (Of course, I'm not speaking from personal experience. My own encounter with Mr. Gallo was highly impersonal—passionless even. Also, I only got $35 for it.)

Imitation of Christ always puts on fabulous shows: at one event, topless models pushed vacuum cleaners down the runway—something models are perfectly comfortable with, having regularly accompanied windbags bloated with cat hair and coke residue to Bungalow 8. The name of the label came from a book called Imitation of Christ, by Thomas a Kempis. He died nearly 700 years ago, so there is no danger of legal action. His book was a guide to religious living—not unlike IOC—which is a guide to religious living if your definition of religious living is selling grimy clothes for a crapload of money. If only I'd thought of this idea instead of throwing away all my soiled culottes, I'd be imitating Christ too.

I made my way to the show on 25th Street, in a warehouse next to Marty's auto-body shop. Under the rail bridge, I saw Leelee Sobieski approach, but she didn't see me. I believe she was once an actress, but now she is just a girl who was once an actress. She looked fab in a straight-version-of-Jodie Foster sort of way.

There were two lines in front of the place—one for important people and another for losers. I wasn't sure where I belonged so I approached a man with a clipboard. He located my name and gave me a slip of paper which read "S." I assumed this meant "special," but instead it stood for "standing." This truly meant I was a loser—and so I stood outside along with a mass of other losers for 45 minutes under a bridge, while a large man yelled at us to "keep back," and "don't crowd." The line was full of people wishing to be seen, but trying not to look. I stared at a girl who was a loser from last year's America's Next Top Model. She'd been cast as the "all-American girl from the Midwest," but now she was downtown hip, wearing a newsboy hat over her bangs. I continued to stare at her until I made her uncomfortable, which I tend to do often to women I don't know. And then, suddenly—as if a roadside bomb full of fashion went off—the models showed up. Posing for pictures and giggling like six-year-olds, this handful of skinny girls came adorned in throwaway couture (stripey stockings, shabby shirts, ragged thrift-store skirts) topped with rat's-nest hair. The label seemed geared for men who dig girls held captive for months in shipping containers. I have to say: I was pleased.

Still, I cannot forgive IOC its name for its new collection doesn't hold a candle to the draped, flowing look pioneered by the one true rebel, whose brand they've appropriated, and that is, of course, Jesus Christ, a true fashion icon in every sense of the word.

Meantime, there's been little sign in the tents, so far, of the military chic that Balenciaga, Miguel Adrover, and others sent marching down runways last season. But over in Iraq, the look is still de riguer. What are they wearing? Green colored Skivvies, mostly. Some Marines have taken to blousing their trousers—rolling the pant cuffs inside and tightening them over the boots with an elastic cord, a practice also observed among regulars at the Cubbyhole (West Village) and Barracuda (Chelsea). The more daring dressers may accentuate the look with an olive drab rigger's belt, which along with a new type of camouflage (MARPAT) renders them, under the right circumstances, completely invisible.

Christ, they would be hopelessly out of fashion here!

Greg Gutfeld edits The Daily Gut, among other dubious Weblogs. He is a frequent commentator on The Huffington Post.

Other Entries:
Part I: The Devil Wears Skechers
Part III: Frock Puppet

Gutfeld photos by Elliot Diamond. All other photos by Getty Images.