NEW YORK. It's Day 3 of Fashion Week and I'm eternally glad that the sun's back out and all the tropical storm nastiness has left.

Before the morning's Lela Rose show, I zip over to the Bryant Park Starbuck's and am behind a gaggle of black-clad PR folks with headsets perma-attached. "I am not an intern, I am an assistant," says the lone boy in the group and I feel sympathetic. Coffee in hand, I grab The Daily (headline = Election 2008: We Pick the Fashion Cabinet"), check in with the security guard and begin the long waiting-in-line process. Thankfully, I talk to a sweet art teacher and engineer couple from Poughkeepsie whose son is an event planner with Mercedes-Benz (it is the Mercedes-Benz New York Fashion Week, after all). She asks me if I designed my dress myself and I politely say, "Oh no, I'm definitely not that cool" - even though I am.

Finally inside and waiting for the show to begin, I spot Lela's two children sitting on adult laps in the first two seats of the front row. Helpers spring out of nowhere to pull plastic off the runway and the lights dim to the sound of rain (I inwardly cringe with memories of yesterday's downpours.)

The rain theme is obvious right away, with a blue-on-blue shorts and shirt combo and navy sequin palettes making a skirt look seriously fishtail. Everything looks just right for spring in the city, with frizzy pinned-up braids and mid-thigh shorts in the quintessential errands about town style. The colors are what I'm crazy about - Rose worked with deep champagnes and a whole array of blues, ranging from light to midnight to turquoise. I'm obsessed with the chartreuse yellow I see popping up in all kinds of pieces. Rose, wearing a cardigan in the hue backstage post-show, tells me they're calling it "yellow sapphire."

It's back to the Bumble & Bumble space for the Staerk show. The program's list of looks has descriptions like "black bandage suiting," liquid jersey bodysuit," and "hooded gown in spine print."

I'm half intrigued, half scared. Weirdly enough, it's the second time that day a designer has said their collection is inspired by Out of Africa (Lela Rose's show also cited the film). I've never seen it so the reference is kind of lost on me but I figure it's got to be glam - and diverse since Rose's show was Park Avenue feminine and Staerk's sounds like a macabre mix of leather and nail heads. I'm excited for the show since the B&B space has a rep for hosting emerging talent early on in their career, but alas, the Danish Staerk disappoints me thoroughly. She parades out what looks like an exaggerated harem pant/breeches hybrid, leather skinnies that aren't quite skintight enough, and touches of black lace that looks like it came from the sale bin. The show's a bit of a disaster too, with one model walking the wrong direction and many others clumsy in their heels.

It's back to the tents.

Every experience at Fashion Week is fairly predictable, but also sure to be full of surprises. Such is the case with Thuy (too-ee, it's okay, we were confused too). This time I'm stunned by the clothes the crowd is wearing: girls in denim minis and tank tops, boys in khaki cargo shorts and K-Swiss. I'm disgusted, snobbish and really wishing Bryant Park would impose a dress code for the week.

On the way into the tent the couple in front of me (wearing Von Dutch and Ed Hardy) is nabbed by a security guard who tells them no drinks can be brought inside. But it made no difference, as soon as I take my seat I could swear I'm at a club. The bass is seriously bumping, the couple next to me is being annoyingly touchy-feely and people are screaming to be heard. These are not your average show attendees. When designer Thuy Diep takes her victory runway lap at the end of the show, this is confirmed when multiple people hoot, holler and generally make a scene in the way only loyal friends and family can. All in all, it's another bizarre show. The DJ did a phenomenal job with the music and across the runway I glimpse a tow-headed 20-something boy bobbing heads alongside a black woman in her 60s wearing a random straw hat. I'm thrilled to see more chartreuse yellow and love the way a vivid sherbet has been paired with a black-and-white graphic slouchy coat that resembles blurry newsprint. There are more mid-thigh shorts, with the models strutting down in blazers rolled up to the elbows and their hands deep in their pockets.

On the subway downtown I spy a trio of tall, lanky models making their way home post-show. It's part of my new favorite game of "spot the model." I'm on my way to participate in a Fashion Week rite of passage: partying until the wee hours of the morning even though you're exhausted and are ignoring your editor's advice to get lots of rest, drink water and remember to eat. I'm too stoked to see LA DJ's Cassette and Countrockula at their second Fashion Week gig. We're way down on the Lower East Side at a bar where the entire nearby-living cast of Gossip Girl frequents, so I'm content to take some shots and dance a little crazy. It's Fashion Week, lovelies, and we're learning together: anything goes. But, seriously, even if it wasn't Fashion Week, I'd still be up for it just for a quick glimpse of Chuck Bass.

LA2DAY writer Leah Melby will continue to update from New York Fashion Week.

CLICK HERE TO READ LEAH'S DAY TWO COVERAGE.