Everybody is tres intrigued by the return of Phoebe Philo. She will head up Celine.

Everybody is also watching the black-model count for Fashion Week. Fingers crossed.

New York Mag’s The Cut called it: Levi Johnston is Sex on Skates.

There is hope for my hometown yet. Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick has been finally forced to get the hell out of office.

Judith Warner is in top form tearing apart Sarah Palin.

Oh dear. The Times reports that Vogue India put a Fendi bib on a baby peasant. No word yet on whether the kid got to keep it.

Tom Ford knows it sucks when Stefano Pilati scorns you. But how great does it look when he loves you? Naomi not only scored a reported $400,000 to replace Kate Moss in the YSL fall campaign, she’s also been placed on Pilati’s pedestal — literally (see left) and figuratively. In Lynn Hirschberg’s Sunday Magazine profile, Pilati’s praise of the cell-phone-slinging supe could earn her a cabinet post: “Naomi represents the new world,” says Pilati. “In my mind, she is a mix of Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton.”

Here’s the really important part: She’s still got the best gams in the business, and Pilati let’s her flaunt them, despite the detriment done to product-placement opportunities.

Prada gets The Chutzpah Award for the cheapest-looking $890 shoe in history. As if Pan Am-blue patent and shaggy bat-wing scraps don’t demand a large enough leap of faith in Miuccia’s fashion prescience, she’s also slapped on a hideously helpful Ace Bandage that is an insult granny chic-sters, not to mention grannies. Nonna Prada would be quaking in her Privos.

New York’s Juergen Teller profile made me feel so pedestrian in my taste that I wondered if I could force myself to like his pictures, or whether hypnosis would do the trick. Alas, I tried neither. What stuck with me was Teller’s assertion that he photographs girls “you want to fuck” (and really, who doesn’t want to fuck Charlotte Rampling?). With that visceral morsel in mind — and a really, truly open mind otherwise — I flipped through Teller’s Tilda Swinton album in W. Of the 15 social-disaster characters she inhabits, I could maybe tolerate sex with one. The rest look like they would beat me up, or like they expect me to beat them up, and I don’t like either scenario. So that means I have pedestrian taste? And I’m a wuss too? Blow me.

When the esteemed Mr. Trebay came out on page one of Thursday Styles to dampen expectations for thrills and chills this Fashion Week, he was referring to the catwalk. But you know what I always find so strangely snoozey about attending the September shows? The uniformity of the fall books come to life in the form of the attendees. Personal style, and outrageous creativity especially, are largely absent. Instead, the crowd looks like a herd that stormed the stores in July, with ripped-out fashion spreads in hand, and bought every single piece editors declared the season’s must-haves. For no matter how high Barneys cranks up the a/c, how else can one know which woolies and ankle boots one will want when it’s still sweltering outside?