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Bill Blass, the show, always runs late. But Blass, the designer, went a step further. These days, to be truly fashionable, you must be truly late mdash;as in dead.

Blass sussed this out early mdash;and by staying ahead of his fashionable counterparts, he actually died, becoming the "late" Bill Blass back in 2002. Never one to follow trends, Blass knew the next big thing would be "fly ash" mdash;and chose cremation as the inspiration for his new look. You see, back in the day, ash was all about gray or black.

But now, every cremator worth his urn knows the buzz is "fly ash." If you really want to be on the truly hot list, have your corpse ignited in the presence of air at 750 degrees. The iron will oxidize and give the ash a stylish light-brown color.

This is something Blass knew, but GQ apparently doesn't mdash;odd, since it's been dead for years.
I suppose death is on my mind because it's my birthday. I turned 42 today, and so, in a sense, I am one year closer to being dead mdash;which means, finally, I will be "late" for everything.

I won't even have to call ahead. And I have mentioned this before: when I do die I want my remains scattered over my birthplace (San Mateo), but I do not want to be cremated.
The show was filling up with all sorts of people mdash;some of whom were still very much alive.

The crowd was elderly and sophisticated, the type with monograms on their Depend undergarments, and iPod docking-stations on their 14 karat diamond-plated, motorized people carriers. "I've been looking forward to this show all week," said a sexagenarian seated next to me. She may have been staring at TV Guide, pointing to a rerun of Matlock.

The whole place pulsed with geriatric excitement, and although the location of Blass's ashes is unknown, I am sure they were looking down on the scene, and smiling ...

if ashes could indeed smile. I suppose they could, under the right circumstances. But what do I know?

Only this: The average age of those in the front rows seemed to hover in the low 80s, The only way to know for sure would be to cut them in half laterally and count the rings, but the last time I did that it was with a cat, and I went away for five years. Well aware of the audience's special needs, the show's organizers made several alterations to ensure that everyone would feel comfortable. The programs were large-print.

The chairs were supplied with gel-and-foam seat cushions and big-button telephones, Thermophore heating pads and edema gloves were free to those who asked. True to form, all the models employed in the show were also registered nurses, in case resuscitation was called for. Bowls of ribbon candy were placed near each exit.

Who wears Bill Blass? Well, if you were to read this sentence without stopping you'd find out: Sandra Bullock, Diane Lane, and First Lady Laura Bush. Their combined age is 180 (Bullock is actually 77).

None of them were here today, but one of Blass's biggest fans did show up mdash;about 25 minutes late mdash;surrounded by a cloak of human darkness. I am referring to Janet Jackson, who arrived with a half dozen large, black bodyguards. Some were wider than they were tall mdash;the kind of men who snack on cattle, car parts, and rare, giant sea turtles.

Cocooned inside this circle of quads and pecs, Ms. Jackson was virtually invisible, managing to simultaneously make a grand entrance and stay unseen.
"Who is that?

" asked one older woman. "I don't know," said the other. I told them it was Angela Lansbury, and they perked up.

By 11:30, the show still hadn't started, but the place was packed. Three police officers hovered in a corner. "We're here for security," one told me, looking fab in blue pleated pants, a blue short-sleeve shirt, and what looked like a Glock 28 attached to his hip.

(The Glock 28 is the same size as other Glock models, the only real difference being that it's blowback operated. I would get into more detail here, but I would only frighten my mother, who still wonders why there are pictures of me in the post office.) Who were they providing security for, exactly?

"The models," the officer replied. I returned to my seat. Apparently someone tipped them off that I was coming.

The lights finally went down, and out waltzed the first model, whose name was Freja. Freja is probably Spanish for "I am wearing a sand matte jersey skirt suit," and she certainly was. She was probably only 30, but the clothes added five years, making her look classy, rich, divorced, and engaged to a 90-year-old billionaire with a catheter.

Caroline T., Flavia, and Hana followed in turn, all wearing the kind of sophisticated stuff Lauren Hutton might unfasten before taking a crap: herring-bone pant suits, Brazil nut matte jersey dresses, taupe wool lacquered shorts. All of the models had hair not unlike the Cowardly Lion's, and brains not unlike the Scarecrow's.

I have to say, as stunning as they may be, I cannot wear these clothes. The stuff seemed designed for tall and hopelessly wealthy women who live on wafers and air particles. They drive expensive cars, live in their ex-husband's mansions, use cloth napkins in bathrooms, and travel in private jets just to pick up replacement organs.

These women are so stylish even their pedicures have manicures.
Heather then materialized on the runway looking like she was wearing an embroidered jacket made of Pringles. Caroline T.

wore a puff-sleeve shirt and flexed her magnificent jaw. Doutzen was wearing a white embroidered tulle and pink silk chiffon strapless gown. I only tell you this because her name, Doutzen, won the award for most unusual model moniker.

Her prize: The knowledge that I would soon be masturbating to a primitive drawing I made of her on the back of the program.
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