Nina Agdal, Max Azria, Lubov Azria in Hervé Léger, Dania Ramirez and Rico Love are all smiles at The Boom Boom Room.

Rebecca Taylor was not at Lincoln Center. Had we not been slammed with events, emails, editorial projects, tweets and social babysitting of our entourage, we would have easily noted this. Rebecca Taylor was scheduled for 2 p.m. on Saturday at Highline Studios Downtown. Yet we had eagerly arrived at the Mercedes-Benz complex, bewildered and irritated. American Express to the rescue. The Observer made the smart move to get in touch with the skybox mavens for a little good old fashion week S.O.S. And rescued we were!

Within ten minutes, The Observer was ushered to the dark and stylish skybox, Champagne in hand and fruit on our plate. Amen. Keen on a break from the masses, we schmoozed with publicists, AmEx VIPs and other media gurus. Before long, we watched from our elite little post high above, as Mara Hoffman paraded her vibrant, billowy frocks and caftans down the runway.

More than content to combine work and play, we handed off our Hervé Léger seats to a cohort and hunkered down for the show, refreshed and content.

After the show, one of the producers of the lavish hideaway announced that Lubov Azria herself would address the intimate coterie for a brief discussion.

“I am his midlife crisis,” joked Ms. Azria about her fashion mogul husband.

When asked about if she had experienced any drama on the day of the show, she reported that look No. 4, Maria, had a panic attack.

“She couldn’t breathe,” Ms. Azria revealed and went on to explain that the models are teens. “That’s why they have those bodies!”

Model drama aside, Ms. Azria was composed and engaging throughout the chat.

Things got even better, when Max and Lubov Azria invited The Observer to their Fashion Week after-party later that evening, which was presented by star-power media magnets Billboard and The Hollywood Reporter. The Top of the Standard was brimming with beauty—Daisy Fuentes, models Jessica White and Jessica Hart, and Dania Ramirez sightings come to mind—but the best attraction was delivered by DJ Harley Viera-Newton and DJ Kiss who had us sloshing and swaying deep into the night.  Before our exit, we just couldn’t resist one more exchange with Ms. Azria and dove in for a kiss-kiss, which she gracefully welcomed.

Olivier Zahm is French. Can you tell?

In the wake of last Saturday’s Purple Magazine party, we were left with several questions: What is it about Fashion Week mag soirées that seems to whip everyone into a frenzy? What mysterious gravity does Olivier Zahm carry that sucks the clothing off of so many stunningly beautiful women? How is Lindsay Lohan even still alive?

Our prospective evening began unfolding with an incoming text from Natalie White, former muse of photographer Peter Beard and current item of lust on Purple’s website: “Will I be seeing you at Purple Magazine tonight?” Of course, we replied, “but Natalie, how will we spot you?” Seconds ticked by, and came the response, “I’ll be the one wearing a see-through dress, darling.” With that image firmly lodged in our mind, we began to wonder what kind of party were we getting ourselves into.

We mulled the question as we hoofed it over to the Standard, a fittingly unglorified way to approach what would be a fittingly glorious event. Refinery29’s Kristian Laliberte—on full Fashion Week tilt—and his posse spotted us a block out. After a ritual passing of the flask, the group rolled over to the (suspiciously quiet) entrance.

“Sorry baby, it don’t start ’til 11,” deadpanned an Amazonian doorgirl. “You gonna have to go wait in the lobby with the rest of ’em.” Mr. Laliberte and our newly formed crew shambled into the appointed holding area with our tails between our legs—joining what more than one person referred to as “The Ellis Island” of the Purple party.

Our attempt to be fashionably late was unfashionably thwarted.

“O.K., let’s head back over there so the line won’t be too long” suggested Mr. Laliberte after a short time.
In the eight minutes we stood in the lobby, approximately 60 people had crowded the door, jostling for invisible spots on an invisible list that we were reminded would be “referred to as gospel” by the Amazonian.

(At this point, an aspiring—if misguided—partygoer was overheard remarking to his date, “I think we can sneak in. I’ve been here before.” Raised eyebrows and knowing glances were exchanged among the on-the-list set.)

The extent of the door difficulty was underscored when Patrick McMullan, nightlife photographer and fixture extraordinaire, sidled up to the wrong side of the gate. “Yes, I’m Patrick McMullan, I’m here to shoot the Purple Magazine party,” he informed her flatly.

The Amazon sized up the late-night veteran, thumbed through her clipboard and said: “Sorry, baby, you ain’t on the list, and if you ain’t on the list, you ain’t getting in!”
Whoa.

The be-guestlisted mob waiting behind the velvet ropes noticed the martyr having a hard time, and began a rallying cry: “LET HIM IN! LET HIM IN!” The solidarity of New York party people can be a beautiful thing.

Once inside, The Observer took our post on the railing and waited to see who trickled by. First up: Writer Bennett Marcus, nightlife veteran that he is, gave us a few pointers on what’s going to be what at this circus of an evening.

Peter Davis already seemed to be having a significantly better time than we, posing with the always-striking Anh Duong. We make a quick stop by the DJ booth to check in with the Misshapes, who reminded us that the evening might get a bit messy. (What was everyone so afraid of?) They neglected to mention, however, just how much of their set would be dedicated to the late, great, Whitney Houston. As a camouflage scarf-wearing Hamish Bowles strutted in, an onlooker remarked, “You almost kind of think that he’s always listening to Madonna’s ‘Vogue’ in his head.”

Spying Derek Blasberg, with his hand wrapped around Sofia Vergara, we thought of Woody Allen’s remark that he would like to be reincarnated as Warren Beatty’s fingertips.
We ran into Alexander Skarsgard, whom we urinated next to a few nights prior. “It’s good to see you again, Alex. Are you enjoying yourself this go around?” we asked, already knowing the answer.“Yes, of course!” he enthused. “Look around you! Everything, everyone is so beautiful.”

We looked around us. Everything and everyone was, indeed, beautiful. But even through the temporarily borrowed eyes of an international heartthrob, we had questions that were largely unanswerable: Who were all of these people? Where do they go between Fashion Weeks? Where were all of the promised see-through dresses?

Beyond a few standout characters, a few regulars, a few club kids and a few DJs, we noticed that even at this party, one of the most exclusive of the weekend, the froth that filled the gaps between celebrities was largely made up of people who don’t seem to exist outside of party photo websites. People who snuck in by knowing a guy who knew a guy who knew a PR girl. Extras on the backlot of downtown nightlife.

As we reached the peak of our vodka-soaked state of reflection, we grabbed Waris Ahluwalia to gather his thoughts on what we were all doing here, and why: “What do you make of all this, Waris?” we asked. “Well, you know, Olivier Zahm does what he does, and you know, this is what it is.” Hmm, elliptical.
Back into the froth.

Our photography degree was tingling, is that Juergen Teller? It was. We followed him for a bit, hoping to pry him away for a quick comment, but suddenly found ourselves in front of Russell Simmons: “You hangin’ in there, man?” Looking out below the brim of a Yankees cap, a slightly weary Russell demurred, “Yeah, yeah, you know how these things go.” We did.

Then it happened. Here we were in a fit of evening weltschmerz, and now confronted with the visage of the fast life’s most cogent cautionary tale—the Go Ask Alice of the corner banquette—Lindsay Lohan.
Fresh from what appeared to be a bit of a spat with world-renowned gentleman (cough, cough) Brandon Davis, LiLo looked surprisingly good.

Staring into the void, we thought it prudent to introduce ourselves. “Evening, Lindsay,” we said. “It seems we’ve gotten swept up into your posse!” A look of mortified disgust washed over her as she regarded our extended hand. The void was staring back into us.

We were swatted away by Ms. Lohan, as she made the most adorable “get the fuck out of my face” motion with her own little hands. We obliged, warm with the knowledge that we were back among the living.

Terry says, 'Vote Stringer in 2013!'

Terry Richardson may have shot Mila Kunis for this month’s GQ, but the Transom saw him walking the red carpet for the actress’s casual-sex rom-com Friends With Benefits with a beautiful brunette of the totally opposite vocation. The mystery girl walked through the pouncing rows of shutterbugs unnoticed: until now she’s been known for her press releases, not movie releases. She’s Audrey Gelman, press secretary for Manhattan borough president Scott Stringer.

It turns out the pair have been together since the spring, and they’ve been spotted at the various spots and parties that have always welcomed Mr. Richardson with open arms. Despite many a well-documented encounter with women over the years, the raunchy glossy mag photographer hasn’t seemed too interested in settling down with any of the models and ingénues he shoots.

Ms. Gelman is the youngest press secretary in the city, making her a well-positioned mouthpiece to a 2013 mayoral candidate. Before that, she had a coveted spot as an aide in the war room of Hillary Rodham Clinton’s campaign.

But she’s not the typical type-A city politico. Ms. Gelman’s an old friend of the downtown-famous Lena Dunham and has a featured spot on her forthcoming Judd Apatow-produced HBO series Girls. And let’s hope Mr. Richardson isn’t a Yankees fan: the tattoo inked on Ms. Gelman’s lower lip reads “LET’S GO METS.”

The better half of Manhattan’s unexpected It Couple declined to comment. Mr. Richardson was unavailable at press time, and thus, unavailable. They were also missing from the Friends With Benefits after-party at the Standard. Whom did Ms. Gelman keep Terry from shooting?

Audrey Gelman

Only the likes of Liv Tyler, Emma Stone, Courtney Love, Zoë Kravitz and, of course, the film’s stars, Ms. Kunis and Justin Timberlake. The duo held court in a well-guarded corner of Le Bain, where other attendees scaled rain-slicked benches just to get a glance. The Transom was helped into the cluster of chairs by Ms. Kunis, whom we had last seen cavorting with Wolf Blitzer before the White House correspondents’ dinner.

“You know what? I prefer L.A.,” she said as we sat next to each other, staring out to the Jersey skyline across the river. “It’s nice to be here, but, well, you know.”

Could she introduce us to Justin?

“Oh, he’s doing his thing right now,” she said. He was—Mr. Timberlake was crouched between two girls, entering numbers into his phone.

We waited until he was done and then asked what it was like to play a GQ staffer.

“Well, I played an art director, not a writer, so it was a little different from your type,” he told the Transom.

We concurred, but noted that you can’t get a GQ job without that dapper-writer style.

“And it was fun to edit that piece, though,” he said, referring to a miniprofile of him that ran in a recent issue of the magazine with his corrections scrawled in the margins. “Who was I working with? Um … ”

Wasn’t it Lauren Bans? We were pretty sure …

“Yeah! Lauren, she was great.”

The Transom would have gone on with Mr. Timberlake, the two of us comparing our prose strategies and favorite writers and such, but as more and more people tried to get by the bodyguards, Mr. Timberlake departed the misty Le Bain balcony, perhaps to find some friends, benefits, or both.

@nfreeman1234

There was Derek Blasberg, fashion writer, screaming, “Julia! Julia!” stretching out the first syllable as if it might catch the attention of Julia Restoin Roitfeld, the daughter of Carine Roitfeld, until lately editor of French Vogue. Graffiti art was the theme; it was RETNA’s after-party, and the host was Ms. Restoin Roitfeld’s brother Vladimir. There was New Wave, overdrinking and indoor smoking. It could have been Indochine in 1985, but it was Indochine last Thursday night.

The screams went on until Ms. Restoin Roitfeld relented, and The Observer joined her in a booth, along with Mr. Blasberg, Byrdie Bell and Genevieve Jones. (On the same table, Ms. Restoin Roitfeld’s mother, Carine, would later be dancing, drink in hand.) All we had to offer Ms. Restoin Roitfeld was a cigarette, but she declined, so we decamped to the booth over, where Mary-Kate Olsen was holding court.

Same old faces in this town, different booths—there she was again at Zac Posen’s Purple magazine party Friday at the Standard, cozying up in a Boom Boom Room booth with her sister, Ashley, and Jared Leto, in that purple, full-hoodie turban frock of his. More cigarettes, too: Olivier Zahm chaining them as if he couldn’t see through his permanent sunglasses that he’s not in France; Paz de la Huerta mumbling, cooing and puffing in The Observer’s face. And the same old songs, Alexander Wang bopping his head to “All of the Lights” by Kanye West, who was there, too—we see the guy everywhere—roped off in a corner of Le Bain behind a wall of bodyguards.

So we went to Chinatown. Behind any door, no matter how nondescript, there could be a party. People dancing, good-looking people, drinking vodka. It might even be smoldering. The Bungalow 8 doorman Armin Amiri just opened a joint like this, in the Shanghai style, called Mister H. He’ll try to keep you out if you’re not beautiful, but that can only last a few months. The Observer went in and saw a red neon sign bleeding into a dug-out back room: “This is not a brothel there are no prostitutes at this address.” Thanks anyway.

It put us in the mind of naked ladies. So we went to the Westway, the “faux strip club” from Matt Kliegman and Carlos Quirarte, who throw the Jane Hotel parties. People wait a long time for places like this to open, then soon enough forget about them. That night the designer Rag & Bone booked the glitter-happy space, not yet open to the public, and brought in pretty kids content to grip the stipper poles themselves for lack of actual exotic dancers. We asked the comedian Aziz Ansari when actual skin would be shown. “Twelve thirty!” he responded. He was giddy. “We’re almost there.” Soon enough, “Paradise City” came on, and the strippers came out. In minutes, they were topless, and dollar bills started sliding into G-strings. If they keep this up, they’ll have to drop the “faux.”

At the end of the night, The Observer saw daylight peeking through the sky, and the light was about the same when we woke up the next evening. It was time to drag ourselves back to the Standard, where the pretensions now include an ice rink. Alpine après-ski cocktails are another way to drink vodka, in this case with apple cider. Johnny Weir was there prancing and spinning around the rink, the Lady Gaga of figure skaters, you might say. Judging by his outfit, if they remade black Black Swan as science fiction, they could cast him beside David Bowie.

Charlotte Ronson’s party was good for a few flutes of Champagne. The Observer ran into Andre Saraiva. He said his Paris club Le Baron will open a Mulberry Street branch in March, so that’ll be another place to go.

It got too late, much too late. At the United Bamboo party at the Jane Hotel around 5, everyone was dancing on the tables, and members of LCD Soundsystem, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Grizzly Bear were all singing along.

Sunday night was unholy. The Observer recalls going to Kenmare for the Vs. magazine party, Soho Grand for Timo Weiland’s after-party, Le Bain for the Y-3 party—but none of the details. At some point, we were inside a limousine. And then, apparently, back at Kenmare. 

To think it was only last Wednesday, at Cipriani for the amfAR Gala, that Anna Wintour tipped The Observer off about the runway shows she was most looking forward to.

We didn’t make it to any of them.

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234