Hsin-Mei Agnes Hsu, Younghee Kim-Wait, Karen LeFrak and Shirley Young ring in the new year

While Shindigger was giddy to celebrate the Chinese New Year last week with the New York Philharmonic at its second annual Chinese New Year Gala, not everyone was excited to ring in the Year of the Snake. Take Joan Rivers, for example. “I’m fucking angry, because they make a lot of our jewelry for QVC,” Ms. Rivers cackled at us as we left Dennis Basso’s 30th anniversary runway show. “So get back to work, guys ... Make that happy New Year. Now get fucking back to work!”

Perhaps Ms. Rivers just didn’t receive her invite. Because those who did showed up in high style. Angela Chen, one of the gala co-chairs, wore a dazzling sequined Armani gown that attracted Shindigger immediately to her side as she glided around Avery Fisher Hall’s promenade.

“I think the red color is very important for Chinese New Year,” she told us.

We hoisted a glass of bubbly to our lips in chromatic agreement but wondered: wasn’t she nervous about competing with the Fashion Week festivities that were still raging across Josie Robertson Plaza?

“This week, I can enjoy both,” Ms. Chen replied.

Taking off to replenish our glass, we ran into Karen LeFrak, board member and Special Events Committee chairman for the Philharmonic, who had embellished her black gown with some serious Chinese-inspired bling.

Of her floral cluster white-diamond earrings, la grande dame said, “My mother-in-law [Ethel Stone] is ill, and she had given them to me, and it’s kind of a spiritual wish for her to get well. You know, kind of a superstitious feeling of good luck for everyone.”

With that warm sentiment in our head, we headed again toward the bar, where Ambassador Sun Guoxiang and Madam Wang Min, Chiu-Ti Jansen and billionaire Wilbur Ross were hovering.

As we reached that boozy pot of gold, we also had the good fortune to run into the vivacious Shirley Young, another gala co-chair, who was decked out in a handsome Chinese silk brocade evening jacket with fur collar and a titanic-sized smile.

Was she excited for the Year of the Snake? Shindigger asked.

“Chinese women don’t have any problem with the snake,” Ms. Young said with a wink, going on to tell us about a fairy tale called “White Snake.” “In just a few minutes, you will see the dragon and Madame White Snake, which is a fable about a person from the other world who falls in love with a human being—she’s actually a snake.”

Which sounded eerily similar to Shindigger’s last relationship!

Reaching for another glass of champagne then, we stumbled into Gary Parr, deputy chairman of Lazard Frères and essentially the fairy godfather of the Philharmonic (officially known as chairman and gala co-chair).

“There’s really going to be a great mix of music, East and West, tonight,” said the Tuxedo Park resident, dressed in a custom-made blood-red silk brocade jacket. But just as he began to elaborate on details of the concert, the room was invaded by the Nai-Ni Chen Dance Company, which paid homage to “The Legend of Madame White Snake.”

Afterward, we enjoyed a final cocktail with British businesswoman and socialite Ghislaine Maxwell.

Ms. Maxwell, like Ms. LeFrak, is a proud owner of AKC-registered pooches, and her 3-year-old dog, Captain Nemo (named after the Jules Verne character, not the storm), had just competed to moderate success at the Westminster Kennel Club dog show.

“He was in the last six, but you know, there’s always next year,” she said.

Fashion! New Year’s celebrations! Fancy dog awards! How on earth did this dreadful month of February get so crowded?

The question hung in our mind like a Zen koan.

But no time to think. Moments later, we were wedged into our seats for the concert, which was marvelous. Under the baton of Long Yu, the performance highlights included jazz pianist Herbie Hancock, Peking Opera star Yan Wang and the Snow Lotus Trio, a folk ensemble.

Feeling as though we had maxed out our culture quota for the evening, Shindigger passed on the gala dinner and elected to venture over to arguably one of the best party venues in the entire city: the iconic Lever House on Park Avenue.

Inside, fashion demigod Carine Roitfeld was hosting a Veuve Clicquot- and Belvedere-fueled bash for the second issue of her glossy rag, CR Fashion Book. Shindigger pulled up and quickly eyed our favorite KCD publicist, Hallie Chrisman, at the door, and we knew we were in good hands.

“I like the idea of having a party uptown,” Ms. Roitfeld told Shindigger in a corner of the front bar. “I like the Warhols [on the walls], and it’s a great place for lunch.”

As trays of gourmet prosciutto di Parma, ratatouille crostini, saffron risotto and seared tuna whizzed by, DJ Nick Cohen spun remixes of Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls” and Chic’s “I Want Your Love.” We passed on most of the nibbles, enjoying friendly pours of champagne. Thankfully, the service was anything but Parisian and our glasses were refilled before ever reaching half-empty (or is it half-full?).

“I’m very proud to be here and celebrate this with my mom and my sister and the rest of the party,” said Vladimir Restoin Roitfeld in his charming French accent. And it turned out that he too had enjoyed some Chinese New Year festivities. “We had Chinese dinner last night,” he said. “I like to go to Shun Lee Palace.”

As the deejay was swapped out for a lively Latin band sometime after 11 p.m., designer Olivier Theyskens, fashionista Anna Dello Russo, model Karlie Kloss and Ms. Roitfeld swarmed the dance floor.

Shindigger, unwilling to be a lonesome wallflower and miss the excitement, dove right in, taking our old pal Joan Rivers’s advice to heart. We would enjoy a happy New Year. And then we would get back to fucking work—tomorrow.

Carine Roitfeld and Anna Wintour in friendlier times.

Hearst Magazines has named Carine Roitfeld  the global fashion director for Harper’s Bazaar.  This move ramps up the rivalry between the former editrix of French Vogue and Condé Nast. Ms. Roitfeld, who was once seen as a possible successor to Anna Wintour, abruptly left Condé Nast in 2010.

Ms. Roitfeld introduced her new magazine, CR Fashion Book, just last month and will continue to put out the biannual magazine, which is published by Fashion Media Group, the company behind Visionaire and V magazines.

Hearst said her collaboration “may include covers of many of Harper’s Bazaar’s international editions.”

“This collaboration marks the first time anything like this has been done, and we’re very excited about what Carine will bring to Bazaar editions around the world,” said Duncan Edwards, the president and chief executive of Hearst Magazines International, in a statement.

In an interview with The New York Times, Mr. Edwards described Ms. Roitfeld’s new role "as similar to that of a syndicated columnist." Ms. Roitfeld will write stories that are included in multiple international editions of Bazaar but will be  “independent and separate to the rest of the magazine,” Mr. Edwards told the Times.

Carine Roitfeld

Fashion Week may be drawing to a close today, but our weeks of mulling over which precise chinchilla-and-chinoiserie mantilla to buy for the fanciest parent-teacher conferences of the season has only begun. We’ll be poring over the just-released CR Fashion Book, the minimalistically titled fashion magazine produced by Carine Roitfeld, former editrix of French Vogue. It goes on sale today, and we’ve been anticipating it eagerly—especially as the magazine only comes out once every six months, so we’ll have to savor every page ... Meanwhile, those whose literary itch tends more towards book-books than Fashion Book can catch novelist Rivka Galchen and translator Gregory Rabassa reading the work of Jorge Amado in a celebration of the Brazilian author’s 100th birthday. That’s fine, but Penguin Classics don’t tend to run sumptuous Balenciaga ads, do they?

CR Fashion Book on sale at finer newsstands today; Jorge Amado event, Queen Sofia Spanish Institute, 684 Park Avenue, tickets and information can be found at as-coa.org.

Harry Brant strikes a pose for the cameras at Emporio Armani's flagship store opening.

Despite that Harry Brant has barely cleared puberty, the social-buzzing, babygay spawn of model Stephanie Seymour and billionaire media/art/real estate tycoon Peter Brant, has a busy schedule that rivals those of Paris Hilton and Olivier Zahm. This past Friday at Emporio Armani’s 601 Madison Avenue boutique opening, we approached the 16-year-old high school sophomore to find why is he out socializing with Roberta Armani, Luigi Tadini, Ms. Hilton, Ricky Martin, Ryan Lochte, artist Rashaad Newsome, Anna dello Russo and Kate Lanphear, when he should probably be cracking those Algebra books.

“What have you been up to today?” we asked.

“I went to Rag & Bone. I liked it,” replied Mr. Brant, smiling profoundly.

“What are you doing at Armani?”

“I’m here for the clothes!”

“Are you going to be at any of the parties later? John Varvatos? Jason Wu?” The Observer prodded.

“Um tomorrow is Carine [Roitfeld]’s party,” he replied.

“So have you started school?” we questioned, suggesting he should be at home studying.

“Yes, today I went to Rag & Bone and then I went on a field trip to the aquarium with my school.”

“How do you balance your social schedule with school?” we asked.

“I mean, I’m pretty much like a modern-day Hannah Montana!” Mr. Brant said.

Does that mean Mr. Brant is living a double life? Is he secretly a world famous pop star? And since when did being a spoiled billionaire socialite boy constitute as a “normal teenage girl?”

Before he could clarify, a chaotic pack led by Cory Kennedy and Ms. Hilton stumbled drunkenly into the fiesta.

The Observer quickly grabbed a few glasses of water and offered them to Ms. Kennedy and her coterie, who more than needed it. Then we were off to rowdier pastures.

Roitfeld.

With former French Vogue editor Carine Roitfeld's new fashion magazine set to launch from an office in the Standard Hotel this September, Conde Nast executives are circling the wagons, according to Page Six.

International chief Jonathan Newhouse's office reportedly got in touch with photographers like Mario Testino, Craig McDean and David Sims "with the idea to reinforce the fact that people were under exclusive contract."

Ms. Roitfeld's new magazine, CR Fashion Book, will be published semiannually by Fashion Media Group LLC, home of V, V Man and Visionaire. According to WWD, the themed issues will include only long-form articles, reserving front-of-book style content for the magazine's website.

Mr. Lagerfeld blamed her late-career decline on her belief, in the 1960s, that jeans and miniskirts were “vulgar.”

“The collections from the mid-’60s to the ’70s were quite ecchh,” he told the magazine. “Then they had 10 years of respect, for what it’s worth, then the rest is … me.”

Mr. Lagerfeld also corrected former French Vogue editor Carine Roitfeld on her house history, in a joint Q&A about their collaboration on Chanel book Little Black Jacket.

“The first Chanel jacket that I saw—that I knew was Chanel—was on TV,” Ms. Roitfeld, who is gearing up to launch her own semiannual pub in New York in September, said. “It was on Mrs. Kennedy—the pink one.”

“In 1963,” Mr. Lagerfeld responded. “It was a fake, a line-by-line copy by Cassini. She did have real Chanels, [but] her sister ordered them. We have all the proof.”

While the first issue of Style.com/Print diagrammed the cliques and crews of fashion week, the second highlights the individuals egos that still dictate what we wear. (Or so the spring spate of creative director hires and fires suggests.)

Asked about his own ouster from Yves St. Laurent, Lanvin’s Alber Elbaz sang “Que Sera, Sera” before telling the magazine, “As I say to people, I was never just Alber from Saint Laurent, and I am not Alber from Lanvin. I am Alber, period. That’s why I might have been hurt, but I was not dead. It didn’t kill me.”

Elsewhere in the issue, on newsstands April 2, Giorgio Armani confessed to wishing he'd been actor (Paul Newman, to be specific), and Georgina Chapman described dressing former professional wrestler Stacy Keibler for the Oscars.

“Our intention at the outset was to take the reader ‘behind closed doors,’” said Style.com editor Dirk Standen. “Fashion is an ever faster and increasingly complex industry, but at its core it still depends on one person—the designer—and his or her ability to find inspiration each season and use instinct and intelligence to carry the day. We wanted to celebrate these individuals in this issue and give readers a vivid sense of their struggles and rewards. As Alber Elbaz, the great creative director of Lanvin, told us, ‘Fashion is a business, but it works best as a family.’”

What was it Tolstoy said about families again?

Outfit by Holy Tee, Skybox by American Express, posture by years of bad habits

I used to think Fashion Week was fun. This was years ago, when “the tents” referred to actual tents. Back in the day (it must have been, oh, 2008) my friends and I would try to talk our way into Tommy and Oscar shows and blog about the experience. It was surprising how often our feigned frustration—“What do you mean I’m not on the list? Please call Eric and let him know that we’re here”—would get us in.

I’m still not sure if there was an Eric, but somehow he always came through.

Now, older and wiser and having recently embarked on a journalistic mission to embed myself among the social elite, I have actual invites (22, to be exact), a fresh Anna bob and a mission, should I choose to accept it, to treat Fashion Week not like a joke, but like a job.

Which is a lot harder than it looks.

I began my odyssey by tagging along with The Observer’s resident fashion expert, Ben Le Hay, to a pair of showrooms—Archetype on Broadway and European designer mecca Agency V—where, get this, people just give you clothes. For free! All you have to do is pick out which ones you want, and hopefully get your picture taken wearing them.

The clothes on offer weren’t exactly my style, which is to say they were stylish, like the asymmetrical tiered gray miniskirt and fitted long- sleeve shirt from Holy Tee that made me look like a slutty ice skater. (It turned out to be a good choice, or so our fashion mentor, Mary Alice Stephenson, tweeted after we ran into each other at Doo.Ri.)

There were paint-splashed yoga pants that tapered into trousers from 5 Preview, and dresses that looked like muumuus made from fabric that felt like the scratchy cover of grandma’s couch.

As for accessories, writer Paula Froelich, formerly of Page Six, generously donated a giant Prada bag and a Chanel clutch to the cause. The upshot of which was that I was too scared to eat, drink or carry anything on my person for the entire week, lest I spill food down my front or have a pen leak in a bag worth more than my life.

Mr. Le Hay had made me a Xeroxed cheat sheet featuring pictures of every prominent socialite, designer and super-flack whom I might reasonably encounter. And though I tried to commit the faces to memory, I frequently found myself wondering, Was that Poppy DeLevigne, or a buyer from Neimans?

Sometimes I just took a guess.

“Oh, my god, Eric!” I exclaimed, sauntering over to a guy I could swear I recognized from the look book. “How are you?”

“I’m great, how are you girl?”

If Derek Blasberg noticed that (a) we had never met and (b) I didn’t know his name, he was polite enough not to show it. (This, I realized, was my trump card: All these other fancy people are clearly too well-mannered to acknowledge my own ill-manneredness.)

“Oh you know … this,” I said, gesturing toward the runway. “Sooo crazy. I can’t wait for the party tonight.” I was hoping the prompt would be enough for Mr. Blasberg to reveal the secret location of whatever party might be happening.

“Oh, yeah, maybe I’ll see you there!” he said with a smile, turning his attention back to Alexa Chung, who was being accosted by a woman asking her to sign a petition for the Model Alliance.

“We’re fighting for models’ rights,” the woman explained.

Ms. Chung looked confused. “I think I’d need to know a little more information before I sign this,” she said. “I’ve never heard of you before.”

Earlier, I got a quick lesson from former Vogue associate publisher Lottie Oakley on how the seating at the shows was arranged. We were looking down from the American Express Skybox, which she hosted all week. “Section A is your American editors, designers and magazine people,” she pointed out. “Across from them are the Europeans. See, there’s Amy Astley from Teen Vogue. She’s the blonde with the bangs.” I nodded, although everyone in Section A was blonde with bangs.

The middle section, Ms. Oakley told me, was for the buyers, while the chairs set up on the actual runway—literally, in the middle of the runway—were reserved for celebrities and fashion bloggers.

The SkyBox was also where Lucky editor Brandon Holley imparted some secret wisdom about how to snag a good seat: “Be a blogger! I was just sitting with the editors from Glamour,” she said. “And they had a seat reserved in the front row that everyone wanted. But they weren’t giving it up. they told us it belonged to a boy named Bryan. BryanBoy? He was a fashion blogger; he helped me use Twitter.”

We met Kelly Cutrone of People’s Revolution at Mara Hoffman’s show. (Ms. Cutrone had thoughtfully seated us in the front row, next to the designer’s father, Monte. Nice gentleman, and he didn’t bat an eye when he realized his daughter had designed the condoms included in her gift bags.)

When I let it slip to the author and TV fixture (who’s replacing Andre Leon Talley on the forthcoming season of America’s Next Top Model) that I was determined to make myself over, during the course of this column, into an “It” girl, she chided, “Don’t try to be an ‘It’ girl, be a ‘You’ girl.” She added that Fashion Week would be useless to me as a social hunting ground, “because no one really ‘meets’ during shows.” She suggested I work on “cultivating a persona” instead. “You can get noticed and build up some buzz just by being a little mysterious.”

The best way to be truly mysterious, of course, is to occupy a completely undeserved seat in the front row. Snagging one isn’t that hard, Ms. Cutrone told me: one need merely be overly gracious to those apple-cheeked interns wearing headsets, because they’ll be the ones frantically trying to fill up the gaps when showtime starts and someone important hasn’t arrived.

“Oh, if you need help filling A-1-13,” I cooed during Geoffery Mac’s show at Runway Exit, “I’d love to help you out.”

More challenging was gaining access to the VIP suites and parties. The former I managed via a combination of old-Drew shamelessness and new-Drew business cards. The Mercedes-Benz lounge featured skin-care stations, plush sofas and free Champagne. It was also the only place—outside the $10 sandwich corral next to the blogging pen—where I came across a few snacks that weren’t in bar form.

I spent half of Fashion Week in that lounge, where I met New York Giants wide receiver Ramses Barden and struck up a conversation with Emma Snowdon-Jones about the importance of delivering a sincere compliment. “You always want to say something nice about what someone is wearing,” the Dominican-born socialite told me. “But people can tell in your tone of voice if you are picking up on an item just to have something to say.”

As for the after-parties, I skipped most of them, because a girl has to eat and sleep and also pack all her belongings because she’s in the process of moving. Sometimes, a girl even has to try to put together a bed frame while subsisting on a diet of Fiber One bars, and ends up knocking over two lamps and shattering glass everywhere.

My Fashion Week burnout happened five days into the process. While sitting at Diane von Furstenberg’s show fiddling with a long necklace generously lent by Lia Sophia, I think: I’ve finally made it. I’m at one of the most high-profile shows at Fashion Week, surrounded by the likes of Anna Wintour, Graydon Carter and Carine Roitfeld. I’m not just at Fashion Week … I’m fashionable!

That’s when I looked down to check the chain on my necklace and realized that, yes, the black shirt that looked fine in my lampless bedroom that morning had revealed itself to be 100 percent transparent. Fortunately, the circling photographers were too bent on getting a shot of Anderson Cooper to notice.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful to be a nobody in my life.

dgrant@observer.com

Don’t mess with Alexander Wang. This message was more than clear. KCD guarded their most sought-after invite with a check-in process worthy of the North Korean border. Street photography happened 20 yards from entry gates. Photo I.D. required.

Once inside Pier 94, we discovered a smoky hall of mirrors. Sure enough, the entire fashion world was present to take in the spectacle. Varsity Voguettes, Carine Roitfeld avec sa fille, Terry Richardson, model Liya Kebede, Paris Vogues’ Emmanuelle Alt, Shala Monroque, Garance Doré, Zoe Kravitz… this could take all year!

A closer look at the program smelled even more of recently-earned success; reaffirming Wang’s domination of Fashion Week (beware Marc Jacobs!): Interview’s Karl Templer styling, Guido Palau on hair; Anja Rubik slated to walk in a black Nappa-backed shearling hoodie and crêpe pant with bonded leather panel... Has Wang gone kinky and street? we wondered.

“Who the hell is that?” we asked Refinery29’s Annie Georgia Greenberg.

“Die Antwoord [Ninja and Yo-Landi Visser]!” She yelled. “… South African… They’re in the new ad campaign.”

“The one in the golden hoodie looks like an alien,” The Observer grimaced.

Frederic Sanchez’s booming soundtrack gave the impression that we were under attack. It’s not just Mr. Wu that has warriors—Wang has a masked army too!

Techno fabrics, fishnet knits, and vinyl placket-embellished outwear were severely structured. Move out of Wang’s way!

The Observer would commit a felony to score a pair of Daga’s ion laminated panel trompe-l'œil pants; or Abby Lee’s peroxide smocked leather tank dress and black Kolfinna boots! Pony up quick! They’ll sell out for sure.

After 31 impressively haunting looks, the program read: “PLEASE STAY SEATED…”

That’s a first.

Another tempest began (cue Sanchez): Alexander Wang then sent out an additional dozen or so looks on a cast of models that had us hurling obscenities in disbelief!

“Was that Giselle? That was Gisele Bündchen!” Screeched Carly Leach, also in section A.

“Are you sure? Well that’s definitely Joan Smalls and Karolína Kurková,” The Observer replied.

Confirmed. The biggest names in modeling were now masked, in stunning Wang urban couture, facing individual mirrors. They collectively unmasked before filing out.

Had a new King of New York fashion been crowned?

Wang bounced through the haze to take an enthusiastic bow, leaving us all to debate. We say yup—“All hail Wang!”

Carine Roitfeld

Her daughter, model and designer Julia Restoin Roitfeld—who has been dating fellow model Robert Konjic—is three months pregnant.

While discussing her son Vladimir's recent appearance on the cover of NYO, the former editor of Vogue Paris broke composure, interrupting our polite inquiries to exclaim, “This is the big news of this week. I’m going to be a grandmother. My daughter is having a little baby in May.”

Ms. Roitfeld even drew a halt to the signing of her book—which is a chronicle of her collaborations with the likes of Mario Testino and family friend Tom Ford—to bring us up to speed with all things natal.

And is it a boy or a girl?  To Ms. Roitfeld, that was not important. “I am so proud of my family," she enthused. "I have not asked. I do not want to know.”

The predominantly young crowd were eager for some face time with the Gallic editrix, and she was happy for the attention. “It’s very special to me that people come to see me,” she acknowledged.

However, a note to the future grandchild: being a member of the ultra-glam Roitfeld family is not without the burdens of renown. Book in hand, one member of the crowd—a petite fashion student—was proud to admit; "I'm really happy just to have seen her. I met her once last year and I followed her up the elevator...she remembered me though."