We asked Ms. Myers how she manages to keep up -- coffee? Secretly getting eight hours of sleep a night? "Eight hours of sleep is an impossibility," she said. "Honestly, it's adrenaline."

It was a fairly pertinent question: the designs that would soon grace the runway were submitted by RISD students, most of whom just graduated, and most of whom would very much like to do just that — move to New York City and make it in fashion. 

Elle would soon make that dream just a bit easier for a few lucky art school grads. At the end of the show, the judging panel — an esteemed group that counted among its members Elle Editor-in-Chief Robbie Myers, Nicole Miller and downtown fixture/jewelry designer Waris Ahluwalia — would award one student a $25,000 grant, with Maybelline and Kate Spade awarding two more. 

Also in attendance were actress Alexis Bledel and designer Betsey Johnson, though she had to cut out early.

Waris, sporting a jean jacket with a patch that said "unlovable" sewn on the back, pregamed the runway with his drink of choice: chamomile. "It's Egyptian," he told us. "It's how I start the day. I need to keep it toned down a little bit. You can't get revved up this early in the morning."

As for the rest of the week, Waris casually mentioned Paul Sevigny's Fashion's Night Out party at Don Hill's — as if the rest of the city wasn't already dying to go. "I have to plug my friend's place," he conceded.

The top prize went to recent RISD grad David Woo, who turned heads with a top hat that had a top hat coming off it. But even after Myers announced his as the winner, Woo feigned modesty.

"I'm still very young and I have a lot to learn," he said.

Then they started talking about khakis and somehow made the quantum leap to talking about big penises.

"You see the fashion-forwards going to a plain front," said Mr. Williams. "And then you see the pleated community seemingly unaware of this trend change." He that added President Obama still wears pleats. 

Mr. Goldman said he knows somebody who doesn't wear flat-fronts slacks because "his penis was just too large."

"Well, I’m with him," Mr. Williams said. "It’s a huge issue."

This is when we look inside ourselves and asked if we are surprised.

"Kidding," Mr. Williams added.

Open-access Facebook profiles are totally hot—primarily because they can be viewed without going through the whole ‘friending’ rigmarole. In fact, one needn’t even 'poke' them! And that’s sweet, because 'poking' is completely out of the question.

So we decided to celebrate those peeps who have the gumption to announce their, say, religious beliefs to the whole world. And what better way to kick things off than with a profile breakdown of one of our all-time fave New York socials—Kelly Killoren Bensimon!

First, some background info: Ms. Bensimon, founding editor of Elle Accessories, became Ms. Bensimon when she married Gilles Bensimon, the celebrated fashion photographer, whose work for Elle put him at the forefront of the industry. (The 63-year-old shutterbug, also the onetime creative director of the glossy, has appeared a couple times on America’s Next Top Model.) The high-profile couple, who have two children together, split in 2006.

Now, on to the nitty-gritty…Ms. Bensimon, a Taurus who had a column in Page Six Magazine for a spit, is apparently “In a Relationship,” also billing herself as both a conservative and Catholic. Holy moley! She lists only one, rather curious activity—“riding all day long”—though her list of interests is suitably varied: “my kidlets / my horse / cars / watersking / jack russells / whatever peeks my interest.” [Oh, and ‘sic’ on all accounts here.]

Her favorite music includes James Taylor and “all r&b.” For when the stereo’s off, the iPod tucked away, Ms. Bensimon writes of her appreciation for T.V. shows like Tom & Jerry and House. She likes the films It’s a Wonderful Life and White Chicks (but, then again, don’t we all?). Only one book: Garden of Eden by Ernest Hemingway. Ditto her favorite quote, which is fancy: “dans l’adversite fasions face.” See, fancy! No academic slouch, she received a B.A. in English Literature and Creative Writing from Columbia University.

It also appears that Ms. Bensimon is a fan of those new Facebook applications. Indeed, she’s collected some 23 of them, which include the ubiquitous “Cities I’ve Visited” and the slightly more obscure “Snowball Fight!” Ms. Bensimon is in 10 groups—“Balenciaga,” “Milk Studios” and “PRWeek Networkers,” among them. Though no socialite fan club groups could be found, she does have some pretty hot-to-trot Facebook friends: society scribe Peter Davis; socials Fabian Basabe and Vanessa Von Bismarck; Vogue contributing editor Lauren Davis; and Times style guru Horacio Silva.

Elle’s holiday party was held last night at former Bungalow bouncer Armin Amiri’s Hudson-hugging hotspot Socialista. And guess what? Craziness ensued! At one point, the fashion mag’s creative director Joe Zee teamed up with design director Paul Ritter to perform a wicked rendition of the head-bobbing dance from the SNL spin-off flick Night at the Roxbury. That movie is so hot right now.

And though it’s no West Village dive bar, Indochine, near Astor Place, hosted the comely staffers afterwards for dinner. But! Once there, fashion director and Project Runway dominatrix Nina Garcia ran smack into the folks from French Vogue, who had already gathered for their holiday party at a neighboring table.

According to the book’s “Style Wise” blogger, Tracey Lomrantz, Elle’s competing editor, Carine Roitfeld, looked “unimpeachably stylish” in Givenchy. Joined by her ever-stylish daughter Julia Restoin-Roitfeld, English model Lily Donaldson and shipping tycoon Stavros Niarchos, Ms. Roitfeld, it seems, won this holiday-party design challenge. Also at Indochine last night were the peeps from C&M Media, which represents Chris Benz, Thakoon and Moncler. Reportedly “digging into spring rolls and sticky rice,” they were apparently more interested in the grub than in the other diners.

Other things that have been banned from Ms. Knightley’s life: the word “cute” and answering her cell phone. “I hate them. It rings, and then I realize that I don’t want to talk to anyone. So I always press ignore.”

Keira Knightley: “I’m a Moody Bastard” [US]

2:07 a.m.

9 pounds

St. Luke’s–Roosevelt Birthing Center

“I had to stop myself from crying and yelling, ‘Schedule a C-section!’” said Miranda Purves, 34, the willowy lifestyle editor of Elle magazine, about the drug-free (ouch!) albeit doula-aided birth of her chubby firstborn, named in double homage to her favorite author, Virginia Woolf, and her husband Adam’s spirit animal. Mr. Brebner, also 34 and an associate at the law firm Sullivan and Cromwell, prepared for the experience by reading The Birthing Partner by Janet Balaskas. The couple has been married five years and lives in a Park Slope three-bedroom, where Mom is also getting accustomed to the lesser-known pain of breast-feeding. “They tell you it’s not going to hurt—they keep it from you!” she complained. And this affable little tyke apparently packs a lot of pulling power! “He could suck a mongoose through three feet of garden hose,” Ms. Purves said.

"All this effort wasted on a dog. You and Jonny would make such wonderful parents. Have you thought of adopting children?" I restrained myself from replying "Bugger off!", then realized that I am now regularly bombarded with these kinds of intrusive, Jewish-motherly suggestions.

The sanctimonious, and successful, proselytizing of child-rearing seems to be raging through Manhattan, sending gay and straight alike rushing pell-mell to road-test their fallopian tubes or adopt the disadvantaged. The goal seems to be some kind of unspecified personal fulfillment.

In my childhood, people either had kids or they didn't; nobody fetishized the act of procreation. Having kids was not seen as anything other than a by-product of "a bit of slap-and-tickle." Unmarried aunties with hairy top lips and confirmed bachelors with porcelain collections didn't have kids, and it would have been considered downright unsavory even to suggest that they try.

When well-wishers and acquaintances suggest that I would make a great parent, it inclines me to adopt marginal behaviors–wearing a feather boa, or daubing rouge on my ear lobes–in order to look manifestly unsuitable for the role. This would enable me to get back to the important tasks at hand: plucking Liberace's eyebrows and rubbing Kiehl's creme de corps (4 oz.: $14.50 at Barneys) into his paws.

So if you would rather have a dog than a baby, don't feel guilty. California researchers have shown beyond a shadow of a doubt that people with pets are much happier than people with children. Dog owners live longer and are clinically proven to be less burdensome to those around them than dogless folk. And choosing a dog is such a gas, especially if you pick one with an insane name.

Cesky Fouseks are hot, as are Arubian Cunucus; Strellufstovers and Krasky Ovcars are very entre deux mers . Jack Russells are a bit 1995–and they have a scary Charles Manson side to them. I'm on the fence about Xoloitzcuintles and totally confused about Norrbottenspets, so I decided to consult Sweetie, Elle magazine's canine fashion columnist and four-legged fashionista. If she didn't know which breed is the Helmut Lang or Prada of dogs, then who in tarnation would?

I invited Sweetie over for an ostensible play date with Liberace, my real goal being to pump the bitch for critical style information. She arrived accompanied by her channeler and escort, writer Mark Welsh.

"What is the trendiest dog at the moment? How about an Aryan Molossus?" I asked Mr. Welsh innocently enough. Sweetie's top lip retracted and so did his.

"Aryan Molossus! Hairyan nation!" said Mr. Welsh. "Listen, poncy bastards like you with too much disposable income–you're only interested in status dogs and you make me sick. Bulemic bichon frisees, dim-witted dandi dinmonts and wimbly wind-ups–you're trying to make the dog world as sick and pathetic as the fashion world. Sweetie's a mutt and proud of it."

I tried to diffuse Sweetie's Cujo-esque rage with a liver treat. Sweetie responded by growling, while Mr. Welsh told me that the North Shore Animal League (for which Sweetie is the spokeswoman) currently has in its custody "plenty of small nelly dogs suitable for apartment owners. There's adorable little Spice, and Biscuit, he's a cutie. Oh, and Butterscotch, and Frosty and.… October is National Adopt-a-Shelter-Dog month. Call 516-883-7900 and ask for extension 254. And one more thing", said Mr. Welsh, poised to make his strongest argument yet: "Gisele Bundchen is a mutt–German, Latin and quelque chose d'autre . I rest my case."

Meanwhile, the feisty fashionista Sweetie concluded her visit by shoving Liberace off his Versace pillow. Then, in a Myra Breckinridge-esque role reversal, she grabbed his pure-bred torso between her front paws, humped his head briefly and was gone.

You are cultivating a more polished look for fall, and you're loving your new edgy lady-like chic–but wait … what's that horrible smell? It's you! You persist in wearing that tired old hippie fragrance. You can't go around smelling like Janis Joplin's armpits.

Run immediately to your Yves Saint Laurent counter and purchase Rive Gauche. "The Rive Gauche woman never ceases to attract, surprise and fascinate her admirers," or so claims the audacious press material. But this tough fragrance is far more than catnip–it's the accessory du jour.

This 29-year-old fragrance was created at the height of the YSL revolution, when Yves was designing safari suits with grommeted belts and buccaneer lacing and selling them in boutiques that were a symphony of brutalist chrome. If you remember this incredible moment, then relive it. If you don't, then embrace it for the premier fois .

The blue, silver and black packaging is still the hippest thing going–and even if you don't like the smell, the metal eau-de-toilette vaporisateur (3.3 oz., $53) makes an extremely groovy bathroom accessory.

You're allergic to your own apartment–it's like an interior-decorating version of lupus. But you're too pathetic to redecorate. Buy a fantastic new light fixture for the center of the room. A + J 20th Century Designs, at 255 Lafayette Street, has a gorgeous Lotus light for $295–it's 20 inches wide and 12 inches tall. Choose from white, yellow and red and hang it low, low, low.

Speaking of non-procreating, feather-boa-wearing, marginalized freaks: Adela Quebec's The Girls of Radcliff Hall has finally been published (Asphodel Editions, $50.) Written by one Lord Berners, and originally printed for private circulation only in the late 1930's, this waspish roman à clef purports to describe the antics of a snotty girls' public school. The truth is that this book is really a teasing exposé of the most exquisite poseurs of the day: Every rosy-cheeked gal is really one of his lordship's effete male pals, who just happen to have been the most creative people of the time. Cecily is Cecil Beaton, Olive is really Oliver Messel and Daisy is the notorious aristocrat David Herbert (who, incidentally, is reputed to have spent his sunset years on the beach in Tangier wearing nothing but a colostomy bag and a toupée). Bon appétit !