It is unclear whether Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones kept their legs uncrossed ...

“Please return to your seats!”

The typical orders were barked from the front row at Michael Kors on Wednesday, September 12 at 10 a.m. Too much too early. Due to some recent Team Kors PR shifts and rifts, we couldn’t locate the familiar faces that would help The Observer with its conquest. Where were Savannah and Lauren to sneak us past the testosterone-pumped security forces void of interpersonal skills who guarded Michael Douglas, Catherine Zeta-Jones and recent Tony-winner Nina Arianda? Yes, it’s true that I, personally would have accosted Ms. Arianda because she was so fabulous in Venus in Fur, but do Broadway stars really warrant a detail to watch cotton blazers and crepe gowns sashay up and down a walkway for 10 minutes?

“Sir, I’m sorry, but you need to take your seat please!” growled the plus-size security goon, leaving me no choice but to traipse back to section A, pondering how on earth he knew my name was “sir.”

So how, exactly, are editors who don't publish the redundant proclamations on trends for their glossy readership supposed to get those juicy interviews we so rely on for cushy page hits? Or even modest news appeal?

As we waited for the show to commence, the only thing deflecting our disappointment at missed interview ops was an unfortunate Michael Kors visuals production staffer kicking us from behind with his obnoxiously pointy boots.

“Uncross your legs and please push in your bags, ladies and gentlemen in the front row!” screeched the photography pit repeatedly. (I don’t mean to get all political ... maybe it's fine for the ladies, but frankly, forcing 200 men at a fashion show to uncross their legs sounds to me like a gay rights issue!)

Hoot, holler, belt they did, until they deemed the runway bony-leg- and Céline-bag-free enough to their liking.

Knees stayed firmly together as look No. 36 walked down at Michel Kors.

Finally the production began, and thankfully our misery was quelled within the first four looks. Mr. Kors trod the familiar  with American sportswear, this season with vague waves at the sport of golf, and crisp and clean nautical references—all with a wearable ’60s touch. Get your stripes now, people! First Marc Jacobs had people just shy of orgasm with his Edie-meets-’60s contemporary pieces, and Kors too laid the stripes on thick. Especially memorable was a studded navy plunger shift dress, which had edge. The collection had more European commercial appeal, a smart move as the now-colossal brand expands more there and in Asia. One sky print on tops and dresses was created from a picture Michael Kors had taken himself. And for evening? Mr. Kors kept things signature and simple with body-con crepe dresses with geo cutouts. As Karlie Kloss prowled down the catwalk, our seatmate whispered, “Crepe never looked sexier!”

It was true. And the punchy color palette was a stylist’s dream. There were pocketing and stitching details that added value and youth … perhaps a bit too much, said a few. The Observer overheard Jamee Gregory commenting to another UES Queen that she actually liked the youthfulness of the collection, “It was very nice, actually,” she said before debating a swim upstream to kiss-kiss Mr. Kors backstage; as this editor watched her go, he crossed my legs.

Illo: Peter Arkle

The first thing we noticed about the den of Angels was the smell.

Hours before the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, the creaky freight elevator in the Lexington Avenue Armory rattled up to the fifth floor. As the doors opened, a sharp tang of beauty-product acid smacked up against us, a collision of perfumes cut with a sweet whiff of lotions, the clouds of hairspray gushing from big bottles and wafting throughout the space. Past two aisles of models in pink gowns, beyond the couch where the most beautiful women in the world sat tonging mounds of salad with silver implements, was Karlie Kloss, a St. Louis native who, at 19 years of age, may be the most important model in the world.

“You don’t need any glitter, Nate?” Ms. Kloss asked The Observer, offering a hand with a big gloop of the shiny stuff. “It’s not the look you’re going for today? You don’t want to be an Angel?”

“Well, of course, if you need someone else for the show …”

“Put on some wings—I have an extra pair!” she said giggling. “In case someone drops out last-minute.”

The makeup artist was dabbing the girl’s eyelids with a soft purple, and when she was done Ms. Kloss batted them at her, and then at us, practicing. Though not the only model making her debut in wings—she was among a freshman class of 12 girls, the largest ever—Ms. Kloss had become the de facto face of the newcomers due to her startlingly young age and, well, her face. For some, this is a problem. Over the years, this unapologetic spectacle of skin has gone unmolested by the torchbearers of family values (it airs on CBS on Nov. 29), but it has rankled some to hear that such a young lass would be strutting the runway in the skimpiest of lingerie.

As her sisters in this elite sorority massed at the other end of the room—their hair curled, straightened and extended, their tan skin shimmering and immaculate—Kanye West made his entrance, at which point each Victoria’s Secret Angel walked over to pay her respects, supplicants to a priest. The cameramen clamored to get their shots.

“I think he’s the center of attention,” noted VS Angel Chanel Iman, who was once linked to the rapper romantically.

We stood around chatting with Miranda Kerr, an Australian model, about the $2.5 million bra she would wear that night. Lily Donaldson, a British model, told us of her passion for cooking Thanksgiving dinner for her fellow expats in New York.

But it was Ms. Kloss who put things in perspective. “Oh, my god,” she said, looking around at the other models. “I grew up in St. Louis—I’m an American girl, so you grow up and you idolize the Victoria’s Secret Angels. They set the standard of beauty in the eyes of teenage girls. I feel like I’m living the dream.”

On our way out, we ran into a serviceman in uniform. After spending three hours with women in their underwear, it can be easy to forget that this huge, antiquated edifice is, for the rest of the year, an armory.

“I work here, and I usually take today off,” he said. “But, hey, it could be worse.”

“In 2007, I was supposed to perform at this show,” Kanye West said later as he prepared to go on. “But I lost my superhero, and now she’s my superangel.”

Mr. West’s remembrance of his mother, who died a few days before his scheduled appearance, was a somber moment. The night’s only somber moment. What followed was an hour of street dancing, trapeze stunts, ballet routines, and clothes and the lack of clothes. There are no metaphors at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. A rose is not a rose—a rose is a two-story bed of petals each the size of a Volkswagen Jetta. The runway etiquette of Milan and Paris seems quaint when you see the models breaking whatever shallow fourth wall once existed to whoop and wave as their fellow Angels pass.

Desperate to top itself even as it unfolds, the show’s final act featured human cartoon character Nicki Minaj performing in the middle of a knot of graffiti-covered b-boy dancers. Rainbow confetti blanketed the air. Koonsian balloon dogs washed in glitter descended from the ceiling. The procession of models continued—they wore pink pajamas, slathered chrome, little orbs that looked like Dippin’ Dots, neon wings, futuristic heel-boots: a slumber party staged in a Blade Runner dystopia.

And closing the show was Karlie Kloss, who attained her own personal American Dream by walking down the runway in a dress that resembled a disco ball.

It would not be her last outfit of the night. In the back right corner of the Gallery at Dream, Ms. Kerr stood with husband Orlando Bloom (who declined to comment, offering The Observer no more than a bro hug), Maroon 5’s Adam Levine (with Angel girlfriend Anne V) and Leonardo DiCaprio, who was puffing on an electronic cigarette.

Then, suddenly, there was Ms. Kloss. She had opted for a backless black dress and massive heels. She had to lean down to peck us on the cheek.

“Was it everything you imagined and more?” we asked.

Ms. Kloss smiled.

“It was fantastic,” she said. The eyes of the world’s biggest movie stars—Mr. DiCaprio, Jake Gyllenhaal, even the married Mr. Bloom—homed in on the teenager. She didn’t return their glances.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” she said.

nfreeman@observer.com

There have been approximately a billion lip-dubs and parody videos for Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind" since the track dropped in 2009, but leave it to Jay himself to make the best use of his own song. Jay-Z's website Life + Times kicked off Fashion Week by getting some of the world's most famous models to lip-dub the song in various outdoor New York locations.

We're not sure exactly what this video is promoting (Fashion Week? Life + Times? New York? Pretty woman?) but that's what it makes it perfect: if it's selling us something, we can't tell what it is.

After a couple of views we started to recognize some of the more famous runway figures (Jourdan Dunn, Karlie Kloss, R'el Dade), and made a directory for the ladies and some of their recent campaigns; the caliber of the cast's sheer ubiquity is impressive. We can't promise you any of these women's phone numbers, but at least you'll know what they've worked on. Happy hunting...and we mean that in the least creepy way possible.

Note: Missing from the slides are models Paris, Kaitlin, Kelsey Rogers, Lina, & Tian.