Ryan Lochte, Anna Wintour and Dwayne Wade at Calvin Klein Collection's FNO bash.

The Observer positively loathes the yearly shopping-and-style populist event known as Fashion’s Night Out. While we certainly understand this social philanthropic “fashion for everyone” affair championed by Anna Wintour and friends, it absolutely obliterates the little decency that remains in luxury shopping in this city. Yes, we all find the attitudes inside the gilded foyer of Hermès to be a bit frigid, but isn’t it completely understandable that if someone was overseeing the aggressive push of $15,000 ostrich-skin merchandise to a marvelously affluent and demanding clientele day after day that they would develop an extreme snob complex? Besides which, unwelcoming as shops such as Hermès may be, the atmosphere does establish some sense of order and brand image, and people can actually browse and shop in peace.

Order means nothing during the evening of Fashion’s Night Out. Peace? Fuggetaboutit! Instead, posh shopping establishments become laden with breathing and mobile fashion atrocities. These individuals bring an uncouth, boisterous je ne sais quoi to boutiques such as Rebecca Taylor, Brunello Cucinelli, Oscar de la Renta, Alexis Bittar and Rag & Bone. They purchase nothing, spill their drinks frequently, scream, hiss, push and even fight. But occasionally order presides, publicists greet attendees and pleasantries and frivolities are exchanged. Donna Karan’s Stephan Weiss book launch party at her boutique on Madison Avenue was one such example.

Nina Arianda and Debra Messing, and designer Michael Kors judge the competition.

The Observer was holed up in the office late, despite fabulous offers of champagne at Carolina Herrera and meet-and-greets with Olympian Alex Morgan at watchmaker Girard-Perregaux uptown. By the time we did escape for fresh air the chaos had commenced. We traipsed delicately to a few events that still lingered. Most memorable was a raucous karaoke competition at Michael Kors where Nina Arianda, Debra Messing and Kate Upton made an appearance. The Observer could only take the sweltering heat and packed crowds so much. Across the way, Calvin Klein Collection hosted a special in-store event with Vogue’s Ms. Wintour, who patiently signed September issues, and Miami Heat NBA Star Dwyane Wade, who stood proudly by his new book, A Father First: How My Life Became Bigger Than Basketball. Newly-crowned fashion week front-row whore/Olympic gold medalist swimmer, Ryan Lochte, also made a splash at the fling. Editors and the "in crowd" mingled with Bryan Adams, Amir Khan, models Liu Wen, Hanne Gaby, Karen Elson and Mathias Lauridsen, and DJ Mia Moretti.

Downtown we trekked next. Soho was out of the question—too crowded, too unruly, t0o cramped. A quick glance at our invites and we elected for Diane von Furstenberg’s Meatpacking shindig with Mayor Michael Bloomberg. Upon arrival The Observer regretted ever having set foot outside of the office. Masses teemed the glassy entrance of DvF’s fortress. It had all gone too smooth and we deserved it. Fashion’s Night Out had reared its ugly head. Travesties shoved. With not a publicist in sight to assist with swift entry, we rolled up our sleeves, promptly cut the line and frantically waved a business card at a bouncer. Ushered inside, we wanted to know what all the fuss was about?

In the end, it was better to sip and dance at Richard Chai’s afterparty at Catch with an intimate set of revelers. Once the bar ran dry, we bailed. We traveled through the hordes creeping and stumbling sloppily on the Meatpacking cobblestones to the New Museum where Supra unveiled its Royal shoe collection. More Ryan Lochte and vodka—wowee!

Au revoir until next year, Fashion’s Night in Hell.

Anna Wintour, Diane von Furstenberg, Oscar de la Renta and Sarah Jessica Parker

Quelle chance that the venerable philanthropist and socialite Jean Shafiroff invited The Observer to wine and dine at her table at the David H. Koch Theater for Fashion Institute of Technology’s 2012 Couture Council of The Museum luncheon.  Despite the hefty $1,000-a-head price tag, around 600 guests, including Sarah Jessica Parker, Barbara Walters, Anna Wintour, Simon Doonan, Fe Fendi, Diane von Furstenberg, editrix and realty star Nina Garcia, Carolina Herrera, Mario Buatta, Yaz Hernandez, Martha Stewart, Dennis Basso, Ruben and Isabel Toledo, YUE editor Chiu-Ti Jansen and Mayor Michael Bloomberg, paraded uptown for the ruckus.  FIT’s clout was undeniable with so many powerful New Yorkers packed into the gold-leaf foyer. Truth be told, 2012 Couture Council Artistry of Fashion honoree Oscar de la Renta certainly deserved credit for the monumental turn-out.

The festivities took place early at 11.30a.m., with the sylphlike, the supremely coiffed, and the magnificently nipped-and-tucked sloshing back glasses of rosé and chardonnay. It was a bit too early for The Observer, but we took in the self-appreciating, Fashion Week crowd with great enjoyment. Kisses and posing were promptly cut short, as the Couture Council committee and organizers ushered the aristocrats and fashion frenzy to their tables.

Then a few speeches that went largely ignored and lunch was served.

“I don't know where this was swimming early,” grumbled one guest, poking at some nondescript white fish. “The Hudson river!” he suggested, answering his own query, “It's a boring plate.”

Since no one exactly gobbled down the cuisine—it’s not de rigueur in these circles—the program seemed to move along swiftly.

Mayor Bloomberg, who presented Mr. de la Renta with the 2012 Artistry of Fashion Award, started with a series of well placed jokes about his fashion status to warm up the crowd, before acknowledging the legendary Mr. de la Renta.

“Oscar is more than a fashion visionary... You can't swing a stiletto without hitting one... I'm his biggest fan,” the mayor said. “His clothes have been to more award shows than Meryl Streep.”

After a standing ovation, the CFDA Lifetime Achievement Award winner took the stage to accept his award from the mayor.

“I live in the best city, in the best country,” began Mr. de la Renta.

“I'm so proud to be here today with so many of my friends who have been important to my career. I love what I do.”

The 80-year-old designer who left his native Dominican Republic to study in Spain, has held leading roles at Balenciaga, Lanvin, Balmain and Estée Lauder, before beginning his eponymous label to critical and financial success. Today, his designs are coveted by editors, starlets and the mega-rich alike.

“Fashion is not really about what I did but what I'm doing now," Mr. de la Renta concluded, “I've been at it 50 years and I'm still leaning.”

Century Golf Club, 233 Anderson Hill Road (Purchase), 11am; tickets and information can be found at dystonia-parkinson.org.

“New York Observer? Right this way!” yelled a publicist with a headset, who promptly guided us through a back entrance to the red carpet of last night’s “Party in the Garden” benefit gala at the Museum of Modern Art. The annual spectacle honors MoMA trustees and other artsy do-gooders. We’re not a huge fan of red carpet step and repeats, they bore us and it makes being mischievous all the more difficult. But we cooperated and grabbed a few words with notables with greater ease as their wranglers forced them in front of the photography pit, making friends with other reporters while we asked the likes of Santigold (in a Marni confection with Cartier bijoux) and Rachel Roy pesky questions.

“My brother is the film curator, I’m his date,” said Ms. Roy. “Whenever he has a major event here I’m his date. I love being in the outdoors.”

Not that the “garden party” was all that green, but let’s allow the fine folks to pretend for a night.

We asked Santigold about her after-party gig.

“We’ll see if we can get anyone up on stage,” she said skeptically eyeing the all too prim and proper crowd.

“Any headaches today getting ready, or was it all easy-breezy?” The Observer inquired.

“It wasn’t bad. I was just running late per usual. I almost missed this!” she laughed.

Kim Catrall and visual artist Clifford Ross posed eagerly for the flashing lights, as did Solange Knowles, whose star seems to be shining a bit too bright for her own good. But we’ll give her a break—she killed it in a Flaminia Saccucci number paired with Cartier jewels and she is one hell of a DJ. Not that we even got to hear her work her magic, but more about that later. Chuck Close in his tricked out wheels looked delighted beside Cindy Sherman. Philanthropic art empress Agnes Gund cut her red carpet appearance short when her gown and heel got caught in the stone walkway, sending her flailing into the arms of Jerry Speyer. We finally had enough and grabbed our arm candy for a round of drinks.

“The bar is closed sir, would you please proceed to the gala dinner inside the Museum?” a server sternly implored.

Fine! We marched over the pool bridge toward the courtyard entrance of MoMA. We spotted Martha Stewart in Lanvin for the second time that evening. (She had just scurried down from Ricky Lauren’s book launch at the Ralph Lauren Madison Avenue flagship, where Mayor Bloomberg had also been in attendance.) We chatted, brièvement, about our mutual experiences summering in Seal Harbor, before we had to move on. We saluted our dear friends Todd Bishop, MoMA's Director of Exhibition Funding, and Molly Epstein, Assistant Director of Barbara Gladstone Gallery, and her curator pal from MoMA PS1 before prancing over to the banquet entrance.

“I’m sorry—we can’t seat press at the dinner tonight,” barked MoMA publicist Paul Jackson.

Bon Qui Qui said it best: “Rude!”

With the outdoor bars on pause and the sweltering humidity leaving us uncomfortable in our couture, The Observer called it quits. We skipped the bitchin’ after-party—Santigold concert and all—but our GalleristNY colleagues were there.

Last night, an audience with a combined fifty million Twitter followers filed into the Hammerstein Ballroom to watch the 16th Annual Webby Awards. With the amount of time they spent live-tweeting the event, they might as well have stayed home.

"Next year, we should confiscate the phones," sighed Webby judge and winner Peter Bray, whom The New York Observer was seated next to.

"Also, it's really hard to clap with drinks in your hand."

The Australian developer had a point: the applause for host Patton Oswalt and the traditional five-word speeches from the winners seemed a little...lackluster. Two of the biggest reactions from the crowd were for Mayor Michael Bloomberg (who won a Lifetime Achievement Award) and an unannounced appearance by Jeremy Lin. Who knew that Internet geeks loved Mayor Bloomberg so much?

The evening's biggest rumor was whether or not Richard Dreyfuss was half in his cups when he preempted his Steve Jobs' tribute to rail against Facebook and Google:
(Clip starts at 1:20)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YgM_Hn-r_TE

Click through the slideshow to see more of our favorites and their five-word speeches from last night.

Good Days by Unruly Heir

There are a few things you don’t expect to see on the cover of a novel. Socialite Tinsley Mortimer’s name is probably one of them. And yet next month, Mortimer, the “It” girl-turned-handbag designer-turned-reality star, will publish her first novel, Southern Charm, about a “Southern Belle thrust into the frenzied world of high society in New York City.” In other words, it’s a roman à clef, and not a very veiled one at that. The book’s plot couldn’t any more closely mirror Mortimer’s real life (or that which she is somewhat public about) without having to be marketed as a memoir.

Mortimer, who co-wrote Southern Charm with “a friend,” didn’t feel the need to get overly creative with the book’s characters. The heroine is named Minty Randolph Mercer Davenport. Mortimer’s real name? Tinsley Randolph Mercer Mortimer. Minty has a Chihuahua named Belly. Mortimer’s Chihuahua is named Bella. Minty hails from South Carolina. Mortimer was raised in Virginia. Both Davenport and Mortimer move to Manhattan, marry into old-school, blue blood New York families, become boldfaced “It” girls and then end up in highly publicized break-ups.

Mortimer’s literary agent, Mollie Glick of Foundry Literary + Media told The New York Times that her client received a “healthy six figures” advance “in the ballpark of what TV personalities have been getting.” Not too shabby for the star of High Society, Mortimer’s failed 2010 reality TV show, which has the dubious distinction of being the lowest rated series debut on the CW, the network which also broadcasts Gossip Girl.

But will Southern Charm bring Mortimer fame and front row seats at Fashion Week (which some insiders say she lost due to the dismal response to High Society) or the scorn of the social world? Let’s not forget that celebrated author Truman Capote went from hosting the Black and White Ball in 1966 at The Plaza Hotel (a raving success) to being blacklisted by society swans like Babe Paley after excerpts of his unfinished novel Answered Prayers appeared in Esquire in 1975. After Capote’s chapter “La Côte Basque 1965” was published and was unmistakably similar to the lives of his good friends CBS founder William S. Paley and his wife Babe, Mrs. Paley led a brigade to ostracize Capote who went from being the confidant of the ladies who lunched at La Côte Basque to someone very few people in Manhattan wanted to meet for a hot dog on a street corner. Yet, Candace Bushnell’s Sex and the City, based on people she knows in Manhattan, has turned her into a literary star.

“Books are the new handbag lines for socialites and celebrities,” quips Alexandra Lebenthal, a financial advisor, black tie party fixture and the author of The Recessionistas, a roman à clef about four women struggling with the economic downturn. “It’s a good thing to have on your résumé.”
Take, for example, horse-loving Georgina Bloomberg, the daughter of New York Mayor/mogul Michael Bloomberg, who just released the second book in her series about a young equestrian with a Wall Street billionaire father. Hmm. Then there’s the former Mrs. Billy Joel, Katie Lee, whose novel Groundswell features a young woman who falls in love with a surf instructor after a difficult divorce. (Publicists for both Bloomberg and Lee say their clients’ books are works of fiction, but readers may jump to a different conclusion.)

The list hardly ends there. Reality stars Lauren Conrad, Nicole Richie and even Nicole “Snookie” Polizzi have published novels inspired to varying degrees by their lives. And much like the shows that have made these women household names, their books tap into society’s seemingly endless appetite for the pseudo-real. You get an idea of what the truth is, but it’s heavily glamorized and then crammed into stock “storylines.” Readers don’t seem to mind. Lauren Conrad’s L.A. Candy, a bildungsroman set against the blinding lights of reality TV fame, spent a combined 59 weeks on The New York Times bestseller list. Says Farrin Jacobs, Conrad’s editor at HarperCollins, “People like to see behind the scenes and feel like they're getting the real story.”

There’s nothing new about that. According to Sean Latham, the author of The Art of Scandal: Modernism, Libel Law, and the Roman à Clef, fictionalized tell-alls became popular in the seventeenth century and often focused on intrigues at court or within the Catholic Church. These romans (that’s French for novel) were often sold with a clef (or key), a separate document that exposed the real-life identities of certain characters. The keys were often published anonymously, and for good reason, as exposing a king or pope’s immoral behavior was considered a criminal offense. “You could be executed,” says Latham, the Walter professor of English at Tulsa University and editor of the James Joyce Quarterly.

If some were killed for it, others were celebrated. In her critically acclaimed biography, Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, Amanda Foreman noted that Georgiana, a fashionably flamboyant British aristocrat, wrote about her life in a roman à clef called The Sylph (a bestseller for its time). “She felt trapped by her marriage, and couldn’t believe what was happening to her,” says Foreman, adding that although the tome was published anonymously in 1778, many in Georgiana’s circle knew she wrote it.

Flash forward a couple hundred years to the rise of chick-lit and books like Bushnell’s Sex and the City (based on her dating column for The New York Observer), The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger (about her stint as one of Anna Wintour’s beleaguered assistants), The Nanny Diaries by Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus (two former Upper East Side nannies) and Bergdorf Blondes by Plum Sykes (chronicling the author’s glamorous friends). These literary confections reinvigorated readers’ desire to glimpse into the rarefied worlds of haute fashion and high society. It wasn’t long before readers of Bushnell’s column figured out that the notorious “Mr. Big” boyfriend was actually based on Ron Galotti, the then-publisher of Vogue. A spate of other tomes, all written by Manhattan insiders, followed in their best-selling wake: Karen Quinn’s The Ivy Chronicles (about coaching preschoolers for private school entrance exams); Bridie Clarke’s Because She Can, which was rumored to be about Clarke’s former boss, Judith Regan; and Anisha Lakhani’s Schooled (about a fashion-obsessed teacher/tutor on the Upper East Side).

There’s no doubt these books are fun to read and try to decipher who’s who in real life. But are they art? “The novel tries to set itself up as everything the roman à clef is not,” says Latham. A novel, unlike a tell-all, is entirely invented or imagined by an author; whereas a roman à clef acts almost like a “parasite,” cribbing from the real world. “It suggests that the author isn’t all that talented,” says Latham. “They have to steal and sort of cover up and make their book look like a novel.”
That’s one point of view.
But others argue that most writers, even highly respected, prize-winning novelists, pull from their lives in some way. “Storytellers from Jane Austen to Jay McInerney base their work on real life,” says Sykes. “For the reader that is half the fun of it, to me it doesn't diminish a work of fiction or make it derivative in a negative way. In fact in a social comedy, if the book is to have any value and make any comment on society, it must seem as real as possible.”

But will Mortimer’s Southern Charm be a little too real for social circles? Capote ended up a friendless, drugged up drunk when Answered Prayers turned him from the darling of café society to a social pariah. After Capote died of liver cancer at age 59, author Gore Vidal commented that his death was “a good career move.”

Public scorn is one thing Lebenthal doesn’t worry about, despite the fact that she based two villains in The Recessionistas on people she knows. “The bad people in the story would have no trouble knowing who they are,” she says. “The power of the pen is the ultimate ability for revenge.”

If some write to get even, others for a fast buck and still others for fame, is it worth it in the end? The answer may depend on what you value most in life—friends or riches? Social clout or tabloid notoriety? Those aspiring to red-carpet royalty might be wise to try other avenues. “I think if anyone wrote a novel to attain celebrity, they would be nuts!” says Sykes. “Most novels languish in deep obscurity.”

Which brings us back to Mortimer, already a red-carpet regular, and already familiar with what can happen when you choose the pursuit of celebrity over social mores. With Southern Charm, it may be reasonable to assume Mortimer hopes to regain some of the status she lost after being widely ridiculed for High Society.

And as implausible a novel (presumably) written by Tinsley Mortimer may sound; it does make a measure of sense. After all, her life would make for a juicy read and—as I was recently reminded at an Upper East Side cocktail party—she does look every inch the chick-lit heroine. Which gave me an idea…

The crowd parted and there stood Tinsley. She was dressed in a floaty black frock, her hair as blonde and glossy as ever. I set down my drink—I’ve never been one for apple-flavored vodka—and gave her an air kiss. “Tell me about the book,” I said.
     She batted her faux lashes. “It’s not like yours. My character comes from the South.”
“So does mine,” I said.

“Oh.” A tawny hand flicked to a glitter-dusted breastbone. “Oh. I'm sorry.”

   The truth is I had never expected her to read my book. She was a busy girl. Photo ops. Designing handbags. And those eyelashes surely didn’t glue themselves on. "That's okay," I said.

She flashed an embarrassed grin.“I did host your party!”

   I nodded, now wishing I had kept my mouth shut. Tinsley was sweet. And nice. I hadn't wanted to put her on the defensive. “Really, it’s fine.”

“I would have read your book. But I don’t read. Like, ever.” There was a brief pause. A tiny line appeared between her bright blue eyes. “I mean, I did write my book.”     End of chapter.