At 6pm I was standing on the corner of 38th and 5th with my Olympus pen camera and a pile of printed suggestions for Fashion’s Night Out. Compiled from various Internet sources, the list spanned 32 single-spaced pages, but if I was going to participate in Fashion’s Night Out this year, I was determined to do it right. As I circled through the metal doors at Lord & Taylor, a sea of heads emerged before me. I felt an immediate urge to flee the scene. The glow from the ceiling combined with the perfume-assaulted air, and I...I just had to go. Somehow within minutes, my resolution had dissolved and the crowd had multiplied. Lord & Taylor now looked like a clogged artery. I revolved my way back through the doors as a group of Flight Crew Cheerleaders formed a trapezoid right in front of me. I smiled, ducked, and threw myself in a cab. Generally, when you get into a New York City taxi, you tell the driver where you’d like to go. “Uh, hold on,” I told him. I poured through my 32 pages of Fashion’s Night Out: designer musical chairs at Barneys; Yoko Ono at the MoMA store; the Cobrasnake at Helmut Lang; Charlotte Ronson at SAKS with dancing designers; Baryshnikov at Oscar de la Renta. And what’s this? Donna Karan has a pianist? Even Cindy Sherman left home to participate in Fashion’s Night Out. Alexander Wang, Bergdorfs...I closed my eyes and stuck my finger on the page. “Take me to 14th and Washington,” I said.

Happily, I landed at the Diane von Furstenberg headquarters. The store itself was nice, but the real party was next door at the DVF lounge, where cocktails and a serious Hewlett-Packard experience took charge. Michael Mendenhall, Senior Vice President of HP, gave a quick tour. iPad-looking thingies hung from the walls of the lounge so that you could party and shop at the same time. “It’s a completely interactive experience,” said Mr. Mendenhall, who demonstrated how you can pull up a fashion model on the screen, select an item of clothing from their outfit, send it to the web-enabled printer, and buy it next door right here right now at DVF. “HP technology helps shoppers shop without a hassle,” he explained.

Just as I was about to test out a few of these touch-screens, Diane von Furstenberg appeared in her Fashion’s Night Out shirt, black pants, and a beautiful gold bracelet. The crowd, many of whom were dressed in DVF, flocked to and then followed Ms. von Furstenberg around the room.

“I have no idea how you do it,” I whispered to Ms. Furstenberg.

“Me neither,” she replied, as the crowd swallowed her whole.

Next, I traveled down to SoHo, where I saw an immediate shift in aesthetic sensibility. It wasn’t good. People no longer looked sophisticated. Perhaps it was just the smeared lipstick from a long night on the town, I thought, though I later came to realize I wasn’t the only one who noticed the change—a friend called Fashion’s Night Out “Halloween for Grown-ups.” I walked into the Chanel store, bypassing a line of at least five hundred people because I just didn’t feel like getting my nails painted that evening, thank you. I’d rather look at the new collection. One young Chanel employee confessed that this wasn’t the crowd she was used to. “But we’re happy about Fashion’s Night Out,” she said. “We are happy about it, we are.” I left Chanel yearning for my Emily Post book.

I wandered through SoHo and all of its stimuli—seizure-inducing paparazzi flashes, heals, sequins, Fashion’s Night Out shirts, some eco Lexus tote bag that everyone had by nine o’clock, the big black VIP cars, all the people, their people, and their people’s people. Everything was loud, but in a silent sort of way—it had all become white noise. I was pulling my way through the throngs on Broome Street when suddenly, out of nowhere, a scream rose up. And like a Greek chorus, the crowd cried in unison, “Tim Gunn!”

Unable to escape the tangled mob, I stood still, watching poor Mr. Gunn attempt, then fail to enter Kate Spade. “Tim Gunn!” cried the crowd, and two-hundred others appeared in response. I squeezed my way into the store for air or a drink or anything that would give me back the years I’d just lost sympathizing with the Bravo celeb on the street. I was relieved to find happiness in what was taking part chez Kate Spade: a window display contest.

The beginning of the end of the evening started on the side streets around eleven o’clock. Stores began to close, and people traveled over to the main streets in herds, leaving refuse behind. Many went hunting for afterparties. Some went out to dinner. Others flocked towards the subway. A few went home. The absence of crowds haunted Broadway, and the streets of SoHo were left hushed, abandoned, and littered with trash. On Crosby Street, one pile grew so high that a man dove right in.

Up on 14th street, there were less spoils of war. Only a few ignored flyers blew about in the wind. And by 2:00am, it was just another Friday night in the meatpacking district.