"As Sandy was to the Rockaways, so Nemo is to New York Fashion Week," simpered Peter II, dragging wistfully on an unfiltered Virginia Slim 100 in the basement of Mistah Ho’s, a former soba noodle processing plant on Mott Street that has recently been converted into the latest playground for the city’s nightlife elite. "This weather has basically 9/11’ed all hopes of a decent party." Peter II’s complaints were echoed by designer Harry Lim-Foo, partially obscured in the background of the above photo. "Verdict: Shit city," he pronounced. "We’re all just standing around taking photographs of each other. Except for some Vice intern who’s offering hand jobs as part of a performance art project in the corner, this place is basically dead.” Lim-Foo, known for his line of chinchilla fur garter belts, said that NYFW’s social calendar has been disemboweled by the recent blizzard. He had been making the rounds with Peter II and Harry since around 7pm; they began at the runway shows for Tibbi (“tragic, but plucky”) and Prouenza Schouler (“I was like, someone please gouge my eyes out with a fork so I don’t have to play witness to this trainwreck”) before hitting up the first after party of the evening: A celebration of the new Moncler/Kid Robot/Diesel collaboration, held at BLK.LBL.RSTRNT, the downtown bistro co-owned by louche ex-publishing magnate Longly Harsh, currently hiding from his creditors in an undisclosed Ecuadorian village. “The storm kept everyone home,” Harry explained, “so basically they were letting anybody in, even some, like, sneakerfreaker nerds, and a whole pack of Chinese kids from NYU who were celebrating New Year’s really, really late.” The trio made a hasty escape and headed to REASON/NOREASON, the NYFW pop-up club based in the apartment of Cat Marnell. “Awwwkward,” Peter II summarized. “We get there and the place is pretty much empty. Cat’s on the floor rocking back and forth, rhythmically slapping herself in the face; her underwear is stained, Fiona Apple is blaring, and the hired waitstaff is passing out lukewarm boneless chicken wings from Applebee’s.” And so Peter II, Harry, and Lim-Foo have ended up here, in the red-lit basement of Mistah Ho’s, chasing the dream of a Fashion Week night that is proving ever more elusive. “It’s basically the end of an era,” Harry sighs, visibly deflating. But then something happens, a rumor telephoning from one end of the club to the other, causing the air to crackle with electricity: It seems as if Frank Ocean is playing a private set at the ultra-exclusive Rodarte/Opening Ceremony party, co-hosted by the government of Ajerbaijan and the new Timothy Ferris X 5-Hour Energy injectable vitamin serum. “Even in the depths of tragedy,” Peter II says, “there is hope.” And then, like a cabal of magical unicorns disappearing into the mists of history: They’re gone.