Clearly not even Serena van der Woodsen, Michael Kors, Kate Hudson, Diane von Furstenberg, the rollicking cast of “Hair,” and Anna Wintour herself are not enough to get me to Queens. Though I had expressed a determination weeks ago to see this roster of talent when they appeared at the Queens Center Macy’s for Fashion’s Night Out, Vogue’s initiative to get people to go out and buy things, when the evening arrives I am no more anxious to get on the R train than to be shot out of a cannon.

Instead, I construct a Manhattan itinerary — Fifth Avenue first, then the Teen Vogue party on Perry Street (Taylor Momsen’s band!), then a sweep through Opening Ceremony, Kirna Zabete and other exotically named venues in Soho, and finally a pop in at the Bowery Block Party.

Alas, the best laid plans, etc. When I get to Bergdorf’s at 6:45 the crowds are queued up around the corner along 57th Street and everyone is dressed for a night on the town. I think vaguely of crashing to the front of the line and pulling rank, but this is Fashion’s Night Out — this night belongs to the people! All our credit cards are equal!

On the other hand, I have no intention of lining up to get into BG, a place I have visited very recently and have been virtually the only customer. So I stroll down to Prada, where they are serving champagne and there are bowls of apples on the showcases — an homage, maybe, to Eve’s original temptation, Eden’s version of a $5000 handbag. Tempted or not, I only see one shopping bag in the store, and it’s from Zara.

At Juicy Couture, the staff is dressed in ersatz 1920s costumes, like extras for the speakeasy party I recently read on Gawker that Chuck Bass will be hosting next season. There’s a piano and Vogue editor Hamish Bowles is performing Noel Coward songs. He sings “Don’t Put Your Daughter on the Stage, Mrs. Worthington” with remarkable aplomb and offers witty patter about Winston Churchill and Jessie Matthews, though I am not all convinced that the jauntily clad crowd has the first idea of what he is talking about.

Time to go downtown! My friend K. phones to say that she sees on Twitter (I don’t see things on Twitter, maybe I should, but I don’t) that the Teen Vogue party is oversubscribed to such an extent that the surrounding streets are closed and I should come straight to Soho and meet her at Vera Wang’s, where is she hanging with American Idol judge Kara DioGuardi. When I get there I ask DioGuardi what the last thing she bought was, which I think is a good Fashion Week interview question (somebody asked me this at the Dries Van Noten luncheon at Cipriani, which is where I get the idea) and she replies, a pair of black tights from Barneys.

The atmosphere down here resembles Halloween night in Lower Manhattan. The streets are thronged with people determined to have a good time, only this time they are sloshed on the free cocktails the stores are handing out. We can’t even get near Intermix on Prince Street — Sienna Miller and Rihanna are purportedly inside. Instead I interview the street vendor selling T-shirts from a table out front. They’re reversible, he tells me, they glow in the dark, and they cost around $30. “Is business good tonight?” No.

We muscle our way into Opening Ceremony — “Part the sea!” the security guy yells as we climb the short exterior showcase. The hell with democracy! I’m happy to be recognized and get swept inside, even though once I’m in, I am not sure what we are supposed to do except drink a free beer and admire the merchandise.

I’d give a million dollars to be home in my little bed right now, but duty calls! I’m a professional! So we plow our way up to the Bowery Block Party, which turns out to be very cute — there’s a trailer selling Edmundo Castillo stilettos, a huge crowd outside Rogan (I’m not sure why and I’m too tired to find out) and a vast swarm gathered around a taco truck waiting politely for their free snacks despite the quickening rain. Their arms may be uniformly shopping bag-free, but they appear to be having a wonderful time.

PHOTO CREDIT: David X. Prutting, Jackie Snow, and Clint Spaulding/patrickmcmullan.com