Ari Horowitz spent his weekend at the beach. He has a house in Waterville, and on Saturday he rented a boat for a while, called The Queen Bee, and went out with a bunch of pals.
Over on Shelter Island, Mr. Horowitz, who is the new president of Vibe magazine, bared his buff torso to the salty winds. He was clad in red surfer shorts and wraparound shades.
“If you want to meet—you wanna reach—African-American males, it’s really the only platform you can get to,” he said, leading The Transom to think for a quick second that Mr. Horowitz intended to convert the magazine into a dating service.
“We think we can do what Rolling Stone did with Vibe: make it more of a lifestyle brand,” Mr. Horowitz said. “It should be the MySpace of the hip-hop world.”
The publisher had a posse with him, a clutch of friends, all colored by the sun, that included Goldman Sachs manager Buck Ratchford, an investor in the Vibe venture.
One of the gang walked out into the water with his cellphone in his pocket. “I’m such an idiot,” he said.
“It’s great people there, too,” Mr. Horowitz said of Vibe. “We got great people. We’ll see. Really, really good people. That’s what I’m the most psyched about—the people there are really, really solid. They’ve been incredibly receptive to having me and Eric show up. My partner Eric Gerber. ’Cause they want some life. They know we’re gonna—we’re not gonna walk in there with the attitude that we know the space. We don’t. We can’t. But we’re there to support them and create an environment where they can really succeed.”
By the Tuesday following the weekend, 20 Vibe staffers would be laid off.
The party had a dress code, so men wore white, blondes wore pink and brunettes wore light blue. R. J. Williams—a child actor who worked on Magnum, P.I., Punky Brewster, General Hospital and Baywatch—would soon be turning 29.
The party, on Saturday, July 8, began as dinner for 200. It was catered by Katana at Mr. Williams’ uncle’s house north of Sunset, on Loma Vista Drive, a tucked-away, bosky Beverly Hills stroll.
Around 10 p.m., 600 more of Mr. Williams’ less-good friends began to arrive. The tennis court served as a dance floor. The bar pushed the Young Hollywood Margarita—it has zero calories.
By 2 a.m., capacity had been reached. “It was crazy,” said an attendee. “Even huge stars were getting turned away at the door. Tom Brady, Matthew McConaughey and Lance Armstrong were all waiting to get in, when a doorman told them they couldn’t let anymore guys in without girls.” Other attendees confirmed the snubs. N.B.A. stars Kevin Garnett and Shawn Marion were also turned away at the door.
Joe Francis, the businessman of Girls Gone Wild fame, was inside, however. But he wasn’t happy with all the other guests. “He grabbed this girl by the hair and was like, ‘Get the fuck out of here. This is my best friend’s party and I don’t want you here,’” said a witness. “Then her blond friend”—the source did not recall whether she was wearing pink, as per the dress code—“punched him in the eye with her BlackBerry.”
The girl and Mr. Francis had met before. She said some pretty heavy things about him.
The Beverly Hills Police Department already had six patrol cars and several motorcycles outside. Mr. Francis fled to them. Backup arrived: a fire truck, an ambulance and a K-9 unit.
Some footage from the scene outside the party was posted on TMZ.com. In that video, Mr. Francis can be heard repeatedly making the point that the “mitigating factor is my eye” and “we’ll let it be decided in court.”
Mr. Francis then got into his sparkly blue Bentley and drove off into the night. But the damage had been done. The police shut down the party.
“He did not lay a hand on her,” a representative for Mr. Francis said. “Joe would never do something like that.” His representative also provided a witness of his own, by the name of Nicole, who insisted that the “very pretty blond girl” had come “out of nowhere and sucker-punched Joe twice in the face.”
At the AIDS Community Research Initiative of America (ACRIA) Dance at Sunset, held at the restaurant of Sunset Beach on Shelter Island on Saturday, the attendees included Vanity Fair’s Bob Colacello; artists Ross Bleckner and Eric Freeman, along with dealer Mary Boone; Kim Cattrall; banker Euan Rellie, with wife Lucy and tyke Heathcliff, architect Campion Platt; and a bronzed André Balazs, Sunset Beach’s owner.
“I was just in France,” Mr. Balazs said. “I was just visiting my father, who lives in Saint Tropez.” He is, as everyone knows, of Hungarian descent. Also in attendance that day was a lesser-publicized, if amply exposed, female product of Budapest: a dark-haired former model by the no-surname moniker of Anna Blanca.
“Oh, that dramatic black dress?” Mr. Balazs said with a rise. “No, I don’t know her. I saw her, but I don’t know her.”
Earlier, Debbie Harry had performed, setting off a minor pedestrian traffic jam along narrow Shore Road.
“They’re a bit desperate for entertainment out here,” Ms. Harry said as she prepared to be driven off in a black stretch limo. “Just kidding.”
Cygalle Dias spent the weekend zipping around Southampton in something called a “smart car,” imported from Europe. The vehicle is about the height and length of an average two-seater American car’s door. It’s meant to save gas, but it also gives the rider a vague sense of being on the Continent. So says Ms. Dias, who used the boutique car (chauffeur-driven, of course) to get her to Saturday evening’s Parrish Art Museum benefit, and later the Cain nightclub, where hopefuls waiting in front of the velvet ropes whooped their approval at the sight of the diminutive vehicle.
“I just want to take care of people,” said Ms. Dias, whose first of several “healing spas”—so many new terms to assimilate—was held on Sunday at Cain House, the freshly launched Hamptons playhouse affiliated with the nightclub of the same name.
“Is that weird?”
Rosario Dawson was the hostess of the event. Deep-tissue massages were performed on party-weary weekenders before their late-afternoon drive back to Manhattan. Ms. Dawson was accompanied by her mother, Isabelle, with whom she’d partied until nearly 2 a.m. the night before at Cain—the club, not the house—and her uncle Gus Vasquez, a comic-book artist. Ms. Dawson herself is the model for a crime-fighting heroine in a new comic book named O.C.T.: Occult Crimes Taskforce.
“If you had a superpower, what would it be?” she said. “Could you fly, could you space-travel, could you talk to animals, could you have healing touch, could you read people’s minds, could you be invisible?
“My boyfriend for sure would want to fly,” she said. Ms. Dawson lives with the actor Jason Lewis, who played Smith Jerrod on Sex and the City. Mention of him turned her mind from sci-fi.
“I love it when I meet some chick who comes up and she says, ‘I love your boyfriend!’ I’m like, ‘Thanks—me, too! Back off!”