Julie Macklowe. (Patrick McMullan)

“Pretty much every gay man in fashion is here,” a guest remarked at the AIDS Community Research Initiative of America’s “Cocktails at Sunset” benefit on Saturday evening.

And so it seemed. The air was heavily perfumed, and well-fitting white jeans abounded in the backyard of Ross Bleckner’s Sagaponack residence. Despite some wild weather earlier in the week—a smothering heat wave followed by a severe summer storm—the sky had cleared and the beach breeze was cool.

Photographer Stewart Shining expressed his relief at this, telling The Observer that, as the vice president of ACRIA, he’d been running around all day getting things ready and having nightmares about the rain. And with good reason—Kelly Klein told us that she’d attended the annual kickoff at the Bridgehampton Polo Club earlier that day, only for it to be canceled because of Friday’s harsh weather. “But everybody still showed up, so it was a bunch of people with nowhere to go,” she explained, a little exasperated.

But the grass was dry as Jeffrey Bilhuber, Tomas Maier and David Kleinberg milled around the tented lawn, sipping champagne and taking in the silent auction featuring Robert Mapplethorpe’s Fang (1987) and a Robert Longo portrait of Cindy Sherman, which sold for $9,000 and $11,000, respectively.

Mr. Shining assured us he was starting to relax, but his party-organizing duties were not yet over. “People keep texting last-minute, you know, ‘Where’s the party?’” he laughed.

Not long after Mr. Shining’s arrival, Mr. Bleckner strode out his back door and down the lawn, accompanied by his dogs. “My evening’s just beginning,” he told us. “I will say that my dogs seem to be having a good time, though,” he said, gesturing to his three dachshunds.

Stefano Tonchi, the editor of W, was lamenting the summer crowds (“even in my spinning class,” he moaned), when something behind us caught his eye. “Oh my god, you are bright!” he exclaimed. “Wow ... wow!”

A neon-clad Peggy Siegal had just appeared on Mr. Bleckner’s doorstep, where she posed proudly for photographers. “I’m wearing Nanette Lepore,” she informed a throng of admirers, gesturing to her vibrant papaya-colored skirt and revealing a leg through an Angelina Jolie-inspired slit.

“Did you know that neon doesn’t photograph?” Mr. Shining asked his companions. “I keep doing covers for Seventeen magazine—they love neon—and I shoot it, and then it comes up on the monitor and I go, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make it painted,’” he laughed bemusedly.

Jill Stuart arrived with her daughter, Chloe Curtis. Patrick McMullan rushed up to her. “You’re here with your babies!” he exclaimed. “I’ll make you look beautiful.”

Ms. Stewart told us that her daughter, who recently graduated from Cornell, would be moving to London in a few weeks to study at Sotheby’s in the fall and, in the meantime, catch the Olympics. “Chloe and Sophie,” Ms. Stewart said, referring to the youngest of her three daughters. “They’re going to go to the finals of gymnastics,” she added, which she told us was one of her own favorite sports to watch.

We ran into Julie Macklowe, who eagerly gave us a sample of vbeauté—her recently launched specialty skin care line—anti-wrinkle serum. “It’s the best thing you could ever use,” Ms. Maclowe’s companion, Oliva Oluck, informed us enthusiastically. “You will be impressed.”

Yet Ms. Macklowe revealed that vbeauté might not be the entire secret to her own youthful complexion. “This morning I ran eight miles barefoot!” she reported excitedly, referring to her jogging footwear of choice as “condom shoes.”

“I feel like I have some aches and pains going on,” Ms. Macklowe admitted.

“Last night we went to Papa John’s Café for dinner, and I introduced my daughter, much to the chagrin of my husband, to deep-fried mozzarella sticks!” she elaborated.  “Of course, I proceeded to eat half of them. Needless to say, that’s how the eight miles came about.”

Ms. Macklowe was not the only one taking advantage of the weekend to catch up on exercise. The belle of the evening, the young art director Sofia Sanchez Barrenechea, told us she’d been paddleboarding all morning, demonstrating the required motion with her arms. We asked about her plans for the rest of the weekend. “More paddleboarding,” she told us definitively. “And I’ll probably be doing a lot of eating,” she added, unprompted.

We wandered over to speak with Shelly and Vincent Fremont, who came with their daughter, Casey Fremont Crowe, and spent much of the evening conversing with Bob Colacello. “I have a new grandson who’s five months old, so that’s all I really care about,” Ms. Fremont told us. “We took him to the beach today, which was really fun. He just loved it! It was great.”

Bruce Weber told us he’d been busy working most of the weekend, but he’d be taking time later in the summer to head up to the Adirondacks. “So I’ll be swimming in a lake,” he said, explaining why it was preferable to the beach. “I swim, but I swim now with six dogs,” he explained with a crinkly grin. “They try to keep up and I have to carry them.”

Francisco Costa, the Women’s Creative Director of Calvin Klein, had just returned from a trip to Santa Barbara and was eager to tell us about a new hobby he’d discovered. “For the first time, I did—what do you call it, arch?” He mimed shooting a bow and arrow. “And I hit the bull’s-eye every time!” he exclaimed. “It was so beautiful.”

Mr. Costa told us he’d been spending time barbecuing at his house in Bellport but explained this was his last weekend of the summer. “Summer’s over!” he exclaimed. “This is it for me. I’ll be at home all week and then all the way until the end of August I’ll be in the office, working every single weekend,” he explained, alluding to fall’s looming fashion weeks.

We asked how he’d been dealing with the hot weather. “I love it,” he told us earnestly. “I’m Brazilian, so I keep telling people to just enjoy it.”

eschwiegershausen@observer.com

Waiters with trays of pungent cocktails worked their way through the packed space, offering the stiff drinks to the gasping guests. The room was filled with artwork, all set to be auctioned off throughout the evening to benefit the New York Academy of Art.
A colorful array of supporters was filling the room. Supporters of the Academy both young and old turned out for the auction, etching their names on bidding sheets around the room. Arden Wohl, Diana Taylor, Andre Balazs, Joanne Herring, Fabiola Beracasa, Cynthia Rowley, Glenda Bailey and Heather Mnuchin all walked around the space with the friendly formality that philanthropic endeavors tend to inspire.

Soon a barrage of flashbulbs announced the arrival of celebrity chef and Salman Rushdie ex Padma Lakshmi, who appeared appropriately statuesque in a short black dress, her hair pulled back to reveal a plunging neckline. Not long after, diminutive starlet Mary Kate Olsen entered the room. Wearing a long, shapeless, silk number and letting her long, blond, tresses flow uninhibited, the tiny tycoon was Ms. Lakshmi’s perfect foil.

Eileen Guggenheim, one of the founders of the New York Academy of Art, played hostess throughout the evening. Elegant in a Lanvin dress with Grecian draping, Ms. Guggenheim tirelessly circulated the room, greeting the auction house’s guests warmly and chatting with friends. The Observer asked Ms. Guggenheim what excited her most about the event. “To see people carrying works of art home. That’s the best,” she said with a smile. Ms. Guggenheim explained that she also participates in the auction, albeit clandestinely. “I do it mysteriously because I don’t bid using my name. I have my husband bid,” she divulged.

The silent auction bidding was staggered, with different sections of the room closing before others. Just before 7:30, a disembodied voice announced that bidding on the first section was nearly complete. People rushed to place their bids, pushing past performers on stilts wearing nude body suits and holding signs.

The Observer noticed designer Nicole Miller walking alone through one of the galleries, serenely appraising the artwork. We asked if Miller would be taking home a nude of her own. “I’ve taken home a whole lot of them over the years,” she admitted with a laugh. Ms. Miller, wearing a fitted black dress from her own line, noted that her own background made her particularly keen to support the Academy of Art. “I went to art school. So of course I’m very attached [to the cause]. I did many years of nude drawing myself,” she explained, pausing momentarily. “They called it life drawing, actually,” she said. Ms. Miller explained that it is important to foster arts education for young people. “Anything that broadens your horizons is really important,” she said. “And also expanding people’s worlds when they don’t have that access,” Ms. Miller concluded.

As the silent auction galleries began to close, guests competitively scribbled their bids, standing guard over their favorite pieces and ready to one-up friends and fellow revelers for their preferred pieces. “Take home a nude, dude!” the jaunty voice advised the crowd. “If you like it, buy it!”

Vanity Fair special correspondent and Andy Warhol biographer Bob Colacello was sharing a laugh with fellow guests after the auction when The Observer asked if he had acquired any pieces. “I have too many nudes … at home,” he said chortling. Having learned about the school from Warhol, another of its founders, Mr. Colacello recently became more involved, believing figurative arts must be preserved. “There obviously is a desire on the part of artists and collectors and the public to see the human figure portrayed in new ways,” he said. “And in a way I think that’s a lot harder and more challenging than piling up a bunch of junk in the corner and calling it an installation,” Mr. Colacello added haughtily. Asked what Warhol, his friend and colleague, would have said were he in attendance, Mr. Colacello laughed. “‘Oh, gee, oh, wow, I can’t believe, Mary Kate Olsen is here,’” he replied.

Later, we spotted Maureen Chiquet, Chanel’s global CEO, hovering over a photograph. The Observer asked if she was hoping to add to her art collection. “I’m trying desperately,” she said. “I may take home a live nude,” she added with a chuckle, glancing around the room. We wondered whether, like Ms. Miller, she saw a connection between her work and the Academy. After thinking for a moment, Ms. Chiquet gave a wry smile. “What I do is about beautiful things, and so is this,” she said. “We all love beautiful things,” the bantam businesswoman added before disappearing into the crowd.

The crowd had gravitated toward the back of the room where the live auction was set to start. Jeff Koons, Todd Eberle and Patrick Demarchelier were among the artists who had donated their pieces for the charity. Ten works were auctioned off in fast succession to eager buyers. In total the evening raised $800,000.

The auction completed, guests were finishing their drinks and preparing to leave. A fleet of red-shirted staff were on hand, wrapping up the art with astonishing agility. Most of the art had already been taken off the walls and their starkness bore little resemblance to the vibrant scene we witnessed upon arrival. The crowd, well-refreshed and well-heeled, took a final lap around the room. For a night in October, The Observer was impressed with the guests’ vitality. We left Sotheby’s, glad to have experienced the spirited Nude night for ourselves.

The painting was repayment for Mr. Colacello’s brokering a portrait commission for Warhol, which was a standard practice at Interview. As you might imagine, it was bittersweet to sell the painting but, Mr. Colacello says in the video, prices being what they are “it seemed like a really good time to cash in, quite frankly.”

It’s a great first-hand look at what it’s like to take something of personal value to auction. We won’t give away the ending but everything ties together rather nicely. This web video’s got it all!

The film is a sweet road story in which a mother bounces around from state to state with her two sons in search of a husband. Ms. Zellweger is no stranger to road trips. As she put it, she’s gone “across the bottom, around the top. New York to Florida. I’m from Texas, so it’s my favorite thing.”

It was obvious that in the film, the road simply represents searching. Surveying the theater, the Transom wondered what these people were looking for in their lives.

During a party afterward at the East Hampton Mexican restaurant the Blue Parrot, the Transom approached Bob Colacello and asked him.

“I’m searching for a way to finish my next Vanity Fair story and still go to a lot of parties at the beach,” he said.

Across the room, The View’s Joy Behar negotiated table space for two friends. “I’m searching for good guests for my new show—it’s called The Joy Behar Show,” she said. “I want great people to come on the show and give me radical opinions.”

Outside, designer Marc Jacobs was sitting alone, his entourage having just walked inside. He thought about the question for a moment, then looked up, smiling, and said, “Love.”

Party photographer Patrick McMullan was standing next to the porch, having a cigarette. What was he searching for? “I’m looking for a month off. Like, a full month off,” he said. “To be able to have a week is like a vacation, but to be able to have a month, you can really get into things, and, you know, laziness is not always bad.”

He paused for a moment and then added one stipulation. “A month off with no repercussions. With no fires that have to be put out.”

Jon Bon Jovi, a co-owner of the Blue Parrot, approached the front door all smiles. When the Transom asked what he was searching for, he seemed taken aback. But just for a moment. Then he leaned into his swagger and simply said, “A margarita.”

As Mr. Hamilton was leaving the party, the same question was posed to him.

“At this point, it’s time to maintain grace in your life. As you get older, life has a way of debasing you,” he said. “There’s an old expression, ‘When you finally get your head together, your ass is falling apart.’ I want to have a style of life and grace in my life as I get older.”

As he spoke, Radioman, a bearded homeless man so-called for a radio he keeps around his neck, famous for crashing movie parties and film sets, butted in and introduced himself.

“You look great, George,” he said to Mr. Hamilton, who looked uncomfortable, but smiled politely and thanked him.

“That’s what I’m looking for,” the star said. “Dignity.”

A fixture on the block, Le Bilboquet (don’t bother looking for a sign) is owned by Philippe Delgrange, a 52-year-old Frenchman who rose up through the ranks at Le Relais to open all 450 square feet of his own at 25 East 63rd Street in 1986. Over the years the tiny space has built up quite a following among celebrities such as Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore, Tom Hanks, Stephen Spielberg and first daughter Barbara Bush, several thousand well- heeled locals and Euro-trash regulars, who smoke their Gitanes and engage in impromptu dancing out on the sidewalk. But Mr. Perelman, in his double-wide townhouse, is not one of them.

On July 29, the day that Mr. Delgrange’s license for a sidewalk café was approved by the city’s Department of Consumer Affairs, Mr. Perelman’s law firm, Friedman and Gotbaum LLP, filed a lengthy opposition to the application, alleging that the restaurant’s clientele, with all their late-night boisterous revelry, were a threat to the well-being of East 63rd Street’s quiet residents. References were made to the "unremitting and unrepentant attitude of the operator, which as in times past, set tables far out into the sidewalk, permitted motorcycles to be parked on the public sidewalk, permitted its patrons to sit and drink on the stoops of the neighboring homes and has resulted in numerous visits from the police to quell the noise and direct the removal of outdoor tables and chairs."

Elsewhere in the complaint, Mr. Perelman’s attorneys used Zagat’s restaurant guide to bolster their case. "We also observe, admittedly on a sardonic note, that even Le Bilboquet’s customers find the intolerable level of noise and attitude unique," referring as it does to the Zagat’s description which refers to the waitstaff as "noisy" and "rude." Shelly Friedman, Mr. Perelman’s lawyer, emphasized the legal point in a conversation with The Transom: "Do you know how many times the word ‘rude’ appears in Zagat’s? Once!"

Mr. Perelman went so far as to hire a private investigator, John Donovan, to monitor Bilboquet’s activities through video surveillance on July 22 as follows:

8.31 p.m. — Ten to fifteen people congregating in front of café

8.39 p.m. — Larger crowd drinking and congregating in front of café

8.56 p.m. — Crowd drinking in front of café

9.08 p.m. — Patrons now cover most of the public sidewalk

9.43 p.m. — Strolling couple has to maneuver to pass through the crowd

10.18 p.m. — Waiter serves drinks to patrons on the sidewalk

11.30 p.m. — Group continues to drink and café raises music volume

12.00 p.m. — Patrons continue to drink in front of café

12.52 a.m. — Surveillance ends

And Mr. Perelman has enlisted some allies of his own, including Andrew Stein, the former borough president of Manhattan, and Tosano Simonetti, former first deputy police commissioner, who have also filed letters of complaint. Granted, Mr. Simonetti currently works for Mr. Perelman as the head of security at his holding company, MacAndrews & Forbes, of which Mr. Stein is a consultant.

According to Mr. Perelman’s legal team, the community had not been apprised of Le Bilboquet’s intentions, the requisite letters never sent, and the notices never posted—therefore, despite the fact that Le Bilboquet already had their license, Community Board 8’s approval was retracted. So the boîte was forced back to square one. At a community-board hearing on Oct. 6, over a dozen fervent Bilboquettes came out in support, trumping the opposition, and a second hearing is scheduled for Oct. 13.

"The dog didn’t bark on time," quips Ken Fisher, one of Le Bilboquet’s consultants, explaining that Mr. Perelman’s opposition was too late and excessive. "In my mind, the biggest problem on that block is un-ticketed double parking!"

This isn’t the first time that the restaurant has feuded with its well-heeled neighbors. In 1988, Dina DeLuca made the film A Table and Two Chairs, a fictional account of the restaurant’s struggles with certain neighbors opposed to its outdoor seating. At the end of the movie, Le Bilboquet is forced to remove its chairs from the sidewalk. Currently, Mr. Delgrange’s wife, Isabelle, is filming her own sequel, wandering the restaurant with a movie camera and interviewing its customers and neighbors, hoping for a happier ending.

—Jessica Joffe

There He Goes Again

"Good evening. Thank you all for coming. I wish there were a few more of you," author Bob Colacello told the 22 people who’d gathered at the Barnes & Noble on 66th Street and Broadway on Oct. 6 to hear him talk about his book, Ronnie and Nancy: Their Path to the White House, 1911-1980.

As Mr. Colacello discussed his 608-page opus—the second volume of which will come out in 2006—a lady in the back was muttering, "Pfffhht!"

"I don’t like that man," she told The Transom, meaning Reagan. "He killed people in Latin America, and what Bush is doing now—Reagan started it. I’ll tell you what he is: a Constitutional killer."

Ronnie and Nancy began as an assignment in 1998 from Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter, who thought it was time to look at the Reagans again, from a personal point of view, as a couple, and to examine their social lives.

"Everybody said this couple was joined at the hip," he told his audience. "You can’t talk about one without the other. I think that’s been the big mistake of most Reagan biographies, especially Edmund Morris’ Dutch: He left Nancy Reagan out. This man was so dependent on this woman."

After some polite applause, Mr. Colacello signed a few books.

There was a much more enthusiastic reception the next night at Neue Galerie on East 86th Street, at a party thrown by Jo Carole and Ronald Lauder, who invited a mix of political, media, social and art-world swells, among them Carroll Petrie, Happy Rockefeller, Richard Meier, Sandy Gallin, Nan Kempner, Phyllis George, Ahmet Ertegun, Aileen Mehle, Ross Bleckner, Agnes Gund and Arnold Scaasi, along with some younger socialites and Condé Nast writers.

It must have felt like old times as a strolling violinist played the Reagans’ favorite songs, among them "Our Love Is Here to Stay" and "California Here We Come." Mrs. Reagan approved the list and added a few tunes, including "When Irish Eyes are Smiling."

For the next two hours, Mr. Colacello signed books in a room filled with decadent German and Austrian art. "I was trying to think of the connection between Klimt and the Reagans," he said behind a Hans Hoffman desk. "And I finally figured it out: beautiful ball gowns."

"Reagan’s great," said Pat Hackett, who put together The Andy Warhol Diaries.

"Andy didn’t impose his will on anyone," Ms. Hackett said. "Andy loved Reagan as a movie star. He thought he was so handsome, and that was Andy’s ideal look. He loved Irish guys."

"Hail to the Chief" was playing now. Another detractor in the midst: Sandra Bernhard. "The Reagans were light, fanciful and airy compared to this era," she said.

Host Ronald Lauder recalled meeting Ronald Reagan at his mother Estée’s home in New York, right after he became governor of California.

"I remember meeting him and not really knowing who he was, exactly," he said. "I realized that there was such a strong quality about him. And I said to my mother, ‘Who is that?’ And—I’ll never forget it—she said: ‘That’s Ronald Reagan; he’s going to be President of the United States." He added that his mother had always told Nancy Reagan to wear red.

"I just think he was a hero," said theatrical producer Terry Allen Kramer. "I see him riding off in the sunset. He was the one guy that came from the media that made a great President."

Any comparisons to make with George W. Bush?

"I know I’m not allowed to say it, but I happen to like Bush and I’m all for him," she said. "I don’t think Bush can get his message across for one reason: He’s a bad public speaker. I think he should get up and say he’s a bad public speaker—‘and that doesn’t make me a bad President.’ I think everything was fine until the Iraq war. Also, being in the entertainment business, I have never heard such terrible Bush-bashing in my life than when I went out two weeks ago to open Moving Out in L.A. I couldn’t believe it. They just hate Bush. ‘Fascist!’"

Ms. Kramer said she was about to cry after having talked to Judith Miller, who was sentenced that day to no less than 18 months for refusing to reveal sources. "I can’t believe this is my country that I live in," she said.

Judith Miller, who covered the President as a junior reporter for The New York Times, seemed in good spirits despite the bad news she got that day.

"He was the most gentlemanly of Presidents," she said. "Once I was covering him, and a reporter dropped a pencil, and he interrupted the press conference and he went across and picked up the pencil and he said, ‘Here you are.’ And after that, there were no questions. He was fabulous—a great man to cover. All Presidents have their failings and weaknesses. As a man to cover, he was never dull; he was always interesting."

Anything Reaganesque about Bush?

"No. No. No," she said, laughing. "I’m not going to go there!"

It was getting to be dinner-party time. Leonard Lauder was standing by the front door as the guests exited.

He didn’t want to try to make any Bush comparisons.

"Much too early—I can’t," he said. "If you look at the history, looking at President Reagan at the end of his first term, we forget that he was in trouble, and that many people were saying the same negative things about him that they say about President Bush today. And yet he has emerged as one of our great Presidents."

"I think people are nostalgic," Mr. Colacello said a few days later from his Hamptons house. "I watched the last debate Friday night at a friend’s house in East Hampton, and almost everyone there was for Kerry. But there were a few undecided people. And I count myself among the undecided this time around—and the reason being, both of these guys are just so boring and so scripted. Kerry’s obviously more articulate, but ‘I have a plan’—what is the plan?

"It’s cooler to like Reagan now," he continued. "And it’s especially cooler to like Nancy Reagan." Then he recalled his good friend Agnes Gund berating him over dinner at Nobu only a few years ago. "She said, ‘You’re a Republican? How can someone intelligent and sophisticated like you, who worked for Andy Warhol, be a Republican?’ And I said, ‘Aggie, part of the reason I’m a Republican is because of a question like that.’ You know, New Yorkers like to think they’re not provincial, but they’re provincial in their own way."

—George Gurley

Maxed Out

It’s probably a good thing that Nicky Hilton married a money manager—husband Todd Meister has his work cut out for him. "Growing up, I was always borrowing cards from my parents, and I’d always, like, lose them. Then I’d get in a lot of trouble," said the Hershey-tressed heiress. It was Oct. 7, and American Express was launching its new IN:NYC card at the downtown space Skylight. The new no-fee card operates on a point system that grants V.I.P. access to concerts at Irving Plaza as well as New York "experiences." For instance, 50,000 points buys you an hour of D.J.-ing at the Whiskey with 10 V.I.P. passes for your friends and a free bottle of Cristal. As if to prove its point, AmEx had set up a special D.J. booth inside the party and commandeered Ms. Hilton, Nicole Ritchie, and The Sopranos’ Jamie-Lynn DiScala to each have a turn at the tables.

Ms. Ritchie, wearing a mustard halter gown that a friend had designed especially for her, kept turning around to flash the angel wings tattooed on her back. She said AmEx was her first and only credit card. "I’m a goooood customer of theirs," she said. "Once I was using my mom’s credit card and, like, went crazy with it, so she, like, made me pay for it!" she laughed. "I don’t really hesitate when I buy something—I’m like, ‘O.K., I need it!’ and I always buy it."

—Noelle Hancock

The Transom Also Hears That …

Don’t get too hooked on "Desperate Housewives." In the entertainment world, it’s that time again—when Hollywood screenwriters wrangle over a new contract with the studio bosses, and there’s a slim chance that the scribes could go on strike as they did back in 1988. After turning down a $32 million three-year offer in June, the Writers Guild of America (W.G.A.) is back and ready to negotiate with the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers, aiming for a wage increase and health-care deal similar to that recently achieved by the Directors Guild of America.

Most of the studios are ready to cut a deal—except for Disney’s Bob Iger, who runs ABC, say several sources. "Iger’s the only holdout," says one union member. "Disney often takes a hard line on unions. And [chairman Michael] Eisner is pressuring Iger to stand firm. If Disney refuses to go along, they’ll strike ABC."

The ensuing fireworks could pose problems for Mr. Iger, one of the favorites to take over from the embattled Mr. Eisner, who has promised to step down by 2006. And it’s a nightmare scenario for the network, which with Desperate Housewives and Lost, is experiencing its best season in years. "Iger is trapped—he’s Eisner’s boy, but if he listens to the big guy, he’ll become an industry pariah, the network would lose their new season, the best one they’ve had in a long time, and he’d ruin any chances of ever being C.E.O.," says an industry insider.

A spokesman for Disney did not return calls for comment. A press officer of the W.G.A. declined to comment.

—Marcus Baram

· The Vatican says it will intercede with Catholic politicians around the world in hopes that they will oppose measures that could allow gay couples to marry. Perhaps not surprisingly, the announcement inspired great outrage among some politicians and commentators, several of whom-including at least one member of the City Council-insisted that this action violated the American tradition of separation of church and state.

This argument was useful in that it provided a fine insight into the thoughts of anti-religious officials and pundits. What if the Vatican announced its support for laws that favored gay marriage? Would the same sputtering hacks have called news conferences to display their wondrous ignorance of the U.S. Constitution and of current events? More likely, they would have praised the Vatican for its progressive attitude and welcomed its influence.

Religious organizations and clergy have a right use their influence to shape policy and government, and they do it all the time. A couple of days after the Vatican announcement, the press reported that various activist groups are planning their demonstrations for the Republican National Convention in Manhattan next year. One of the leaders, as luck would have it, is a clergyman from Brooklyn.

In my Catholic parish, a Peace and Justice Committee regularly advises me to lobby lawmakers on issues ranging from immigration rights to affordable health-care to disarmament to living-wage legislation. It is unlikely that the stout-hearted defenders of church-state separation will see anything wrong with such overt political activity. But the moment the Catholic Church or some other religious organization advocates policies that are considered by those who know to be regressive, oppressive or just plain old conservative, well, suddenly there is talk about removing their tax exemptions.

A purist in matters of church-state separation would be mortified to learn that a real, live minister is running for President. Worse yet, the Reverend Al Sharpton is not the first clergyman to aspire to the nation's highest office in recent years: The Reverend Jesse Jackson ran twice in the 1980's. I seem to recall no pious denunciations of this terrible breach of the wall separating church and state. I do recall, however, that a Congressman from Massachusetts named Robert Drinan-a Jesuit priest-left his office when the Pope suggested that political office was no place for a Catholic clergyman. Church-state purists should have applauded the Pope's action, but somehow it was overlooked. They must have been too busy defending the country's hateful Blaine amendments.

· The current issue of Vanity Fair features what the bumpkins in Manhattan would take to be a celebration of the layabouts, ne'er-do-wells, misfits, unfits and degenerates who parade around Europe with curious royal titles, fake uniforms and an odious sense of entitlement. As their pictures made them appear quite beautiful and far more interesting than they actually are, no doubt many readers concluded that the magazine's taste-makers considered these fakers and leeches to be worthy of emulation. Such people, after all, have been known to inhabit this portion of the New World.

Readers with greater ability to recognize horse-hockey when they see it-i.e., those who live outside the bicoastal circle jerk of media and cultural blowhards-instantly understood the immense public service Vanity Fair had rendered in naming the world's worst welfare cheats. Under the guise of an apparent celebration of shallow glamour and vacuous accomplishment, the magazine in fact revealed that the good work begun in America in 1776 remains unfinished. Not only are the poor Belgians, Spaniards, Swedes and, of course, British still forced to subsidize members of the Lucky Sperm Club, but there remain at large several individuals who play at royalty although their countries are republics. Long afterthegoodpeopleof France, Greece, Germany and Italy rid themselves of the injustice of royalty, people claiming to be the Prince of Prussia or the Princess of Greece still populate unsavory corners of the planet, dreaming of the good old days when people believed in the divine right of kings.

A Vanity Fair writer identified as a "royal expert" gave away the magazine's secret agenda. Bob Colacello was quoted as saying that "the royals really are different from you and me." For some clueless readers, this remark no doubt seemed like a sigh of nostalgia for the days when entitled (but ever so elegant!) families enforced their will on the peasantry.

The rest of us, however, had a better understanding of Mr. Colacello's irony. Of course the royals are different from you and me: We work for a living, we believe in democracy, and we don't spit upon the service of our honored dead by wearing medals we don't deserve.

Still, gathering that evening in the Frank E. Campbell Orleans Room were François and Adelaide de Menil, members of the Texas-based family of art philanthropists who had played a key role in Mr. Hughes' life and career; writers Dominick Dunne and Fran Lebowitz; jeweler Kenneth Jay Lane; actress Sylvia Miles; real-estate broker Linda Stein; socialite Whitney Tower Jr.; and a number of the "Superstars" who had worked and played with Fred Hughes at the various incarnations of Warhol's Factory.

"It was a parade of Fred's life," said Vincent Fremont, who toiled at the Factory and now functions as the exclusive agent of the Warhol Foundation. "The English friends were too far away [to come], but everyone who came that night … it was his life in New York."

Those who did come found a photo album depicting him in healthier days and a closed casket that was constructed of an elegant, highly polished light mahogany and topped with a lid that was unusually angled rather than rounded. It was an appropriate resting place for someone who had done a remarkable job of burnishing his appearance, his mind and, occasionally, his history until they shone with a dazzling gloss that effectively obscured the man beneath. "I bumped into Cornelia Guest the other day," said Jane (Baby Jane) Holzer, the former Factory star who's now a socialite, "and she said, 'You know, he was the best dancer.'

"We used to go to the Rothschild balls in Paris and stay at the Hotel Meurice and it was so much fun. Everything was possible with Fred."

The son of a furniture salesman, Fred Hughes was raised in the cultural wilds of Dallas and Houston. But with the help of the de Menils and, later, through his complicated but close association with Warhol, Mr. Hughes fashioned himself into a grand, dandyish world traveler with impeccable taste and a sharp tongue. Dressed in bespoke Everall Brothers suits and John Lobb shoes, his dark hair slicked back Gatsby-style, he was a New York character in the last years when New York characters brazenly roamed this metropolis.

But though Fred Hughes certainly benefited from his association with Andy Warhol, the argument could certainly be made that Warhol, who died after gall bladder surgery in 1987, benefited even more from his association with Fred Hughes.

"Fred was a hugely important character in the creation of Andy Warhol as an artist of international importance and as a portraitist," said the art historian and biographer John Richardson, who was a friend of Mr. Hughes.

Even attorney Ed Hayes, who had a falling out with Mr. Hughes, agreed with this assessment. Mr. Hughes, who was the godfather of Mr. Hayes' daughter Avery, hired Mr. Hayes to be the lawyer for the Warhol estate; but in the midst of a bitter legal dispute over Mr. Hayes' fee and the valuation of the estate, Mr. Hughes fired him. Not surprisingly, Mr. Hayes contends that Mr. Hughes betrayed him; even so, he said, "If Andy Warhol was the most significant American artist of the second half of the 20th century, then Fred Hughes was certainly material to that success, if not the most important person in Warhol's life. He was largely responsible for Warhol's tremendous commercial success. He had a brilliant eye and a great sense of art history."

Friends of Fred Hughes said that he seemed to have been born with an innate sense of taste, but his metamorphosis in fact began when he was an art history student at the University of St. Thomas in Houston, a small Catholic college occupying several green blocks in what passes for that city's genteel neighborhood. The art department at St. Thomas was funded by Jean and Dominique de Menil, who in the 1980's would build the De Menil Collection virtually across the street from St. Thomas' campus and the Rothko Chapel, a small, austere rotunda lined with Rothko's somber works. The equally somber (and strong-willed) Mrs. de Menil was an heir to the Schlumberger oil-equipment fortune, and she and her flamboyant husband enjoyed international status as avid art patrons and collectors. The de Menils' oil business was based in Houston, and it was during Mr. Hughes' freshman year at St. Thomas that he befriended the family and gained the nickname "Le Dauphin " because the de Menils took such good care of him.

The de Menils clearly saw something in the young Mr. Hughes and helped him land a job at the Iolas Gallery in Paris, which represented Max Ernst and René Magritte. But he also continued to help out the family, and this often involved spending time at their Manhattan townhouse. In Bob Colacello's Holy Terror , a memoir of his days with the Warhol Factory, Mr. Colacello recalls that it was during one of these stopovers that Fred Hughes encountered Andy Warhol, who was hanging out at the 60's discotheque hot spot Arthur with doomed socialite Edie Sedgwick. Mr. Hughes, who had purchased his first Warhol while still in college, went up and shook the artist's hand.

But, as Mr. Colacello also reports, Warhol and Mr. Hughes were formally introduced in 1967 at architect Philip Johnson's Glass House in New Canaan, Conn. The setting was a benefit for Merce Cunningham's dance company that was sponsored by the de Menils. Providing entertainment for the evening were the Velvet Underground. "Fred came with a de Menil daughter," Mr. Colacello wrote. "Andy came with the band." The two men were introduced by curator Henry Geldzahler, who says he never saw either of them again: "They waltzed off into the empyrean."

Fred Hughes began working at the Factory, which had moved from East 47th Street to Union Square, by literally sweeping the floors. But he soon made himself indispensable to Warhol. Rather than immediately hit up the de Menils to buy one of Warhol's portraits, Mr. Hughes first convinced them to commission the artist to immortalize their private curator, Germaine McConaghty. Soon enough, Dominique de Menil sat for her own portrait, as did Philip Johnson and other friends of the family.

"Fred was a catalyst, somebody who is at the center of things, who enlivens things, makes things happen, somebody who is full of ideas, who sparks things. It was just what Andy needed in a way," said the art historian and biographer John Richardson, who knew Mr. Hughes from their days together at the Factory. "Fred turned out to be this very cool, competent, albeit quite eccentric guy. All of us who were part of the Warhol world loved Fred. He kept things on a very even keel."

Mr. Colacello agreed with Mr. Richardson's assessment, and took it a step further. "In a few years, Fred engineered the rise of Andy Warhol from the demimonde to the beau monde and set him on the road to real riches," he writes in Holy Terror . Although Leo Castelli was Warhol's dealer, it was Fred Hughes who "launched the commissioned portraits gold mine, drove up the sales and prices of the sixties paintings, expanded the limited edition print biz, cultivated important news collectors and dealers, especially in Europe." In 1971, Mr. Hughes also rescued Interview from financial ruin by lining up new backers.

At the time, Fred Hughes was only 27 years old.

Mr. Hughes' influence on Warhol was not limited to business. "Before Fred came along," recalled Mr. Richardson, "Andy tended to see–I'm talking socially, not in terms of the artists–he saw a lot of lowlifes."

One early member of Warhol's circle, Valerie Solanis, was phased out the hard way–prison–after she shot and wounded Warhol and curator Mario Amaya, and reportedly pointed her .32-caliber pistol at Mr. Hughes. Lucky for him, the gun jammed.

"In the early 70's, Fred was welcome in every social circle," said art mogul and film producer Peter Brant, who knew Mr. Hughes and was an investor and onetime owner of Interview . And Fred Hughes was instrumental in introducing Warhol to a group of friends and acquaintances that included the designer Halston, writer Truman Capote, Rolling Stone Mick Jagger and his then wife Bianca, actor Jack Nicholson, fashion illustrator Joe Eula, Diane von Furstenberg and fashion maven Diana Vreeland, with whom Fred Hughes had an extremely close relationship. So close that, as a number of his friends pointed out, he began to talk in Vreeland's dramatic and imperious tone whenever he'd had too much to drink.

Although Mr. Hughes and Warhol did not always get along, those who witnessed their relationship said it was amazingly synergistic, particularly given that both were strong-willed. "They were two Leos, and I believe in astrology because every male Leo I've known has to be king of the jungle," Mr. Colacello told The Observer . "Fred pretended he hated publicity. He would always step out of Andy's photos because his grandmother told him you were only in the press when you were born, when you were married and when you died. Andy pretended he was weak. But they were both classic, dominant, domineering, egotistical personalities, and each, in their own way, geniuses."

But as Mr. Richardson put it, Mr. Hughes "was by no means a kind of stooge figure" in Warhol's court. He had his own distinct style. "All the kids at the Factory, everyone who was younger than Fred wanted to dress like Fred," Mr. Colacello said, adding that Mr. Hughes kept photographs of the Duke of Windsor, King Umberto of Italy and Fred Astaire in his home, from which he seemed to draw inspiration for his dandyish look. Mr. Brant said that Mr. Hughes first had his suits made by Pat Fiori at Everall Brothers, then graduated to Anderson & Sheppard on Savile Row. His Lobb shoes and Penhaligon's Blenheim Bouquet cologne were also British. Mr. Hughes also favored small collars and skinny ties, which flattered his slim-shouldered frame. "It was Fred who started the trend, which was credited to Andy, of wearing Brooks Brothers blazers with pressed jeans," Mr. Colacello said.

Mr. Colacello recalls nights at Manhattan nightclubs of yore, such as Sanctuary and Tambourlaine and Ondine, watching Mr. Hughes tear up the dance floor with his latest girlfriend, "who always called him 'Fritzie.'" And then there was the time at Stage 45 when Mr. Colacello watched Fred Hughes pair up with Italian filmmaker Luchino Visconti, "the old European and young American in identical double-breasted black gabardine suits, elegantly waltzing to some melancholy Motown wail."

When it came to relationships, Mr. Hughes' infatuations were many. He was briefly married to jeweler Marina Schiano, who was working for Yves St. Laurent at the time, and he was engaged to a series of women, including Catherine Guinness and actress Lady Anne Lambton. Lady Lambton told The Observer that she met Mr. Hughes in England "a long time ago. I was a 16-year-old delinquent that he spotted and basically said, 'You can come and work in the Factory.' He intercepted me and put me on the straight and narrow."

Of her engagement to Mr. Hughes in the early 70's, Lady Lambton said: "I was given an engagement ring and I accepted it, but I don't know if I ever knew when [the engagement] started or ended." She lived with Mr. Hughes at the Westbury Hotel and then later at the ivy-covered townhouse at 89th Street and Lexington Avenue that he first rented, then bought from Warhol when the artist moved to East 66th Street. "It was a very old-fashioned relationship," Lady Lambton said. "A very courtly relationship."

She chuckled a bit, then added: "He just fell completely head over heels in love with people. Whatever sex or age, he fell in love. I would say that Diana Vreeland was someone he fell in love with. I think when he met me he just fell in love with me. And then when he met someone else it was a new passion and he just doubled up his love. He didn't stop being in love with the other person." But then Lady Lambton added: "It wasn't not discerning. He was an aesthete."

When he wasn't collecting people, Fred Hughes was collecting antiques and other objects of beauty. If there is one thing about him with which everyone seems to agree, it's that he had a great eye for beauty, and not necessarily the expensive kind. "Fred had taste and he could find beauty in a flea market or the best furniture stores. High to low," Mr. Fremont said. "Anybody can buy the best but Fred had the knack." And that knack showed in the eclectic antiques and knickknacks and fabrics that decorated Mr. Hughes' homes. At his townhouse he managed to mix Native American art with 19th-century Continental furniture, Tudor paintings and his Warhol portraits of Jacqueline Onassis, which were mounted in ornate gilded wood frames.

"He had his own personal version of feng shui," said Sasha Chermayeff, an artist who worked between 1991 and last fall to catalog his vast collection of artwork, and who is writing a book about Mr. Hughes' life. When he was bedridden, said Ms. Chermayeff, Mr. Hughes "would spend 45 minutes telling you how he wanted a bedside table to look." Fred Hughes could be as grand as some of the treasures in his collection, and in addition to talking like Diana Vreeland, he would occasionally claim, as Mr. Colacello noted in Holy Terror , that billionaire Howard Hughes was his cousin, or that his grandfather had once owned much of downtown Houston but sold it before the oil boom.

"He had an innate elegance, mixed with a certain sense of fantasy," said Mr. Lane. But Mr. Hughes could also poke fun at himself. "I'm deeply superficial," was apparently one of his favorite bon mots. And Ms. Chermayeff said that he once told her that he wanted his tombstone to read, in perhaps an ironic salute to himself and all the society ladies he walked over the years, "Deb's Delight." Mr. Colacello also remembered how, on slow afternoons at the Factory, Mr. Hughes would "take Scotch tape and give himself a facelift. He'd say, 'I am Frederick of Union Square and I am going to give you a facelift.'" Mr. Colacello added that back in the early days, Mr. Hughes would use the same moniker and identify himself as Warhol's hairdresser whenever clueless journalists asked him what he did at the Factory. Even after the M.S. began to take its toll, Mr. Hughes kept his "gut-wrenchingly funny" sense of humor, Ms. Chermayeff said. She recalled that back in the 90's when he ended up spending several weeks in an institution called The Hospital for Joint Diseases on East 17th Street, he nicknamed it "The Joint" and insisted that everyone who visited him refer to it in the same manner. "He said, 'When you've smoked as many joints as I have and you've hung out in as many joints as I have, you end up in the joint.'"

By the late 70's Mr. Hughes seemed to be tiring of constantly acting as the conduit between Warhol and the world. He seemed angry and began to alienate a number of his friends, including Vreeland. Some thought he drank too much and perhaps had begun showing the early signs of M.S. When Warhol died, some recalled that Mr. Hughes seemed shocked, but also a little relieved. In Holy Terror , Mr. Colacello wrote that Mr. Hughes once told the artist Adriana Jackson "that what he really wanted in life was to make a lot of money. And to be a millionaire by age 30. By 40 he wanted to be as rich as Howard Hughes and as important a collector and patron as Jean de Menil."

When Mr. Hughes took over as the executor of Warhol's estate, he was poised to realize his wish, but by then, he knew that the M.S. would eventually rob him of the dream. "Had he not been sick, he would have been one of the most powerful men in the art world," Ms. Chermayeff said. "The combination of being on top and knowing that he wasn't going to be able to stop this disease that destroys your body while your mind stays active, it was just too much." Still, Mr. Hughes oversaw the extremely successful sale of Warhol's furnishings, art and tchotchkes at Sotheby's in 1988 and then the opening of the Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh in 1994. He also started the Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, which became the focus of Mr. Hayes' legal battle.

In 1992, Mr. Hughes was forced out as chairman of the foundation. Friends say that the stress of all the litigation seemed to exacerbate his condition. The Texas aesthete who loved exploring the world and its treasures was steadily becoming a prisoner of his bed, kept from the stimulation that he craved. Friends continued to come to visit him, to talk to him or read to him, anything to keep him informed and up-to-date. Though he could not speak, "it was clear he took in everything," Mr. Richardson said. "Sometimes the tears would pour down his face."

"People who knew Fred in his prime were always grief-stricken after seeing him," Ms. Chermayeff said. And sometimes Mr. Hughes helped them along. "He was in a rage," she said. "For many reasons … the primary one was his frustration at the disease …. He just went down with a self-destructive fervor that was really hard to understand. It was as if he decided there would be no fizzling out." But Ms. Chermayeff said that she suspects he may have been difficult for a reason. "He made it so I had a certain kind of freedom from him," she said. "He freed us all from the suffering that everybody would have felt at seeing him suffer. I don't know if it was conscious or subconscious."

But maybe there was a precedent.

Vincent Fremont remembered that the summer after Warhol died, he and his family spent some time with Mr. Hughes in a house he had rented on Shelter Island. "I remember one time we found a dead squirrel or something like that," Mr. Fremont said. "My daughters were pretty young and they got upset. Fred did this whole elaborate funeral procession." Mr. Fremont paused a moment, as if he were trying to reconcile the Fred Hughes whom he'd accompanied from party to party until the sun came up in Paris with the man in this anecdote. "We went in a little line and dug a hole." Mr. Fremont paused once more, perhaps wondering why Mr. Hughes, the New York Character, did not get a procession of his own. His voice grew faint, then recovered.

"I found him really charming," he said. "And he wasn't wearing a tie."