Click through our slideshow for an illustrated tour through Alec's August, or click here for a large image.

Additional research by Jonah Wolf and Toby Wareham. Illustrations by Amy Melson.

Ramona Singer and Sonja Tremont-Morgan. (Photo by Lenny Stucker)

After some time spent roving the idyllic Hamptons lanes last Saturday, The Observer found ourselves at a charity gala honoring the music of Billy Joel. The Michael J. Fox Foundation’s Team Fox had teamed up with the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society to put on the snazzy soiree.

Onstage, a Billy Joel tribute band was playing at considerable volume. We asked the brave souls seated near the front how they felt about the idea of setting up a tribute band.

M.C. and host for the evening Gina Giordan was keen to point out that she did not choose the band, and was unconvinced that anyone could compare to the legendary Billy Joel.

“I have had the pleasure of interviewing Billy Joel numerous times,” Ms. Giordan told us. “There is only one Billy Joel, and when he performs, you know why.”

Comedian Jackie Martling appeared to be of two minds over whether he would want a comedy tribute group set up in his honor.

“I’d be honored, although I’d hate it if they were good,” Mr. Martling bellowed over the blare from the stage. “No I wouldn’t. Yes I would.” And what if the tribute group was actually better than him? “That’s impossible! I was going to train people to tell my jokes [at a school].”

The band was at least playing for some worthwhile causes. The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society is the world’s largest nonprofit health organization dedicated to funding blood cancer research. The Michael J. Fox Foundation is committed to finding a cure for Parkinson’s disease through funded research and to ensuring the development of improved therapies for those living with the disease.

For some guests attending, such as celebrity housewife Ramona Singer, these causes were unfortunately closer to home.

“My mother actually passed away from leukemia,” she confided.

Michael J. Fox, who was diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 1991, has since become an activist for research toward finding a cure, which led him to create his foundation.

Mr. Martling, who has worked with Mr. Fox, remarked with a mischievous grin that he knew him more intimately than most.

“I love Michael J. Fox,” he told us playfully. “He’s a great kisser.” Mr. Martling’s blonde bombshell of a girlfriend, seated loyally beside him, raised her eyes to the two-stories-high ceiling.

Bromance was blossoming elsewhere in the packed studio, as Zachary Tunick articulated his feelings about the owner of East Hampton Studio, Michael Wudyka. “He’s a rugged, good-looking man who’s got a heart of gold and is very sensitive,” he related.

Inspired by Mr. Fox’s Back To The Future franchise, The Observer asked guests what time period they would travel to if they were equipped with Doc’s fabulous time machine. Ms. Singer wanted to explore the court of Louis XIV, where the Sun King was surrounded by devastatingly beautiful and politically empowered mistresses.

“Women had to have their power through their beauty at court,” Ms. Singer explained. “The whole thing of, like, the French court, the English court, that really intrigues me. I read historical novels.” Perhaps for Ms. Singer, the Real Housewives of New York City are a modern version of Louis XIV’s mistresses at the glamorous royal court?

A few guests would only bounce back to the past to change history. Ms. Giordan wanted to journey “back in time just enough to meet and marry my soul mate, singer/songwriter Jeff Buckley.”

Partygoer Jack Lester had a heroic mission in mind—and rather a dark one.

“I would want to go back to 1938 ... so that I could assassinate Adolf Hitler,” Mr. Lester replied brusquely, as if this were the most obvious choice imaginable. Murder indeed appeared to be on his mind as he watched the reality-TV housewives swanning around the studio.

“What I think is outrageous is how the Housewives of New York City have become worthy of celebrity status. Why is that?” Mr. Lester asked The Observer. Interviewer and interviewee seemed to have traded places. “The housewives themselves don’t see the irony. They really think they are celebrities. They don’t see the absurdity of it. They really believe that they have contributed something to our culture.”

Mr. Martling, being one of the older (and wiser) guests at the party, said he would rather return to the days of his own youth than an earlier period in history.

“There are so many romantic answers to that, but there are so many places you could go where they wouldn’t have toilets and they wouldn’t have showers,” Mr. Martling retorted, shrugging his shoulders. “It would be horribly uncomfortable. In my life personally, I’d like to go back to high school.”

Charmed by the whirl of cocktails and canapés, we had completely lost track of time. We beat a hasty exit, pausing to contemplate the idea of summer vacation and the waning of another summer Out East.

jbenhamou@observer.com

Madame Mayhem. (Patrick McMullan/PatrickMcMullan.com)

“This is insane...it’s like a Fellini film,” The Observer overheard one guest murmur as we arrived at the Southampton Hospital gala last Saturday evening. The theme of the evening was Grand Prix Monaco, though many of the high-paying donors didn’t seem to have gotten the memo—or known what it meant, perhaps. Women wore colorful dresses in every conceivable hue and style, while the men ranged from casual checkered shirts to top hats and tails.

Though this was a charity event, there was a measure of self-interest on the part of the attendees: after all, the Jenny and John Paulson Emergency Department of Southampton Hospital is the only emergency room facility for 50 miles. As opposed to say, giving money to Haiti, this was clearly a cause that could potentially affect donors directly.

“This benefit is considered sort of the social benefit of the season,” gala chair Laura Lofaro Freeman told The Observer. “It’s really to update and upgrade the equipment in the emergency room, make sure it’s cutting-edge…et cetera.”

When we asked what was the most common kind of emergency they dealt with in the Hamptons—beyond the expertise of the handsome doctors in Royal Pains—Ms. Freeman ticked off a list. “Terrible car accidents, surfing accidents, bike accidents...and, you know, a lot of a heart attacks.”

Heart attacks were a prevalent theme at the gala, particularly when the president and CEO of the hospital, Robert S. Chaloner, took the stage during dinner.

“Our dream was to get 800 people in a tent, crank the heat up to 100 degrees, and hope that someone has a heart attack, knowing that our hospital is only a block away,” he joked.

To drive the point home even further, an ambulance appeared on the lawn, with its lights on, during cocktail hour. Someone had already taken a nasty spill in the grass, we were told. Despite the fact that the party was held on the hospital’s grounds on Wickapogue Road, the emergency truck was on call all evening. You know, just in case.

Of course, the costuming alone was enough to give an elderly patient a cardiac episode. Joy Marks and Leesa Rowland were in hot pink, while Archie Comics publisher Nancy Silberkleit wore construction-area neon (“I’m more of a Veronica than a Betty tonight,” she told us), a look copied by Dr. Lewis Feder. Global head of marketing and investor relations for Ares Management Suzanne Murphy went with a subtler tangerine gown. Somers Farkas chose a lighter shade of gold to accent her deep tan, while Jean Shafiroff had changed from her polo daywear of bright yellow to a white ball gown featuring lemon-colored daffodils.

Then there was the black brigade: Madame Mayhem, the Chanel-sporting goth-chic singer who was the “surprise” guest of the evening, joining bandleader Alex Donner for his 10th year at the event.

“I usually sing Lady Gaga, but I think tonight that will be Madame Mayhem,” Mr. Donner laughed. We couldn’t tell if this was a joke. Ms. Mayhem ended up performing “Mony Mony”…an unusual selection, but one that got the audience dancing (without regard for their blood pressure).

We asked Ms. Freeman about the origin of her outfit, a deceptively simple but complexly constructed bodice-and-gown affair that floated open whenever she embraced a new guest.

“The idea was to make it ethereal and fun and French…sort of like Grand Prix Monaco,” Ms. Freeman said, twirling around in a spray of baby blue.

Helpfully, Ms. Freeman kept her designer by her side. “Two things that Laura mentioned when she told me about her idea for the dress: she wanted it to open up in the wind when she walked,” Project Runway veteran Wesley Nault told The Observer, “and the other is that Laura loves construction, so she literally wanted it to stand up when she sat down. So you can sit the dress on the bed and it looks like someone’s in it.” Eerie!

Once everyone had flounced their way into the tents, we found ourselves sitting at the table of Howard Lorber, chairman of Prudential Douglas Elliman, the evening’s biggest sponsor.  (Also from the firm was top-selling broker Lisa Simonsen.) Chris Del Gatto of Circa was to our left, looking a little bit glum despite the presence of his gorgeous fiancée, model Veronica Webb. We don’t blame him: during a game at the Bridgehampton Polo Club earlier that afternoon, one of his team’s horses had died during a match against Nacho Figueras’ team.

We asked Mr. Del Gatto why polo wasn’t played at the Olympics anymore.

“You get very particular horses,” he sighed. “And the travel can be very tough on them.”

That didn’t explain why dressage is still an Olympic sport, but we decided not to press it, especially since Social Life publisher Justin Mitchell was sitting right across from us, and as it was the media sponsor of the evening, we didn’t want to speak too ill of the Sport of Kings, which the magazine covers extensively. Besides, we were here to talk about human health, not horses! (Not to mention that Peter Brandt and Stephanie Seymour were in earshot.)

The gala also featured a silent auction, in which guests could bid on a number of interesting items, including a watercolor portrait of your child, home or pet (but no snakes) by artist Katrina Vanderlip. By evening’s end, more than $1.6 million had been raised for improvements to the emergency unit.

Nevertheless, Ellesse CEO Byron Hero was still wary. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to get sick here,” he quipped.

dgrant@observer.com

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

Shouting “Election for sale” and “For $50,000, you could be a Koch whore too,” the crowd of approximately 150 people assembled with signs and music behind a banner reading “Mitt Romney Has a Koch Problem,” the event’s unofficial slogan. A similar banner was flown above the nearby beach, towed behind a MoveOn-commissioned plane. That organization also brought its Romney Mobile, complete with fake dog strapped to the roof and company logos such as UBS and Bain Capital Ventures on the side.

More than an anti-Romney protest, the focus was on Koch and the influence of wealth on the electoral system. Signs read “Romney is All Koched Up” and “End Corporate Personhood” while a balloon was scrawled with “Romney = Koch Sucker” (the protestors apparently wanting it both ways, pun-wise, when it came to Mr. Koch’s surname).

Walker Bragman, 24, a freelance political cartoonist who’s been involved with the Occupy movement a year, brought his dog, Darla. “I got involved with Occupy because the way this country is run now is radically different from how it was run even twenty years ago. Money is the most pervasive force in politics today, and David Koch is one of the worst offenders. There’s something very sickening about that.”

Representing Bum Rush the Vote, George Martinez, who ran for Congress in the Democratic primary in New York’s 7th Congressional district, emphasized that the issue extends beyond partisanship. “We need to get money out of politics,” he said. “When Goldman Sachs are fueling the progressive Democrats, we have a problem, and when the Koch brothers think they can buy elections by moving major pieces of media around, we have a problem on all sides of the spectrum.”

Others took an even less charitable approach. Blogger Gail Zawacki of Oldwick, New Jersey, passed out mock hundred-dollar bills bearing the images of Charles and David Koch with the words “Things Die Better With Koch” and “Blood Money.” Spurred by environmental concerns, she held up a banner bearing “Koch Kills” in red. “Koch Industries kills people literally,” she said, citing air pollution and crop reduction. “No matter how much money you have, it’s not going to protect you,” she said. “David Koch himself had cancer, but he didn’t make the connection. He could afford the best of care. If I was a One Percent-er, I’d be thinking about making the world a more equitable place.”

The event was organized by a (seemingly vast) coalition that included Occupy Wall Street, The Long Island Progressive Coalition, Greenpeace, Move to Amend [Brookhaven], ALIGN NY, Art Not War, Strong For All, MoveOn.org, United New York, Occupy Storefront and Occupy Huntington, Long Island, and many protesters were bused free to the Hamptons from Manhattan.

Originally planning to march directly to Koch’s home from Cooper’s Beach, the group was frustrated by barricades blocking the road to the Koch estate.

Undeterred, the crowd chanted and waited for further instructions, greeting cars exiting and entering Meadow Lane with a mix of cheers and shouts of “Buy a vote.” “Get a heart,” was the quick retort to “get a job.”

The group decided to use the public beach to get as close to Koch as they could. “This beats Zuccotti Park,” one said as they trekked through the sand along a largely empty stretch of beach before reaching the back of the Koch home.

With state police looking on, the crowd lightly taunted the onlookers, then cheered as fellow protestor David Intrator played the national anthem on his saxophone.

While the protest didn’t quite manage to “non-violently disrupt” the fundraiser, organizers consider it a success. Reached via email, Danielle Asher, lead organizer of Long Island Progressive Coalition, said, “Today was a wake-up call for David Koch. He is not used to regular people pushing back against his agenda and today he learned we will not be quiet any longer. We may not have billions in the bank but we do have like-minded people across the country who are ready to stand up against his agenda.”

As the protest broke up, and some of the assembled even went for a dip in the Atlantic, we wondered if Mr. Koch—no doubt enjoying his party beyond the hedgerows—heard the wake-up call.

What's wrong with it?

Doesn't a 6,459-square-foot Hamptons manse with seven bedrooms, an outdoor pool, tennis court, carriage house and four-car garage sound like the perfect place to spend the holiday weekend?

But alas, apparently the former home of power broker Dolly Lenz is not perfect, as the new buyers are suing Ms. Lenz and her broker for breach of contract, reports The Real Deal.

Ms. Lenz, who engaged the services of Corcoran Senior Vice President Tim Davis and the group's Southampton office to help her sell the Water Mill, Long Island property, closed the deal with Upper East Siders Henry C.K. Liu and his wife Judy for $5.47 million in April.

Brokers, especially real estate superstar, most successful Prudential Douglas Elliman of-all-time brokers certainly know how to show a home to its best advantage. So maybe the place just looked better than it should have when Mr. Davis showed it, much like a date in the dim light of a bar? Or could it be a pest of sorts? A rodent infestation, raccoons in the attic, a neighbor who loves nude sunbathing?

For now, at least, the problem will remain a mystery, reports The Real Deal, as the couple only filed a one-page summons suing Ms. Lenz, her husband Aaron, Mr. Davis and the Corcoran Southampton for breach of contract and negligent misrepresentation. And they don't feel like commenting.

But it can't be anything too horrible, as the couple is only suing for $20,700.

kvelsey@observer.com

John Carney at CNBC's NetNet explains that amid layoffs, another "summer slump," trading glitches, and the various other maladies plaguing our hard-working finance sector, the denizens of the financial district are having a tough time getting out to the beach this summer.

Which, of course, is a tragic change from what used to be.

One Goldman Sachs managing director, so fraught with distress, can't even remember where his beach home is:

In the winter of 2006, the Goldman guy bought a house on Long Island's North Fork. His wife and two daughters live there full-time during the summer. He expected to be able to spend weekends and perhaps two full weeks there during the summer. He said he's barely spent any time there at all.

"I'm not even sure I remember the address," he said.

One executive from a well-known private equity firm bravely spills the beans:

"We really haven't had one good summer since 2006. No one can relax on the beach—again!

Another investment banker complained:

"I've got a share in Amagansett. I go out on weekends. But everyone just talks about work. People can't kick back anymore.”

But there is good news, however: Wall Street seems to be slowly picking up some modicum of self-awareness. Emphasis ours:

"Oh my God. Are you going to write about investment bankers complaining about not having enough fun while they are sunning themselves in the Hamptons?" she asked. "That's going to do our image a load of good."

Maybe something closer to home would work. May we humbly submit Rockaway Beach?

Summertime Blues on Wall Street [NetNet]

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

Matt Lauer(s)

The sweltering pre-summer heat has begun to settle upon our fair city. In the season during which New York’s every nook and cranny teems with sweaty tourists, true city folk gather their kaftans and swim trunks, and head for the hills. The sandy hills of Main Beach, that is.

Fetching our long-hibernating car, we were pleased to find it still filled with the detritus of last summer. A slightly deflated sunhat, a beloved pair of flip-flops, a tube of now suspect sunscreen. We smiled, remembering with sandy fondness of our time Out East. Yes, while the city has its undeniable boons, nothing can quite compare to the Talkhouse late, late on a Saturday night, nor the peculiar shock of seeing endless George Hamilton clones strolling the bucolic streets.

Suffering through city traffic, and the doldrums of 495, we finally emerged on Route 27 where droves of convertibles wove between the trucks, each unnecessary acceleration screaming, “I’m getting to the Hamptons faster than you, just watch!”

Practically suicidal after hearing “Call Me, Maybe” a full six times on the radio, The Observer lost reception and exited the highway where congested interstate turned to into congested country road. Memorial Day weekend in Southampton, was, as expected, crowded. Women in airy maxi-dresses appeased screaming children with ice-cream; teens shopped the Soho-esque boutiques; young beaus in bright, patterned (ducks, flowers, whales, anything) swimmies showed base-tanned thighs; South Fork natives, wearing indignant athletic shorts and T-shirts, eyed their summer prospects.

We drove to Cooper’s beach, that riotous stretch of ostensibly public coastline which demands a $40 dollar daily parking fee. Barefoot, we traversed the sand and took a dip in the still-frigid waters, officially baptizing summer 2012. Basking in a beach-chair, we noticed that while our season had only just begun (as evidenced by our sadly pallid skin), others already seemed accustomed to the littoral tableau.

Salty-haired kids were busy digging holes at the water’s edge, entirely oblivious to the cold. Umbrellas partially shaded a group of buff (guy) and coquettish (girl) lifeguards, making it difficult to parse the group’s surely brewing summer romances. Our reverie was cut short, however, when a young beachgoer, packing up for the afternoon, whined as he headed toward the parking lot carrying a beach chair. “Mom, is there any way to open the Mercedes trunk from your cell?”

Leaving the beach, we drove along the country lanes, peering at the houses.

As we drove up Elm Drive, a convoy of valets heralded our arrival at the Hamptons magazine fête.
“Happy Hamptons!” A chipper reporter greeted friends, awaiting the arrival of the magazine’s most recent coverboy, Matt Lauer. While Today Show host was running uncharacteristically late, his likeness was broadcast throughout the venue. Copies of the magazine were arranged on tables for guests to peruse, and purported VIPs (housewives, real and otherwise) posed alongside posters of Mr. Lauer’s boat-shoes-and-khakis cover shot.

Bobby Flay tried to skulk in unnoticed, but was promptly called back to the step and repeat.

Peter Brant Jr. was in attendance, behind a pair of oversize sunglasses as he posed for photos with friends. “Now lets see one with a big smile,” a photographer said, wishfully. But Mr. Brandt maintained is cool countenance.

Trying to talk over the incessant gum popping, we spoke to model Julie Henderson, who shared her thoughts on the Hamptons. “I’m a resident here, for the summer” she explained. While Ms. Henderson stays in Southampton, she assured us there was no inter-Hamptons rivalry. Still, she prefers her own enclave. “I just think it’s cuter,” she said. Moreover, Ms. Henderson believes most people have quixotic vision of Long Island, believing the hamlets to be unrealistically opulent.  “I don’t find it to be really luxurious, in a way that people probably that don’t come here see it,” she told The Observer. “It’s very relaxing. I can bike to the beach.”

Others, however, found the Hamptons have waned in recent years. “I would say in the past ten to fifteen years things have changed drastically here,” Fern Mallis said. “The influx of all these people form Wall Street and from Europe, and the amount of money that people are spending here,” she said, were reasons why the community was indelibly reshaped. “This used to be a place where all the artists and writers and everybody could come and work and afford to live out here, and it’s very difficult for them now,” she said.  “Farms are going and all the land is going, and it’s getting really crowded.”

In particular, Ms. Mallis bemoaned the Hamptons’s epicurean scene, and said she was most looking forward to simple dinners at her home this season. “It’s crazy going to the restaurants in the summer! You know I don’t do the, ‘Do you know who I am? Get me a reservation!’ trick.”

Still, she was confident that the Hamptons holds some intrinsic value that opportunists and hedge funders can not diminish. “It’s still a beautiful place. No matter what happens, they can’t change the light and the air and the color and all the special things here.”

At last, Mr. Lauer arrived, apologizing for his tardiness. Though humble and unruffled, he made it clear this was not his first rodeo. He smiled at the cameras, affably chatting with the wide-eyed press and answering questions from indiscriminate outlets. He discussed his family’s newly acquired Water Mill farm, and his dreams of turning it into an equestrian oasis for his wife and kids.

Mr. Lauer, however, does not ride himself. “You know, I love things like golf and I love things like tennis, and I watch people get banged up riding horses all the time. If I did it, I’d want to kind of do it peddle-to-the-metal, and I think I’d probably end up in a body cast,” he told us.

Looking down, we realized Mr. Lauer was wearing loafers without socks. It must be summer! “You know, even though we didn’t have much of a winter out here I’m still thrilled that the warm weather’s here,” Mr. Lauer said. “This is the time we look forward to all year.”

Too true!

editorial@observer.com

The dread pirate ship Surf Lodge flies its flag.

The boutique hotel and restaurant that was the first front-line of Montauk's Manhattanizing opening in May 2009 has since experienced a few wipeouts with the natives. There's a price to pay for turning a tiny surf town into a fishing pond for Page Six-bound sightings, which The Surf Lodge apparently never ponied up. Its management is an abject lesson in what can happen when tone-changing businesses move in on small town locals without regard for nuance.

Take for example the hundreds of violation fines they had to pay up, which a local Montauk advocacy group basically lobbied to be enforced. They entangled the local government when officials agreed to amicably resolve an overflow parking dispute.

They've been accused of "flagrant disregard for the law" and Montauk locals have "had enough, and [are] fed up with it." Rumors that P. Diddy was going to buy the place persisted, but were denied. And then, just a few weeks ago, their lawyer finally make it public that they are in fact ready to sell.

The Diddy Rumor may be quashed, but Montauk citizens should be weary: The Surf Lodge's current owners are no Sean MacPherson (hotels The Jane, The Bowery, and The Maritime) or Andre Balazs of The Standard (who just took the Cooper Square Hotel off of its former management's hands). If those guys took over the place, watch out: Worse than attracting a celebrity crowd, they know how to work their way around pesky problems like concerned (read: pissed) citizens in order to open their hotels, whose nightlife destinations people will clamor (in accordance with regulations, of course) to get into. No doubt, though: the fate of the Surf Lodge continues to be one hell of a ride.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

Sam's Pizzeria, soon to be (insert philistine restaurant/club/boutique name here) (photo courtesy of Facebook)

Sam's Pizzeria, an East Hampton establishment beloved for its thin-crust pizza and its Draconian "for the love of God shut your kids up" policy, has put its Newtown Lane space on the market for sale or lease.

The 3,110 square foot building includes a 91-seat restaurant and bar, a 400 square-foot retail space, and two 2-bedroom restaurants. It can all be had for a cool $6.5 million, according to Brown Harris Stevens.

Founding owner Sam Naska and his family launched Sam's in 1947 and maintained the restaurant's timeless look until its recent sale to Graham Quinn.

The restaurant served as a reminder to East Hampton's classic, sleepy feel - Jackson Pollack reportedly used to guzzle both pizza and booze there - despite looking out of place once pop-up stores and major fashion brands became permanent fixtures on Newtown Lane and Main Street.

Though Sam's sometimes felt like an unwelcome place to dine - a sign in the front implored diners to keep their children in check,  its waitstaff were as sweet as they were gruff, and their surly barflies often sneered at newcomers - it remained an East Hampton institution.

Now Sam's has become "a unique commercial opportunity," leaving full-time residents, weekenders, and time-sharers with one less option for pizza (Fierro's is still good for a slice).

drosen@observer.com