Coming-Out Parties for Two Magazines : Forbes Hatches His New Egg and Celebrates in L. A.

The East Coast media Establishment met West Coast club trendies at a launch party for Egg magazine, that wider-than-it-is-long publication with the odd name brought to you by Mr. Moneybags himself, Malcolm Forbes.

Forbes and his minions presided over a fete Friday night at Arena, the latest club happening from club happening veterans April and Christian. It was probably the only launch party/club launch ever with a receiving line. First in line was Malcolm and son Tim (with wife Anne), who offered handshakes and smiled identical smiles while wearing uptight suits and ties. Malcolm, we know you have some black leather jackets in your closet.

Once inside, it was night life as usual, with oval bar, really loud house music and a crowd that looked like leftover extras from “Slaves of New York.”

The Slaves of L.A. were an eclectic group, including Faith Ford and husband Robert Nottingham, Robert Townsend with Charlayne Woodard, artist Andre Miripolsky (still handing out those “Fear No Art buttons”), Allee Willis, “thirtysomethingers” Polly Draper and Melanie Mayron, public access star Mr. Pete with Maggs, actor Charles Busch (his show, “Vampire Lesbians of Sodom,” is coming to L.A.), Burt Sugarman and wife Mary Hart (her gams adorn the premiere issue cover), Hollywood Kids Lance and John, Mary Crosby, Barry Krost, Dolph Lundgren, plus Egg editor Hal Rubenstein and West Coast editor Jeff Yarbrough.

One woman was thrilled to see actress Julie Newmar, otherwise known as Catwoman. “I couldn’t believe it,” she said. “I said to the man standing next to me, ‘Gosh, I thought she was dead.’ And it turned out he was her publicist.”

Charles Busch perused his own spread in Egg titled “The Guys in the Freudian Slips,” in which editor Hal Rubenstein chatted with three men who are the toast of New York theater, appearing on stage as women.

“Thank god, some of this stuff got edited out,” said Busch with a relieved sigh.

At the coat check, one guest was distressed to find that her wrap had been hung on a wire hanger. “ Wire hanger?” she said, eyebrows arched. “Don’t worry,” said the man behind the counter. “Joan Crawford is dead.”