Toto, I think we're back in Kansas.

It all began at a straw-covered parking lot, from which the 450 or so guests summoned to John Traina's Napa ranch for his biennial Fourth of July blowout were bused. Once guests arrived at the ranch, they stepped into a county fair fantasyland. "Western attire," read the invitation, and everybody complied. (Gucci, which had just sent down a cowpoke-influenced collection for next spring, was simply a couple seasons too late for this fete.)

There were, as in years past, rustic old carriages—45 wagons in total—lined up along the long driveway leading to the property's entrance. A man dressed in red, white, and blue like Uncle Sam and wearing stilts that made him eight feet tall greeted visitors: "Welcome, welcome." Inside were such down-home American attractions as cotton candy machines, shooting galleries, trampolines, fake-tattoo artists, photo booths, even roving magicians ("Pick a card, any card").

The guests—including the usual suspects from the San Francisco-Wine Country social axis, such as Norman and Norah Stone, Seth Matarasso, Sally Debenham, and Elizabeth Swanson (of Swanson Vineyards)—got into the spirit of the affair. There was Academy of Art's Elisa Stephens, spotted having her palms read. Urannia Ristow and O.J. Shansby lined up to get fake tattoos. Later in the evening, O.J.'s financier husband, Gary Shansby, won her a big teddy bear with his shooting prowess. It was an odd sight, though, to watch Gary walk around with his prize in his arms, even smooching the bear for a photographer. Who says VCs don't have a softer side?

If there had been a prize for best costume, however, it would have gone to host John Traina himself, who manages to outdo the guests at every ranch party he throws. This time, he turned up as an American Indian scout, complete with long braided hair, suede fringed pants, and a cowboy hat. He was barely recognizable to many guests.

"I always come as a cowpoke, so I thought I'd do something different this year," he said.

The Traina teens, Vanessa and Victoria, injected a jolt of youthfulness and sexiness into the biennial affair as they slunk around in revealing outfits—one in a barely-there halter and cowboy hat, the other in a strapless mini and braided hair. One of their friends, a teenage boy, came topless with war paint on his face and chest. The generation gap was never more apparent.

"It was, like, all the older folks, and then 18-year-olds, with little in between," remarked one single socialista in her late 30s, noticing the lack of eligible singles. Still, the girls got the party going, tearing it up on the dance floor after the buffet dinner, with others joining in for a square dance and a line dance. Now that Vanessa's also gone blond, the provocatively dressed sisters are a matched set—although they'll be broken up again this fall when Vanessa heads to Los Angeles for college.

In Lake Tahoe, a different faction of sociables was sweating it out

on the dance floor. The occasion was PR gal around town Lori Puccinelli (whose family's long been connected with the city's social and political elite) and her water polo-playing groom Peter Stern's wedding. Not surprisingly, given her promotional skills (her brother wasn't kidding when he told the reception audience there must have been 23 engagement parties), Puccinelli certainly knows how to throw a bash.

Approximately 400 guests descended upon Squaw Valley for the celebration-cum-media-event that lasted three days over the Fourth of July weekend. The Queen of the Snows church was so packed that plenty of people were left standing in the back.

This included guest Nancy Pelosi, who came for the service and a reception at PlumpJack. "We've known Lori since she was a little girl," Pelosi told the Socialist. "We wouldn't miss this for the world. We just came up from Yosemite from a wedding of one of our friends' daughters and have a funeral to go to next."

Oakland mayor Jerry Brown, eyeing Pelosi deep in conversation with the Socialist and a W editor who was covering the event, leapt to Pelosi's side to rescue her, right about when our House minority leader was expounding on her fashion tastes (Armani, if you're curious; shops at Wilkes Bashford when she's in town). That promptly ended the chat. What could one possibly chitchat with Brown about? The alarming murder rate in Oakland?

Freed from the clutches of niggling reporters, Pelosi, along with husband Paul, hit the dance floor and boogied to "Let's Twist and Shout." They were joined by Julie Gilman, Dorka Keehn (who also made it to the Traina party the night before), and the gregarious Puccinelli, who pulled people onto the floor. The guests ranged from local sportos such as ex-49er coach Steve Mariucci (some guests asked for his autograph and to be photographed with him) and skier Jonny Moseley to San Francisco social types Gordon and Ann Getty and the Newsoms (Gavin and sis Hilary) and event planner Stanlee Gatti.

During the dinner reception, Stern was handed a mike, and he explained the origins of his nickname, "Peaches." (Incidentally, Puccinelli's is "the Pooch," from her last name.) "I was born in Fresno, and I used to visit a family friend's house where I loved eating peaches. It sort of stuck." Well, Peaches, now it's permanently in print.

The presence of Peaches' teammates made for a crowd of tall, eligible men, and several social gals scored (if only for the evening). But it was a different alleged coupling that led to an incident nicknamed "the caning." One female guest, recovering from a foot injury and on a crutch, clashed with her fiancé over his reputed smooch with a young blonde. Enraged, she began to beat him with her crutch until the fight was broken up. Puccinelli's mother admonished them to "act like adults," and together with the actual fireworks, the night ended with a bang—literally.

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