Richard Abowitz writes on http://vegasblog.latimes.com/vegas: On Saturday, I went to the pool at Palms Place to interview Hugh Hefner for his 83rd birthday party. I had asked for 10 minutes to interview him and was offered five minutes, and when the interview was over I was happy that I got in about two minutes with the legendary publisher.

Arriving late (confused, I went to the Palms pool instead of Palms Place pool), I was still earlier than Hefner. I stayed in the pool house out of the sun and noticed that I was next to Holly Madison, Hefner’s ex-girlfriend, and her publicist, Steve Flynn.

Flynn is also Criss Angel’s publicist, and Madison is Angel’s ex-girlfriend. And so I tried to keep my distance lest Flynn think I was going to surprise his client with questions about either of her former romantic partners.

Still, Flynn offered me an interview with Madison. I declined, for now, as she has no projects coming to Vegas that she is ready to talk about. When she does, I will look forward to our interview. But I did appreciate the offer. It wasn’t like Madison was short of people to talk to her, and that’s not including her many friends who were present. Reporter after reporter had questions for her. She even managed to have a mini-drama with another Criss Angel ex, a local television reporter.

In addition to the many members of the media present, the cable show “The Girls Next Door” was filming. (FYI to “Girls Next Door” producers, I did not sign your release and said “no” when asked for permission to be filmed, and if you put me on your cable show, you will be hearing from my lawyers — not bluffing). In fact, I stayed inside to avoid the sun and all of the cameras and film crews around the pool. But the room was open to the outdoors so it was a great place to see and hear what was going on inside and out.

Like an overstocked lake for a fishing show, beautiful women were planted everywhere. Chef Kerry Simon, whose restaurant’s backroom, where I was sitting, provided the staging ground to the pool area, was also present, as was Palms owner George Maloof. At one point, one of the stunning women said to another, “That’s George Maloof. He owns the casino. He makes $5 a second.”

Her friend thought for a moment and said, “Is that a lot?” I asked Maloof about that, and he smiled, wearily, but said he had no idea if the statistic was true or where the number came from. But unlike me and the women, I could see by his furrowed brow that he was making quick calculations out of curiosity.

Hefner eventually arrived with an entourage of women, security and even more cameras. Hefner and his latest group of girlfriends sat on a sofa directly in front of the room I was sitting in with Madison and a few other stragglers. Cameras snapped and television cameras rolled for about 10 minutes as Hefner relaxed — good times by the pool. During that time, I watched and listened as other television producers tried to persuade Madison to go outside and talk to Hefner. She refused. “Now is a terrible time,” she said. “I would never do it without cameras.” She probably meant a certain camera as there were plenty of cameras around.

While Madison was negotiating with her handlers, her back was to Hefner, and likewise Hefner had his back to her. Then, at one point, Hefner turned around and saw Madison and his face froze. I wish I could tell you what I read on his face at the moment, but I can’t.

He was inscrutable but focused. One moment, he was involved in the conversation at the pool with his new girlfriends and well wishers, and then he looked over his shoulder and started staring at Madison with a blank expression. I felt I was witnessing something painful and personal, the most real moment of a day being created primarily for good reality television and to promote Palms Place. But this day was also the first meeting between Hefner and Madison since they publicly split up. It was a strange moment that seemed to show how much reality television can exclude or even prevent reality rather than capture it.

Everything else that afternoon was as fake as I have learned to expect from television reality.The other two former Hef-mates (each leading a man by the hand) joined Holly Madison in back before they set out for the reunion meeting of the old girlfriends with Hefner and the new girlfriends. Obviously, every second was filmed for “Girls Next Door.” Then everyone went back to purposefully ignoring one another while being mere feet apart. Just before I interviewed him, Hefner was asked when he wanted to be surprised by his birthday cake. “That’s up to the ‘Girls Next Door,’ ” he grumped. I assume he meant the show producers, who seem to make many more decisions about how reality will unfold than the folks whose reality is ostensibly in front of the camera.

I was third in a very long line of reporters waiting to interview Hefner. And Hefner was already sick of talking by the time I was up. “This is getting ridiculous,” he said. I shook his hand. I asked with the recent retirement of his daughter if he planned to get more involved in the day-to-day operations of Playboy.

“No, I don’t think so. We will be finding other people to take care of the business end.”

Hefner mentioned how happy he was with the partnership with the Palms, which he called “only a beginning” without further elaboration. Then I mentioned Hefner’s good friend, and the man who gave me my first internship in publishing (when I was an undergraduate), the late, great writer and editor George Plimpton. Hefner pondered briefly his friendship with Plimpton and the closeness he felt to Plimpton as a fellow publisher and editor. Both the Paris Review and Playboy started publishing the same year.

Surrounded by flawless-looking, starstruck young people all wanting to catch his eye, Hefner suddenly and briefly turned more reflective than hedonistic. “One of the things if you live long enough is that you lose the people you most admired and some of your closest friends. But that is one of the prices you pay if you live too long,” he said. Then Hefner, wearing a sailor hat and a shirt decorated in old Playboy magazine covers, surveyed the scene around him, all the beautiful women, the adoring fans and the press lined up, and offered me his final words: “Small price.”

I shook his hand and was ushered away. Somehow, despite the sun, cameras and smiles the situation seemed more melancholy than I had expected for all concerned.