08.30.02 - 1:52 p.m.

I didn't lie. I did watch the VMAs last night. . . (pause for effect). . . I just happened to see them from my very own orchestra seat in Radio City Music Hall instead of my bedroom.

Eeeeeee! I went to the VMAs! I have been waiting for this moment for 15 years.

But anyway. On to the name-dropping. Kerry snagged the tickets from her wonderful fabulous finance job connections and, bless her little heart, knew I was the only one who would appreciate it as much as she. We entered through the side door as we weren't allowed north of 50th St. where all the opening act hoo-ha was going down. Saw Steve-O complaining about his lack of star treatment outside. Please, dude, you stapled your balls to your leg. What kind of respect are you looking for? We then cruised the lobby and decided our best bet for star-gawking was the green room (where there was also free food and drink.) Love the "Freston Guest" passes. Had much champagne and ogled B-list celebs like Ethan Zohn chatting up my nemesis Jennifer Love Hewitt (friendly exes?), Shannyn Sossamon, Molly Sims looking rather healthy, accompanied by a stickly model friend, various Strokes and VJs Quddus and Hillarie (looking EXTREMELY skeletal.) So many protruding hipbones in the building. As J.Love exited, one of her entourage shouted, "She should have an escort waiting out there!" Pffft. Heh.

Took our seats at quarter till 8 and watched the parade of stars come down the aisles. Again I shall list: Anson Mount (VERY attractive in person; I don't blame Britney one bit for anything she may or may not have done with him off-camera), Jesse Bradford, Ethan and Hillarie again, Donatella Versace, Randy, Simon, Paula, Justin, Kelly AND Ryan Seacrest from American Idol - but no Brian Dunkleman. Ha ha! Someone wasn't invited! Chris, JC, Joey, Travis Barker, David Allen Grier, Outkast, Russell Simmons with Foxy Brown, Meg White, Melissa Joan Hart, Sean "Puff the Magic Diddy" Combs, Mary J. Blige and Damon Dash all walked the aisle next to us. I saw Joe Levy, Gideon Yago (eee!), two of the BBMaks and bumped into Donald Trump in the lobby. Sadly, I couldn't talk to Joe about the Great RS Redesign since I still don't have my freaking copy. Blar. Anyway. Brian McFayden and Nicky Hilton lasted 20 minutes until Paris came sashaying down the aisle, cell phone clamped to her anorexic ear, and the three of them girly-ran out of the auditorium. It was almost the best part of the evening watching the Hiltons run so ridiculously.

The best part, however, was Guns N' Roses. Shut up. They just brought my rock moment extravaganza full circle. I'm sure I must have watched the VMAs once or twice before, but the first memory I have of them as a truly important event was the 1987 awards at the beginning of fourth grade. I invited my friend Kelly over and we dressed up in our grown-up costume cocktail dresses to watch the whole thing. Moom watched too, and she was probably shocked, even then. In fifth grade I bought the Appetite for Destruction tape for $6 at Phar-Mor and kept it in my desk at school, so a) cute Jason who sat next to me might see it, since he was a GNR fan and I was a Jason fan, and b) so Moom WOULDN'T see it. That would shock her more than any of the PG13 hijinks on the show, and well they should. No 10-year-old should be subjected to that album art, especially a 10-year-old girl. I had no idea what Axl was whining about when he talked about Mr. Brownstone, but I appreciated it for the badass milestone that it was. And still is.

So when Axl yowled for us to take him down to the Paradise City and touch his serpentine - which was thankfully clothed in track pants and not white spandex, since he's not the skinny boy he once was - I saw the good old rock n' roll debauchery of my MTV glory days. Not this stupid half-baked Linkin Park mook rock. Dan busted my high by scoffing at my excitement and dismissing GNR out of hand. Well, let me say this, Mr. "I Heard Sheryl Crow Was Good:" She wasn't. Her dress and hair were, but the song was no masterpiece. And Sheryl Crow COVERS Guns N' Roses songs. Poorly. What does that tell you about the grand rock hierarchy?

But anyway. Let's not get bogged down by semantics. I liked our orchestra seats better than the true VIP Gold Circle Mezzanine, where we gained access to after Kerry's boss went home and gave us his lanyards, because we were in closer proximity to the stars downstairs. I came here to ogle, dammit! Not to eat prawns and oysters, although it never hurts to have more free champagne. So after half-watching Eminem's boring performance, we returned to our seats in time to catch the staged Moby-Eminem catfight and Christina's patently fake boobs.

After the GNR rawkfest, everything ended with little fanfare and Kerry and I realized we would have to pay for wherever we went next. So my night ended unceremoniously with a walk from Radio City to the Port Authority, where cold sad reality slapped me in the face as I waited for the last bus home. Nothing like weirdos all around and a pigeon flying over your head to make you realize you're not so VIP.

I must send Tom Freston a thank-you note.

Oh, and Britney holding hands with Michael Jackson during the Best Pop Video nominations clip? CREE-PY.