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I'd like to tell you about all of those things, but there's a problem. The grace and beauty of the celebrities was completely outdone by the boorishness of some of the photographers and TV journalists who'd turned out to document the event for various outlets -- and by the luck of the draw, the worst of them seemed to be clustered around me. Forget Lil' Kim's silver mesh harem-girl outfit: The people behind the cameras were the real show. "Would you mind not elbowing me in the balls?" snarled the surly English photographer to the petite dyed-redhead battle-ax shooting for Germany's Burda, whose ruthless conquest for personal space knew no limits.

With my acute perceptiveness, I'd sensed very early on that Rosie, the Burda battle-ax, was trouble. Forget that minutes before the red-carpet procession started, she'd nearly shoved me clear in her mania to get a good spot. (I'd staked out my own space a good half-hour earlier.) I knew I was in for it when she asked me who the first celebrity was, as her line of vision was temporarily blocked. "It's Maggie Rizer," I said; Rizer is a model I recognized from fashion magazines.

Rosie's disdain for me hung in the air like a musty fringe. "I am a fashion photographer and that is not Maggie Rizer!" she informed me sternly. The next instant she had her lens trained on the girl, calling out, "Maggie! Maggie!" After Rizer had made her way past us on the stubbly red carpet, Rosie turned to me and said somewhat sheepishly, "I thought you meant the other blond." I knew we were going to be fast friends.

Don't get me wrong. I recognize that photographers in this particular line of work need to be aggressive. And I'm a big girl: If they're aggressive in my airspace, I have no problem telling them to take a hike. (When Rosie asked me and a fellow journalist if we could please lean back, as we were there for "fun" and she was there to take pictures, I reminded her icily that we were working too. "Just kidding," she said distractedly.) I can spend one night a year in the midst of morons and survive admirably. But what about the celebrities who have to deal with them all the time? I've never in my life been so glad not to be Heather Graham or Sharon Stone or Christy Turlington. If this is the price you have to pay to saunter around in a little Gucci now and then, I'll gladly stick with Old Navy.

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