Welcome to the 17th annual Video Music Awards.

During his pressroom appearance halfway through the broadcast, electronic musician Moby said there were two kinds of artists: good-looking kids who were popular in high school, like Ricky Martin, and the dorks who everyone hated. The second type, like him, retreated to their bedrooms and learned how to play instruments so they could make girls like them.

Moby might be right, but at this point, the popular kids are kicking ass.

Eminem, who you could argue is a high school runt exacting indiscriminate lyrical revenge in the name of losers everywhere, is the only exception. He won two-and-a-half awards, including one for best video and a shared award with Dr. Dre for "Forgot About Dre."

But the losers aren't supposed to grow into bigger assholes than the stupid jocks. Are they?

In the midst of this great high school soap opera, there was the typical senior-year foofaraw -- except for all the, you know, learning stuff. The cheerleaders delivered smutty dance routines, the rebels practiced a little delinquency and one class clown got hauled away in handcuffs.

I was there, kind of, taking it all down for the yearbook.

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For a massive live production like the VMAs -- which the press guy in charge said was being seen in 323 million homes in 139 countries with "a potential audience of 1 billion people" -- you need a thicket of security measures to keep fans from penetrating the hallowed starland backstage, chatting up Milla Jovovich for her phone number or, say, rushing the stage and climbing on sets during the performance.

This tiptop security is maintained mostly by big guys with walkie-talkies who work off a rainbow of badges that signify various privileges. A yellow one, like mine, meant that before the show started, when the stars were pulling up in limos and milling around near the entrance, you could stand in a pen with catty, ignorant journalists from all over the world. These journalists are, of course, too jaded to know the names of the people on the red carpet.

To be honest, I was one of them. I thought Britney Spears was a cleaner Christina Aguilera -- until later on in the show when Spears ripped off her dark pants and slapped her jiggling ass. I identified 'N Sync, but never did figure out the difference between 98 Degrees and, um, the other ones.

Can you blame me? It was nuts out there. The sidewalks around Radio City Music Hall were so crammed with people that to move half an inch you needed a police baton and a pit bull. On the opposite side of Sixth Avenue there was an inflatable man-on-the-moon statue and bleachers full of squealing girls who sounded like they were seeing the Beatles at Candlestick.

The band Papa Roach was performing that godawful meld of metal and rap on top of the Radio City marquee. And there was blue and silver confetti flying through the air. Meanwhile, some guy with a radio next to me kept saying things like, "Do you know where Keanu is?"

I noticed that Kid Rock's nose is bigger than you would think, that Aaliyah's gums are bright red and quite prominent, that Wyclef Jean is a press whore and that Michael Moore is fat and dirty.

The journalists, contained behind the fence, would try to snag performers for quick, bite-size interviews. They were invariably stupid. Sample question for Limp Bizkit's Fred Durst: "What's your favorite pasta?"

It was ziti. But moving on, those crazy Red Hot Chili Peppers (shorter than you would think) staged a scuffle for the cameras and accidentally doused a bodyguard with a bottle of water. He was not amused. U2's Bono and Larry Mullen Jr. didn't want to talk to anyone.

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