All Dressed Up and an Award Show to Attend

So, I go rent my tux, because I’m too cheap to own one, and I rent one with a vest, because I think God’s only mistake was the creation of cummerbunds, and I go to the Emmy Awards, because that’s what we do out here in California--we go to award shows.

I pull up in my car at the Shrine Auditorium, where a valet parker who seems eager to meet everybody recognizes immediately that I am nobody, because I would not be pulling up in my own car if I were somebody.

My wife and I walk up the red carpet, where my old pal Pat O’Brien is doing an interview for his “Access Hollywood” TV program. He is talking with one of those hot three-name actresses whose name I can never get straight, Sarah Lara Laura Jessica Jennifer Zeta Jones or somebody.

I enter the Shrine, where I spy a guy in a black tuxedo with white lapels, possibly the ugliest jacket I have ever seen outside of a circus. All he needs is a flower that squirts water.

Then I spot a woman with words all over her dress. Yes, words. There is writing from her cleavage to her hem.

I’m not sure what to do. I have never been slapped before for reading a woman correctly. Suppose her escort comes up and says, menacingly, “Take your eyes off my date.” I’ll feel guilty saying I haven’t gotten to her bottom line yet.

Time to find my seat.

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This is my first award show. Everyone else here seems such an old pro at this. I bet Helen Hunt never has to stand in line for a plastic glass of vodka, only to find out after 15 minutes that this line only serves plastic glasses of wine and beer. Helen probably never goes thirsty.

Then again, I do notice an actress from one of the 25 or 30 “Star Trek” spinoffs over there in line, same as anybody. I can’t recall what she plays on the show, a Vulcan or a Klingon or a Borg or a Venus or a Hingis or what. Her character has special powers. Maybe she can beam me a drink.

A woman passes out red ribbons, free of charge. I’m proud to wear one, in support of AIDS patients. I have just never known before this is where to get one. I guess you have to go to an awards show.

It’s almost show time.

Show time out here is 5 p.m., because it’s already dark on the East Coast and we wouldn’t want those poor babies to stay up too late. After all, we know that people in New York and Atlantic City and Miami go to bed at 11 o’clock.

Award shows shouldn’t be done in the afternoon. Cooking shows should be done in the afternoon. Californians are usually very busy at 5 o’clock, caught up in a really good freeway chase.

My wife and I find our seats next to a knockout in a stunning gown who looks at my tux and asks, “Bill Blass?” I tell her no, sorry, that’s not my name.

A TV producer alerts everybody that the order of awards listed in our souvenir program is wrong. I hope this means that Best Supporting Actress in a Mini-Series or Mini-Van will still be the first award.

I look at the knockout and wonder if she’s a seat-filler. Award shows use seat-fillers so seats won’t look empty on TV. It is the only occupation in the world for which I am fully qualified.

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The show begins. I have no rooting interest for anyone nominated. My wife roots only for Joe Mantegna, because he got nominated for HBO’s “The Rat Pack” for playing Dean Martin, her dad. Other nominees did very good work not playing her dad. She doesn’t care.

Categories whiz by. A “Frasier” writer decides the program’s three-hour running time applies mainly to him. His thank-you speech lasts just under two hours. Producers use everything but a Bo Peep hook to yank him off stage.

A funny thing happens with the acting awards. The winners are embarrassed at winning. Hunt wins, John Lithgow wins, Dennis Franz wins. They always win. They are in their chairs, praying somebody else wins. OK, so I’m exaggerating. Sort of.

The awards for best comedy and drama go to David E. Kelley, who now writes every show on television except Barney the dinosaur’s and the lottery number drawings. “Ally McBeal” wins. “The Practice” wins. Just shoot me.

By now I’m outside, waiting for my car. And waiting. I’ve seen entire miniseries that didn’t take this long. Jimmy Smits’ deathbed scene didn’t take this long.

There are post-Emmy parties all over town. I pass. It would be nice to meet some actual Emmy winners, but my seat is worn out from all that filling.

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Mike Downey’s column appears Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Write to him at Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles 90053. E-mail: mike.downey@latimes.com.