“What … just … happened?”

That was the question I blurted out seconds after the last celebrity swaggered down the red, okay, technically, blue, carpet last night.

Last night’s 2011 Los Angeles GLAAD Media Awards are now a wrap … and even with three hours of sleep in me, I still have enough adrenaline coursing through my veins to hurl an SUV across a parking lot — not unlike The Incredible Hulk.

Like any good newbie, I got to the event yesterday afternoon an hour early.  (If you know me, you know that’s an Xmas miracle.  I’m rarely on time.)  I wanted to scope out the location and get the 411 on everyone and everything.  And I also wanted to see if I was overdressed or underdressed because God forbid I was a fashion faux pas.

The term “cattle call” had to be coined for red carpet events.  It’s truly like getting well-dressed, impeccably groomed bovine from point A to point B.  I liken it to being on a conveyor oven … except you’re not moving.  First of all, it’s 350 degrees.  At the front of the line, celebs are fresh and juicy … and, by the end, they are totally baked.  Mercifully, I was about 2/3’rds of the way down sandwiched between CNN and the Seattle Lesbian News.  (Weird, I know, right?)

When the first celeb arrived, all the reporters straightened their ties or re-applied their lip-gloss … uh, or both.  At the start of the blue carpet, I saw what appeared to be a gangly, freckly-faced 12-year old boy.  “Who the hell is that?” I asked to no one in particular.

No sooner had I said that when this spry little guy magically appeared out of nowhere.  I jumped.  Seriously, I think he rappelled down from the ceiling.   “That’s Cameron Monaghan from Showtime’s ‘Shameless’,” said the publicity elf.

“Yeah, I have NO idea who that is, my friend,” I said.  (Note to self: these are words I will NEVER, EVER utter again.)  Publicity Elf #1 snapped his fingers and suddenly two more elves arrived to give me his complete Hollywood history.  By the time Cameron Monaghan arrived in front of me I felt like I had actually given birth to this kid.  The Q&A was quick and polite and …

“OMIGOD, HERE COMES MELISSA ETHERIDGE,” someone barked out at the front of the line.

I shoved Cameron to the ground, fixed my hair and turned just in time to see Melissa running down the red carpet.  Actually, she wasn’t running, she was being drug down the red carpet by her publicist very abruptly.  She waved.  I smiled.  And that was that.

Publicists are the bane of a reporter’s existence.  They can make or break you.  From what I gleaned last night, you can spot a publicist a mile away.  They are usually sniveling, weasely, impossibly skinny girls who look like they’ve never once gotten laid.  And they hover over their stars like a mama grizzly protecting her cub … if mama grizzlies were 85lbs and Jewish.  Shalom.  I didn’t have any run-ins with publicists last night … mainly because they were too busy rushing celebrities through a sea of waiting microphones.

Several stars took the time to stop and talk to every media outlet on the red carpet.  At least then you could take time to mentally prepare your questions and get your bearings.  Nothing is more disconcerting than trying to get the perfect sound byte out of someone in sixty seconds, and you have no clue who they are.  (“Yes, I know you’re on some reality show that’s seen by nine people and I apologize in advance for not knowing exactly who you are.  My bad.”)

Which stars showed me love?  Which stars yelled at me?  Which stars no-showed … upsetting the blogosphere?  Stay tuned … it’s all in Part II.