It Just Isn't Fair

"That's very sweet, thank you," Waters says, "but neither one of us went to college."

Patty nods.

"Well," we say, deciding to gnaw a bit on our own foot, "Patty started college, but was sort of taken away from college."

Oops. Pardon us. And that, friends, is how not to get the ball rolling.

Elton is onstage, and the giant TV screens keep showing us his banger-sausage fingers working their magic on the ivories. It's louder than loud. He's singing "I'm Still Standing" with Jake Shears, the lead singer of Scissor Sisters who was all the rage (a few years ago). Shears is wearing a radioactive yellow suit, perhaps worried about not being noticed. Next, better, Mary J. Blige, who joins Elton on "I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues."

We plop down on a sofa and are suddenly aware of being watched by a tiny man in a white suit -- hey, that's Prince. Hello, Lovesexy. He's with three women and a few security guards -- a bevy and heavies. He nods along politely to the music. Um, shouldn't he be at his own pad, getting ready for the private after-party he always throws? We know "Atonement" star James McAvoy is going . . . shouldn't the Purple One be popping some Trader Joe's in the oven, lighting candles in the powder room? He must. He gives the signal and the group leaves, the minute Elton's concert is over.

But the party here goes on . . . and on . . . longer than Elton has ever gone. Harrison Ford is at an empty table with Quincy Jones. People keep coming up to Ford to shake his hand and tell them how much they love him. He smiles and nods, languidly, sweetly. He saves fast moves for the action movies. He's happily slow, while his partner, Calista Flockhart, ventures around the room, stopping to gab with Heidi Klum.

(Heidi has changed, from the bright red Galliano she wore to the Oscars and donated to charity, into a shimmery silver number cut down to here and up to there. How and where does this happen? Why don't they auction off the opportunity to be in that limo while the changing occurs?)

Cotillard arrives with her Best Actress Oscar and still more French people around her. She's still crying. We lean in and say: Buck up, mon petite fleur! Do it for the love of your country. She looks puzzled -- "eh?" -- and then she is pushed toward a sweaty Sir Elton himself.

Simon Cowell is at the bar, perfectly pleasant, in a slate-blue sport coat and a white shirt unbuttoned to his . . . it does not appear buttoned at all. It just disappears into his pants. Guys: Do not go out like this. We're for buttons.

That's about it, we think, reaching for a tiny grilled mascarpone sandwich and a side of truffle fries, only to be blocked by . . . Tim Allen?

The night wears on. Every conversation goes like this: Where next? Whose house? Who's invited? The answer keeps coming back: shrug. What is this thing called privacy? These "private" parties? What are these places the stars keep referring to as "my house" or "Guy Oseary's house" or "Prince's house"? Do they mean those places you see pictures of in magazines? Those places written up in real estate ads as "perfect for entertaining"?