It's hard in here for a pimp
The bar's oddest moment comes, unsurprisingly, during Three 6 Mafia's rendition of "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp." The elegant crowd in the Eastman room initially stares, mouths agape, at the 'hood set, but soon heads start bobbing.

By the end of the song, the music has taken hold and the entire little room is hopping up and down, swaying back and forth. The spectacle of a few dozen people in evening gowns, long gloves and tuxes stomping to "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" is worthy of a very mediocre film about the stuffy uptight crowd learning to loosen up.

A few minutes later, after winning their award, Three 6 Mafia marches through the lobby pumping their Oscars over their heads. The entire lobby stops to cheer them on.

Where were you when 'Crash' won?
I return to my seat for the big award. If before the show friends wondered about the commercial breaks, after the show all anyone asked was what was it like when "Crash" won?

Well, after a night of total predictability and canned spectacle, it was like the statues suddenly came to life. More to the point, it was as though a bomb blast suddenly sucked every bit of oxygen out of the room and out of the lungs of every individual in it.

It's rare in life that one witnesses moments of true shock, but in the Kodak Theatre at the moment the crowd was informed that "Brokeback Mountain" was not, in fact, their champion, a wave of pure, giddy, roller coaster-like shock spread through the room.

And then, people rushed for the exits to beat the crush at the valet.

Spielberg Town
It's hard to remember that there was a time (way back in the '80s) when Oscar seemed hell-bent on snubbing Steven Spielberg at every turn. Today, it's clear that Mr. Steven Spielberg is the mayor of the Governors Ball.

Seeming unconcerned about the "Munich" shutout, Spielberg and his coterie took up a post just outside the entryway and played self-appointed host as the multitudes streamed by. Acting the gracious Grand Man of Film, Mr. S. received admiring handshakes and congratulated winners.

The director of "Tsotsi" stopped to kiss the ring, saying, "it all started with you." The "Wallace & Gromit" filmmakers (their project was produced by Dreamworks Animation) also stopped to chat. Spielberg told them, "It seems like just yesterday we were in that restaurant talking about this."

Gary Busey sticks his head into the circle and begins to tell Mr. Spielberg something, and almost immediately an event staffer is at his elbow, gently but firmly guiding him away and inside.

When Spielberg makes a phone call, a whirlwind of chaos suddenly opens around him. A borderline hysterical woman in his entourage barks to a young event staff, "Get ______ on the phone, A-SAP!" The event staffer hollers into her headset, in full crisis mode, "Get ______ on the phone, A-SAP!"

Moments later another staffer appears and they go into conference mode. The hysterical woman, blood in her eyes, soon grabs the young event staffer again, "I need a floater! Get Wolfgang and have him send a floater to me! I was supposed to have a floater!"

Inches away, Spielberg chats on the phone, oblivious.

The ball unchained
Inside, the ballroom is a winter wonderland done in all white with what seem to be giant ice crystals hanging from the ceiling. There is nothing particularly ball-ish about the party, however, as almost no one uses the tiny dance floor at the back of the room. Mobs form around the tables for the various films, hovering over the stars as they try to eat.

But contrary to the Ball's reputation as a place where stars pay their quick respects before fleeing to glitzier climes, many stay for a good hour or two. George Clooney himself doesn't pack it in until the crowd begins breaking up almost two hours after the show as Wolfgang Puck stands in the doorway, saying good night to his well-fed guests.

At the escalator, I am given a tiny little Oscar statuette made of chocolate, which ironically at this biggest show of the year constitutes the entire gift bag for non-celebrities.

And thus my awards journey, which began two months ago on a shuttle bus to the People's Choice Awards, ends in the Hollywood & Highland Center underground parking lot, where five floors belowground a long line of valets stand at attention and bring my Scion.

I drive up and up, out of the lot into the air and back into a world without gift bags, where no photographers scream at the front door and acceptance speeches are never ever cut off by the orchestra.