It may be ‘Page-Six Journalism’ but that doesn’t mean I’m not learning a thing or two …

Thursday night, I found myself inside the Staley-Wise Gallery in Soho, sipping a flute of champagne and trying to work up the nerve to run over and say hello to Keanu Reeves. I had squeaked “Hi!” when he walked past me earlier in the evening, but had been afraid to open my mouth any further; star-struck, rather than a legitimate question like, “So what was it like working with photographer Amanda De Cadenet?” I was afraid some horrible Bill&Ted/Speed/Matrix reference was going to come flying out of my mouth – “DUST IN THE WIND, MAN! DUST … WIND!”

Hence, the champagne.

The gallery event was neat in that I saw more celebrities in one night than I’d managed to run into living in The City for an entire year … but seeing as how nothing fell down, and I had PR reps swooping down on me like crazed hawks, dragging me to their up-and-coming clients and unknowns in the hopes I’d give them some press-time, the experience was much less thrilling than last week’s von Furstenberg debacle.

I did, however, have a few words with Heather Graham (totally freaking her out by committing the faux pas of shaking her hand – she kinda flinched a little, haha, I forgot that you’re not supposed to “touch” them) and I rubbed elbows with The Strokes and interviewed Nick Valensi, who is in a relationship with Ms. De Cadenet, the photographer whose exhibit we were celebrating. Nick was really cool; gave some good quotes, shook my hand amicably enough, and I couldn’t help but add as I was slipping away, “Oh Nick? --Love the music!” and he thanked me, and I fled.

This was after a long day of seven hours of class, so on getting home I promptly went to sleep – after getting an email from the editor asking if I’d like to attempt to cover Gwen Stefani’s runway debut of her L.A.M.B. (Love Angel Music Baby!) line on Friday night. Hm … getting into le Stefani Affair was going to be much more involved than slipping into the von Furstenberg showroom, but I figured I’d worry about it the next day, after writing up the gallery piece.

Blooddite Erin Coe and I set off to cover the Gwen Stefani event. Seeing as how it was in Roseland Ballroom, a popular concert venue on 52nd and Broadway, I grew more hopeful. Roseland is pretty big; lots of standing room. Even without tickets, we should be able to talk our way in …

Cut to an hour waiting by the backstage entrance with the other members of the press, the clouds overhead growing darker by the minute and the wind picking up ominously.

“We’re gonna be caught in the hailstorm,” one disgruntled photog in black muttered, and I couldn’t help worry he might be right.

Coe and I got to the door and spoke with the Brunette With The Clipboard. Wrinkling her brow in confusion, she told us that we from The Observer were not on the list. Erin and I feigned surprise. She told us she’d see what she could do. On coming back, however, she announced, “Do you have a cameraman? Because we can let you in if you have a camera.”

Alas. Of course, we did not.

“So you’re just reporters.”

Ouch, man. Ouch.

“How about a camera phone?” I asked her – not that I even have one of those.

That actually elicited a laugh from her, but she turned us away. “Go to the front entrance and see if you can get into the standing section.”

So we hustled around the block to the front entrance with Najwa Moses, an NPR reporter who would become our ally as the evening progressed.

The line at the front, as one might expect, stretched around the block for approximately a kazillion miles.

“Oh HELL no,” said Najwa. Following her lead, since she actually had a badge and a pass with her photo, a bar code and, more importantly, the word “PRESS” in bold black, we marched to the front of the line and tussled with security. Coe and I, having absolutely no badges or credentials, waved our pens and notebooks in the air.

I’ve never seen a woman talk as quickly and confidently as Najwa, and angrily yet with respect. When security insisted we all go to the back of the line like everyone else, she fed him a never-ending line of, “We are PRESS we need to cover this event we ARE on the list I already had an interview with Gwen earlier this afternoon now I need to cover this event and I am not waiting in line behind all these people who are probably not on the list just let us ask these nice people here at the table if they have us on the list because we are PRESS we are PAID to COVER this event for the news tomorrow-“

Brilliant. I took mental notes for future emulation. And ya, we cut right to the front of the line.

Here’s where it gets embarrassing; because Coe and I knew we wouldn’t be on the list. And we were not. Najwa got her ticket with “Standing” scrawled on it in black felt pen, and Coe and I were told we were not allowed in without RSVP or tickets, but we could wait “by the side” and after everyone with “standing” was let in, if there was room, we could go in.

AKA – tough luck, toots.

We walked with Najwa to the standing-line, which was sizeable but not too long, yet. We leaned against the wall next to her and considered our next move.

Suddenly, Coe, more observant than I, asked, “Wait – can I see your ticket?”

Najwa passed it over … and … ha ha ha ha ha ha ha … you won’t believe this.

This coveted standing-room ticket … was an index card.

A small, plain, white rectangular piece of paper, ruled with blue lines on one side, blank on the other.

And on the blank side was scrawled “Standing” in half cursive/half print.

Coe and I looked at each other, the same idea going off like lightening in our minds.

I held our place in line with Najwa, and Coe ran to a nearby Duane Reade, bought a pack of index cards, and scrawled “Standing” on them. We considered making some more and scalping them, but decided not to press our luck – no pun intended.

And so, courtesy of Duane Reade and a little sneaky ingenuity, Erin Coe and I followed Najwa into the coveted, top-notch security fashion show that anchored the entire Fashion Week, and managed to catch the L.A.M.B. debut with no creds, no ID or bag checks, and more importantly, not paying $100 for a press pass, or RSVP'ing in advance.

We went up to the mezzanine, ducked into a storage room and took some chairs, and the three of us were able to stand on chairs and look over the balcony and see everything we wanted/needed to see.

It was the best event I’ve covered all week; the music, mostly Gwen’s with a sprinkling of Gavin’s new music and some remixes of old faves (like ‘Favorite Things’), and the clothes were great and everyone watching THIS show was dancing, not yawning. There were even Cadillacs on hydraulics bouncing to the beat. Good Times.

And afterwards, we managed to run backstage before anyone noticed, and I ran right up to Gwen, one of my idols since I was 15, and managed to get some great quotes from her. Coe pegged down Lenny Kravitz (“His skin is like butter, Pesce. His skin is like butter.”) AND we both got up to Gavin Rossdale and took part in the media scrum asking him what he’d thought of the show. Coe and I also walked around on the “runway” (basically the floor of Roseland Ballroom covered with sparkling sand) and scored two programs as souvenirs. Ironically, when we tried to leave by going out a back door, security stopped us – we didn’t have backstage clearance.

You noticed that a few hours too late, fellas, hahaha.

So Coe and I ducked outside, high-fived on the street, and celebrated with a beer. The next day found us pounding the pavement in different city nabes, already on another assignment.

I can only imagine how busy working for a daily newspaper must be.