I'M PROUDLY late for the Mayor of Sunset Strip party ...

LY late for the Mayor of Sunset Strip party because I'm actually buying records—which is what real music fans do, especially after they peel off some "50% off" stickers and put them on the imports they actually want from the Union Square Virgin Megastore. Any fan would do the same after having seen the documentary on Rodney Bingenheimer. There's never been a better case made for rock 'n' roll consumerism as a sucker's game. It's certainly a brilliant film, though, with a Sixth Sense-style twist that's presented halfway in the telling.

The movie begins as a reliable glorification of the legendary 60s groupie turned respected Los Angeles DJ. Then there's a neat scene where Sir Mick Jagger coldly dismisses the concept of Rodney being remotely respectable. That's matched by veteran L.A. rocker Cherie Currie appearing out of nowhere to throw cold water on the happy hipster stance earlier sported by Rodney and his good pal Kim Fowley.

From there, the documentary becomes a horror film about wasted lives and childish behavior—although Mayor producer Chris Carter, who is a New Jersey success story via Rodney's support of Dramarama, kinda disagrees: "It wouldn't be fair to portray Rodney as someone with no emotions. He gets mad just like anyone else, but he's an admirable guy. It's the business and his radio station that's not so admirable. He's stuck to his guns and has been the same way since Day One."

That's partly what's so pathetic, of course. Rodney's ultimately a guy who's made millions for others while bums piss outside of his apartment. "It's funny," notes Carter. "People, especially Rodney, have an issue with this being a sad film. I understand why people would say that. If we'd ended the film with a parade for Rodney, or him getting a star on Hollywood Boulevard, people wouldn't see it as sad. Instead, things kind of spiral down after he puts his mother's ashes into the sea. But, overall, I think Rodney is pleased with his life."

Like I said, pretty pathetic—although Rodney would've still gotten his ass kissed if he'd been present for the big party at Plaid. A merry mishap in scheduling, however, has left Carter and Bingenheimer opening the film simultaneously in New York and Los Angeles. Carter's chosen to stay in L.A., also. I'm actually talking to him via his cellphone while getting ready to avenge Rodney at the cash register.

It's impressive that I'll even do that much, considering how Cherie Currie feels that she didn't do enough to derail the film. "I just wish I'd told the truth about fucking Rodney Bingenheimer," she notes—to which her sister Marie replies, "You fucked Rodney Bingenheimer?"

"No, I didn't fuck Rodney…"

It's kind of like a comedy routine. Of course, Cherie and Marie aren't at the party, either. I've just been waiting six months to use those quotes. There really isn't anybody I'm looking to meet at Plaid. I'm not even that excited about the scheduled appearance by a semi-version of The Raveonettes.

Carter suggests that I hang around to see if Courtney Love hits me with a microphone stand, but I'm not interested in winning that new rock 'n' roll lottery. I'm perfectly content when Essex comes out to perform a really great set. They're so good that they don't even have to dress up like it's New Wave Night at the Bowl-O-Rama. That's my cue to leave. I didn't need to be an apprentice at Trump Plaza to learn that the only way to win a sucker's game is quitting while you're ahead.

Besides, I feel much better about the nostalgic vibe at the big 70th Anniversary Show at the Apollo Theater—later to be repackaged for NBC as A Hot Night in Harlem, although the network should've saved that title for a docu drama about Freddy's Fashion Mart.

The red carpet is the usual sad experience of hacks trying to gather up celebrity comments to shore up the third-quarter slate of back-to-school articles. The reporter from the New York Post is actually trying to hack her way clear through November. Meanwhile, some poor creep from Us Weekly is stuck soliciting celebrity questions for Carson Kressley. Actually, Blair Underwood—who's dared to take a break from L.A.'s pilot season for this occasion—comes up with a pretty good one.

I'm grateful to be next to BET and a reporter from the New York Times. They generally stay on topic, and it's perfectly pleasant to listen in as Tracy Morgan and Herbie Hancock reminiscence about the Apollo. Ossie Davis can even remember way back to when Harry Belafonte supported equal rights for black people.

I'm equally pleased to be in the Apollo's bathroom while hearing Cissy Houston doing a radio ad about how substance abuse can tear apart families. The only other entertainment is in the press room, where reporters and photographers whine about how they have to settle for box dinners instead of the lovely buffet spread out for people who actually work for a living—which, surprisingly, includes myself, because beleaguered production assistants like writers who enjoy seeing other writers being denied food.

The sole tv feed goes on the fritz during the Pigmeat Markham tribute, so I sneak over to score one of the empty seats in the Apollo's balcony—just in time to enjoy Bob Dylan doing "A Change Is Gonna Come." Actually, I get to see him do it twice, thanks to a technical glitch. The band bears down hard the second time for a much-improved performance. A loose battery pack also requires Ashanti to reprise her performance, so that's a lucky break for the guys.

I'm not worried about missing too much back in the press room. Harry Connick Jr. came across as a reliable class act, but it was creepy to hear Al Sharpton talking about the good old days when Jews weren't allowed in the neighborhood. Denzel Washington was exceptionally good-humored, though.

The only person I actually have business with here is Girls Gone Wild mogul Joe Francis. He's attending as the guest of his Bel Air neighbor Quincy Jones—much to the consternation of those reporters from the Times and the Post. "He's such a sleaze," whispers the lady from the Times, baffled at how Joe could be riding along with a gentleman like Quincy in a Time-Warner private jet. It doesn't occur to her that Joe must be a fairly charming fellow to have built an empire from girls taking off their shirts for his cameras.

Joe really does seem like a good guy, and my opinion certainly isn't changed by the suspicious rape charge that surfaces the next day. The Times reporter, incidentally, is quick to email me with a request for Joe's private phone number. Yeah, like I'm in a hurry to help her provide some fair and balanced coverage.