Daily Breeze, Feb. 1998 AMERICAN BANNED STAND BY COREY LEVITAN Banned from the American Music Awards! How could I ever face my family, my friends, my peers? "That column you wrote last year was very offensive," said the organizer of the awards show's backstage press area, who -- since I've offended him already I might as well point out -- looks and dresses uncannily like Pee Wee Herman. (Ooh, I wish I had the power of the press back in high school!) Last year I decided to get more interesting than the lame horserace article every other newspaper runs: "Yanni went home with seven AMAs last night, shutting out favorite John Tesh in blah, blah, blah..." Who really cares about the AMAs anyway? The only reason this red-headed stepchild of the Grammy Awards was started 25 years ago was because ABC-TV couldn't land the rights to air the Grammys. So they got Dick Clark, "Mr. Rock 'n' Roll," to make up his own version. That's the same as if NBC started its own Superbowl just because it lost the contract. So I took my readers backstage with me instead. I described my Hunter S. Thompson-esque escape from the lowly print journalism ghetto in the basement, where no good gossip or food was to be had, to the "Entertainment Tonight" resort village on the second level. Here veggie lasagna wasn't the only dish served as Mary Hart and her man-servants cavorted in luxury. In this garden of gossip I picked up tidbits including the reason nominees the Smashing Pumpkins were A.W.O.L.: a source told me the Grammys forbid musicians from performing at their show if they had already performed at the AMAs, a policy "uncovered" by the L.A. Times only earlier this week. There is a price to be paid for journalistic excellence, however. And here I was, a year later, an AMA pariah. Other reporters would point at me and snicker. I would never report in this town again. "It's not up to me," Pee Wee explained. "It's my boss. If you throw a party, you have the right to say who comes into your house." His boss? So Dick Clark actually read my article? I personally offended the man who offended me throughout my childhood with the disco edition of "American Bandstand"? Pee Wee wouldn't confirm whether one of the goals of my life as a music critic had been fulfilled. But I must have some good karma going. Because whenever it seems like my world is populated only with Pee Wees and Dicks who hate me, I get a phone call like I got Monday afternoon. "How fast can you make it downtown?" It was a friend asking if I wanted to attend the AMAs as his last-minute "plus-one." (That's industry lingo for a guest of somebody important enough to actually be invited with a guest.) I high-tailed it home, where I ransacked my closet to assemble the closest approximation to a tuxedo mankind has ever seen. (Mom, if you're reading this, that's a birthday hint.) Thanks to L.A.'s congestion-free infrastructure, I arrived at the Shrine Auditorium two-and-a-half hours into the three-hour show. Which was just in time to see Michael Bolton belt an Italian opera. If I go to hell when I die because of articles like this, I imagine the arrival ceremony will be similar to this experience. What no one got to see on TV was that Bolton was reading phonetically transcribed lyrics off a teleprompter. "Veen Chero, Veen Chero, Veen Chero," the monitor prompted him, which is Italian for "Welcome to hell, Corey." Following the performance, the voice of my biggest fan filled the venue. "We are running short tonight," Dick Clark addressed the assembled superstars, "so we won't need to ask you to cut your acceptance speeches short. Take your time with them." The reason they ran short, I gleaned after watching a tape of the AMAs the next day, was that there weren't all that many superstars assembled. Many of the winners didn't show up to accept their awards -- Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, the Spice Girls, Bush, Elton John. I suggest a new category: Favorite Artist Who is Actually Present Right Now. (Incidentally, as I can't seem to let an issue of RAVE go by without slagging the Spice Girls, how can they win three American Music Awards when they represent neither America nor music?) In the place of some of the A.W.O.L. celebs was a curious breed of award-show attendee. The seat- filler is most likely a male USC student, donning a tuxedo that doesn't fit, who volunteers to scrounge around the front rows for a vacant seat. He will then occupy it so it looks as if the show is too happening for anyone to miss a second. Whenever an awards show camera flashes to Cher applauding beside some guy straight out of a Clearasil commercial, he's not necessarily her latest sexual hors d'oeuvre. Not necessarily. "Coming back from commercial in 25 seconds," the voice of Dick said. (He was never actually seen, much like God in the Bible or John Forsythe in "Charlie's Angels.") The ushers started to panic. "Debbie, we need seat fillers up by Puff Daddy!" one screamed. "Quick, you guys!" The clock was ticking. Oh, the excitement. "Fifteen seconds!" Clark came back. A flock of seat-fillers whooshed by, rehearsing their "hi, mom" wave to the camera en route. The future of humanity was safe once more, and it was time to celebrate. The after-party was next door in a huge auditorium lined with six catering tables and three open bars. I must give high praise to the caesar salad and Seagrams cocktails, but being forcibly ejected in the middle of a schmooze was not an experience I looked forward to. I kept an eye out for Pee Wee, whom I had met at the last AMAs. As my eyes were peeled, I noticed that even the A-level celebs that were on stage -- Janet Jackson, Shaquille O'Neal Erykah Badu -- were strangely nowhere to be found. But I did spot Howie Mandel mingling with Oliver Stone (can't wait for that movie!). And, about 20 minutes into the shindig, God himself made an appearance, over by the shrimp table. Just when I gathered the gall to walk up and congratulate Dick Clark on a job well done, suddenly the pair of suspicious eyes I had been dreading all night stared my way. They were Pee Wee's. I closed my own eyes and prepared for what would be the best part of this column but the worst part of my evening. I imagined myself thrown into a room by one of Pee Wee's henchman, where Dick Clark would beat me like I was a member of the Jackson 5 as AMA telecast host Drew Carey played his accordion for added torture. Two seconds, an eternity, went by. Then five. I opened my eyes and Pee Wee was gone. He didn't even recognize me. Dick was gone, too, and my column would have to end in an anti-climax, much as the AMAs usually do. Dick, since I know you read me regularly, let me say that I really do love your "American Family Sweepstakes" commercials. What do you think my chances are of getting an AMA invite next year?