With Gwen and Cheryl in his sites, Corey crashes and burns.

As an entertainment journalist based in L.A., I attend lots of awards dinners. It's more for the dinners than the awards, though. And the open bars. We love those.

BMI and ASCAP are music publishing companies involved with songwriters rights. I have no idea what that means, nor do I care. All I know is that they each have an awards dinner with free food and drink each year.

A couple of years back, the BMI bash attracted Babyface, R. Kelly and Sheryl Crow, who mulled around with us non-celebrities before collecting their awards.

Seeing famous musicians up close is cool, sure -- the first dozen or so times. But the thrill wears off. There's nothing you can really say to them besides "I love your music," which they hear 438 times a day.

And they don't really want to be at these events anyway. They go because they have to. Some of the non-celebs they press flesh with are industry weasels who decide how much promotion and radio exposure their next album will get.

"Why don't you ever write about our awards?" the BMI publicist asked me. I didn't admit the truth, which is that they're about as scintillating as cleaning shrimp for three hours.

But, it suddenly hit me that I could liven things up. I figured out my angle: asking beautiful female rock stars for a date.

This was all purely for journalistic reasons, of course. Whether I succeed or not, the read should be good.

There she curvaceously stood in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel lobby, a formally attired Sheryl Crow chatting with two girlfriends. I downed my Absolut and club soda. What did Eric Clapton have that I don't?

"Hi Sheryl," I said, identifying myself. My hair fell over my face in a swoop. My two-tone wingtips had just been polished. I was looking good.

I stared deep into her eyes, just like Slowhand must have the night his hands started getting faster.

"You know what?" Sheryl said before I uttered a question. "I'm gonna sit down and have dinner. I'm not doing any press tonight." Not "doing" any press, huh? (I checked, like Homer Simpson, to see that I had not accidentally said this out loud.)

I explained to Sheryl that this wasn't an interview. My sole intention was to hit on her, mano a womano. "What do you think my chances are with you?" I blurted, focusing all the confidence I never had as a teenager into the question.

"Oh my God!" her two friends gasped, dragging her away as though I was Jack Ruby with a gun. But Sheryl was suddenly interested. "Wait a minute," she told them. "Actually, that's a lot easier to answer than anything else." I braced myself. As with juries and job applications, easy answers are not necessarily the ones you want to hear.

She pierced me with an "If It Makes You Happy" stare. God, I wish I had the power of the press in high school.

"Your chances are absolutely terrifying!" she said, before zipping off into the candlelight, laughing.

All right, so I didn't go home with Sheryl Crow. Maybe you did?

The cocktail-hour schmoozing at the ASCAP Awards was nearly all centered around my next victim: dazzling No Doubt singer Gwen Stefani. She wore a red dress and sparkly makeup. An orange flower parted her platinum blonde mane. She wasn't interested in talking with the people surrounding her. At least that's what I told myself.

I approached with another Absolut and club soda, and the strength that only comes from previous experience hitting on VH1 sirens at performers rights awards dinners.

"I'm so taken right now," Gwen responded to my advances.

Taken with me? I can deal with that. As she continued speaking, what she really meant came into focus.

"I'm totally in love with my boyfriend."

This was before she married effeminate Bush singer Gavin Rossdale.

"Aren't you tired of Gavin by now?" I inquired. The flower in her hair nearly wilted. "No way am I tired of him," she said. "Would you be?"

Cool. A rejection topped by an affront to my heterosexuality. This should be a great read.

Stefani was suddenly interrupted and escorted away to pose for photos.

I hope you guys appreciate how much I suffer for my work.

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