Ah, L.A. - land of smiling phonies, freeways that look like parking lots and swimming pools that no one ever swims in.

And a certain awards ceremony that's getting such insanely feverish coverage you might think they're doing something really important out here, like opening another mini mall.

Well, count me among the insanely feverish. I arrived Wednesday night, humble readers, and it didn't take long to figure out that nobody in L.A. gives a tinker's curse about the Academy Awards.

The only important thing is whether you can get in to any of the hot Oscar parties.

You can't. It's impossible. There's nothing that can be done. Don't even think about it -- unless, perhaps, you're Billy Crystal or royalty from a medium to large European nation.

Trying wrangle an invite to one of these events, say, the DreamWorks bash at Spago's, is like asking NASA if you can tag along on the next space shuttle launch.

Being from The Post, I'm not without friends. But after working the phones most of the day Thursday trying to get myself on the various lists for Sunday night, I was not encouraged.

"Unless you know Bob or Harvey personally or made a movie with us, forget it," said a publicist pal at Miramax, a guy who made it clear that he wished he didn't know me. He was speaking of the Weinstein brothers and their studio's soiree at the Polo Lounge.

"Today, literally, they're turning away really big studio execs," said another in reference to the Artisan/Details magazine get-together. "At a certain point, you know, they just have to bar the door."

To escape this nonsense, I called my buddy Corey Levitan, who wanted to meet for lunch. Corey's a freelance writer for the paper and a very L.A. guy, despite having grown up on Long Island. We're talking spiky, designer bed head and wrap-around shades. He wears a blazer over a white T-shirt.

I offered to pick him up, having rented a '99 silver Volvo convertible (for just a few bucks more than the Ford sedan I'd reserved - I'm sure The Post won't mind). He wasn't impressed by my wheels. "Dude," he said, "my car wins."

It did. Corey drives a convertible of his own, a spanking new, banana yellow Mustang, which drew looks of admiration when he pulled up at the hotel. "I figure we'll go over to West Hollywood," he said.

We drove a few minutes then stopped, jammed up behind a line of cars. My first taste of L.A. traffic - literally. And we weren't even on the freeway yet.

To keep me amused, Corey reached into the back and pulled out an album of photos. They were shots of him and Matt Dillon, the two of them surrounded by beautiful young models and mugging for the camera.

"This was on the roof of the Sunset Room," he explained. "They have these tents up there with flaps, so when you come out people can check you out." Corey was very proud of the fact that he and his model friends were checked out by Best Actor contender Denzel Washington.

We agreed that Dillon was a creep. "How could he cheat on Cameron?" Corey asked. "He only wants girls who don't want him. This black chick," he said in reference to one of the models, "he's been calling her twice a day."

We pulled in at the News Room, a fashionable and cavernous restaurant in West Hollywood, and got a table outside. We didn't see any celebrities. Corey pointed out that Morton's was around the corner. "That's where they're going to have the big Vanity Fair party," he said. "Great," I said. "I can stand outside and look like an idiot."

While we ate, his cell phone rang. It was a friend inviting us to Catherine Bach's house. Bach played the babe on TV's "The Dukes of Hazzard." Thanks to Warner's "Dukes" reunion movie, a crew from "Access Hollywood" was at her place shooting a segment. We decided to go.

As we drove, I realized I had no idea where we were or which direction we were heading. We went on Santa Monica Boulevard and Sunset Boulevard and up into the hills, Corey relating various tales of dead or disgraced celebs.

"That's where Janis Joplin died," he announced as we passed a plain white hotel. "It used to be called the Landmark. Now I don't know what it is. I work with a guy who was with her the night she overdosed. They said she was alone. She wasn't. She was with a group of friends. She wasn't depressed or down at all."

We reached a ritzy little suburban town, Sherman Oaks, and drove up to a sprawling ranch-style home right out of Architectural Digest. Bach, Corey explained, lived there with her wealthy entertainment lawyer husband Peter Lopez and their two kids.

Corey's friend took us to the back of the house, where "Access Hollywood" host Pat O'Brien introduced himself, then left. We stood around in the kitchen chatting with two attractive young publicists while the Hispanic housekeeper browned some hamburger.

Bach herself was warm and outgoing. Her house, decorated with Mexican flourishes and replete with toys, was quite the property. Out in the back was a large swimming pool. Naturally, no one was swimming.

After staying a bit, we headed back - and soon got caught in another vehicular snarl. What good was having a banana yellow Mustang convertible if you never went more than 13 miles per hour? "Dude, you wanted the L.A. experience," Corey said. "This is it. Sitting in traffic."

But what to do for the evening?

The headline-grabber here during the last two days has been an online film festival sponsored by Yahoo! Internet Life magazine. Wednesday night there was a screening of Mike ("Leaving Las Vegas") Figgis' new movie, "Time Code," a futuristic film with an ensemble cast that includes Salma Hayek, Jeanne Tripplehorn, Kyle MacLachlan and Holly Hunter.

Thursday night the festival concluded with a couple of parties, one for AtomFilms at the Chateau Marmont. AtomFilms is the Internet site for short films that grabbed attention at Sundance by buying a bunch of movies from young directors.

The question was: Could I get in to the AtomFilms bash? Corey already was on the list. I phoned a publicist and asked nicely and, surprisingly enough, was given the OK. Yes!

Chateau Marmont, like every place that's important in Hollywood, has a morbid past: Here, Corey was quick to point out, was where John Belushi died (in bungalow 3). We drove up, gave our names and were admitted to the hotel, which has a lush appeal. Levels of brick patios climb up the side of a hill and are surrounded by a thick tangle of plants.

I met a publicist I knew from New York, who explained that early in the day Jeffrey Katzenberg and Ron Howard stood right where we were, talking out some deal. But now there were no stars, just heat lamps and drinks and a band playing near the pool. (No one was swimming, of course.)

We then learned that the hot party for the night was not here but later at the Sunset Room, where the Yahoo! magazine people would be naming winners of their festival. Could we get in? Corey and my pr pal worked their cell phones. We got a break: The publicist reached the magazine publisher, who told her that if we got there early, he'd get us in.

We got there early, and it was a good thing. A massive crowd was just forming. The Sunset, you might recall, was Corey's kind of place - where he and his models and Matt Dillon hung out on the roof. "There's no more happening place in L.A. right now," he gushed. "Except maybe a celebrity's house where there's an orgy."

We pushed our way to the front but had to wait until the doors opened at 9 p.m. Meanwhile, a stunning brunette shot a little TV intro, a cameraman catching her as she sashayed down the red carpet that led to the club's front door.

She was unabashedly sexy in a crimson gown, pushing up her breasts and running her hands slowly over her butt. Her dress was tight enough that you could tell that she was not wearing underwear.

We got in well ahead of the clamoring throng. The Sunset turned out to be a huge restaurant and dance club with three bars. Corey, the publicist and I looked around for celebs. We didn't see any.

But we met Andrew Kramer, the Yahoo! Internet Life publisher, who raved about The Post. "I'm a New Yorker," he declared. "And I'm a huge fan of Page Six!"

We munched on hors d'oeuvres and drank apple martinis with gummy worms in them. The woman in red passed by so I introduced myself. Her name was P.J. Jacobs. "I'm an actor," she said. So what was that whole business out front with the camera? "I don't know. It's something they're going to use for the festival, online or something."

Finally, the stars began to show up. Roger Ebert arrived. Joshua Leonard and Heather Donohue from "The Blair Witch Project" turned up together. Lisa Marie Presley slipped in without attracting much attention.

The only one in a talkative mood was Jerry O'Connell, who's in "Mission to Mars." Corey did a profile of him for The Post recently, and the star was clearly complimented.

"I wanted to call you back but you never left you're number!" he said earnestly to Corey. "Leave me your damn number!"

O'Connell, lanky and handsome, looked great in a suit and tie. So what did he think of the Internet thing? Was it going to change the movie business?

"Yeah, these dot coms, they have a lot of money," he offered. True, but what will it mean for the future? "I don't know."

All righty, then. Great insights: That's why we work so hard to get in to these parties.

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