Stars walk the walk at CineVegas

Friday, June 8, 2007 | 7:16 a.m.

The red carpet, as practiced at the Palms on Wednesday night, is life in miniature.

At one end, you are introduced to expectant people who are happy to see you. As you progress along there are noise, confusion, pain and opportunities for sex. Then it ends.

The CineVegas red carpet at the Palms does not lead anywhere. There is no destination, per se, no door, no event. Famous people are driven up to one end and, at the other end, there are the same black Escalades, waiting.

Make of this what you will, life wise.

And how do the famous people look? Fabulous. Otherworldly, like they have come from a far-away planet to rule us and make us, their unworthy subjects, thinner and more stylish.

Brad Pitt will be king. We know this because he's the smartest one, the one who wore sunglasses.

The glasses block the camera flashes, but more important , they hide the frightened ferret eyes of famous people on the red carpet, eyes that betray the struggle between the poor famous person's glands, which react to the shrieking mob and yelling photographers by pouring out chemicals that say, "Flee! , " and the brain, which argues back that he has been paid millions of dollars and has to do this, it is expected. Receive their worship.

And this Las Vegas crowd of half locals and half tourists worships Brad Pitt. But then, Vegas worships anyone.

This town doesn't just get star struck. Its pupils dilate, its breathing becomes shallow and it rolls onto its back and writhes at the merest hint of celebrity. This is a town that boldfaces the names of "Saved by the Bell" actors and covers their doings.

People think L.A. is fame obsessed. It's not, really. It's obsessed with getting into the entertainment business, or staying in it or seeing someone else fail in it. But Vegas is prepared to worship any amount of fame down to the subatomic quarks of fame, and worship it pure, unconnected with any business or accomplishment, just as fame.

And this time, Vegas got to react to real fame - Pitt, Matt Damon, George Clooney, Don Cheadle, Ellen Barkin, Andy Garcia, Dennis Hopper - not fame fame (Paris Hilton et al) or Vegas fame (Wayne Newton, Carrot Top).

They were both there, by the way, the Vegas contribution to the red carpet glitter. The crowd looked puzzled, but still asked for autographs. Then Newton and Top were scooted off before the real famous people arrived from L.A.

It was a momentous occasion, one to record for posterity. And so, a brief history:

4:50 p.m. - The red carpet walk isn't supposed to start until 5:30, so this is plenty early, enough time to check in, mingle and stake out a spot, right?

The parking garage is full. There are maybe 1,500 people here already.

A young woman in heavy makeup tactically deploys her bosom over the velvet rope into the media pen and asks a security guard to let her in.

"But we're nice girls," she says.

5:02 - Television crews are killing time by exploiting a deep truth about the American public: It likes to go, "Woooooo!"

The crews point their cameras at chunks of crowd and ask, "So, do you like Brad Pitt?"

"Woooooo!"

Not much happens until ...

6:40 - Seven black Escalades pull up.

Clooney pops out, looking like a movie president in a relaxed scene.

Woooooo!!

Jerry Weintraub, the " Ocean's Thirteen" producer and one of the CineVegas honorees, walks out and there's the sound of faint microphone feedback.

Matt Damon.

Woooooo!!!

Andy Garcia.

Woooooo!

Brad Pitt.

Woooooo!!!!!

Don Cheadle.

Woooooo!

By now everyone is paying so much attention to Clooney, Damon and Pitt that Ellen Barkin slips in almost unnoticed, except by the herd of startled British pack mules that take pictures of celebrities.

"Ellen! Ellen! Look at us, love! No! Not like that, you git! Over your shoulder! Over your shoulder! There's a love!"

6:50ish - Maybe there are 3,000 people here. Lots. Tons. Small nation.

Brad Pitt is off the Woooooo-meter. The meter is broken. It's hysterical, Beatlemania shrieking now.

"Oh my God, I want to eat him up!" squeals one young woman who keeps bobbing and putting her hands to her mouth, even though at most she's caught like half of Pitt's face through the photographers.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" she shouts. "Brad Pitt, you are my God! I love you!"

7:08 - Don Cheadle is the first to escape. Run, Don, run!

7:14 - Clooney slides out.

7:15 - Brad Pitt nearly causes the largest simultaneous orgasm in history when he runs off the carpet into the tail end of the fans, the ones who've seen nothing all evening.

In the ensuing chaos, he escapes.

7:20 - Rubble. Decimation. Dispersion.

The "but we're nice girls" girl slumps her whole torso over deserted velvet rope.

No more woooooo.

Woe.