It was more like a pat, actually. I patted Jeff Tweedy on the arm of his very soft, black overcoat and grinned at him like a drunk, drooling idiot.

A. got invited to Wired Magazine's Rave Awards at the Clift Hotel. Another reason why A. has the coolest job in the world. The first part of the night was the usual � high-strung media types in shiny disco clothes. We planted ourselves by the kitchen door and intercepted the servers as they came out with new trays of lobster cups and ahi tuna tartar and beef skewers.

A. found out about this party about a month ago, the day I drove out to the Creek to have lunch with Future Mother-in-Law. He called me on my cell phone as I was driving home and said:

"I just got invited to the Wired Rave Awards."

"That's cool honey."

"They honor the most influential people of 2002 at these awards."

"That's great."

"Guess who the entertainment is?"

"I dunno."

"Wilco."

Silence. For about a minute.

"Colddigits? Are you still there?"

Silence. Then:

"That's hilarious honey."

"I'm serious."

"You're a real hoot."

"I'm serious."

It went on like that for awhile until he managed to convince me that Wilco was playing a free, private show and that I possibly would be invited. We didn't know until about a week ago that A., as a member of the press, was in fact allowed to bring a guest.

So last night we camped out at these silly awards. All the nominees who bothered to show (seeing as how most of them were people like Steven Speilberg and Spike Jonez, there weren't many) sat in the other room, and we watched the video announcing the winners (during which none of the attendees bothered to stop talking, so I couldn't really hear what was being said about these revolutionaries)in the bar area.

After the awards, we migrated with the crowd into the main room, where, about 20 feet away with me, grimacing with a bright light shining into his face, fumbling awkwardly with his battered ski cap, was the Rock Star in Question.

I've never been that close to a celebrity I actually cared about. My unimpressive brushes with fame have been pretty much been limited to:

• Liz Tilberis in a NYC sushi restaurant
• Don King surrounded by men in suits in front of Madison Square Garden
• Bradley Whitford and the chick who plays Donna on The West Wing in front of the Museum of Radio and Television in L.A.
• Robin Williams, in wacky yellow sunglasses, walking with his sons in Golden Gate Park

But this was Jeff Tweedy, the Man I Came There to See, and he was close by. I was close enough to see the agitation at having to suffer through this nauseating event on his face.

So I was drunk, and beaming, and I gradually drifted toward him. He and the cute Wilco boys walked down off the stage, around the corner, and right past me. He saw me gawking at him with my stupid smile as he approached me.

"HI!" I shouted.

"Hi," he sort of squeaked back.

"CONGRATULATIONS!" I shouted.

"Uh. Thanks."

At which point I patted him. Sort of petted him, actually.

Anyway, this was obviously a pivotal moment in my life, since I've spent so much time sharing all the details with my Dear Diary. The better part of the evening was that we adjourned to Ruby Skye and saw a surprisingly good Wilco show. Despite the obvious fact that Jeff was miffed about being snubbed for a Grammy and receiving a fairly meaningless award in the same week, he and the boys gave a great performance, like the good monkeys I expect them to be.

And � being slightly intoxicated and, therefore, fearless, as I always am after two drinks � I made two friends last night. A cute blond British woman who helped me secure and keep my spot near the stage despite the hijinks of a couple of dumbass frat boys toward the end of the show. And a very talkative lesbian named Dean in the BART station after the show, who had only heard Wilco for the first time a week ago, who had asked her girlfriend to marry her this week then abandoned her for the evening to go to the show, and who really, really likes Ben Harper.

It's nice making friends.