News editor Mark Giles managed to scrounge up two tickets in the nosebleed section for the All-Star gala in D.C. Here's his report:

No question about it: This is W's town now. From the vocal stylings of Harry Connick Jr. at halftime to the nation's other capital pursuits -- next at The National Theater, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, starring Ann-Margaret ("an exhuberent [sic] delight", ABC-TV) -- Inside the Beltway has morphed from a soap opera to dinner theater.

Not that reality can't still make a cameo: at the NBA Jam Session, a sign warned that all firearms would be confiscated. (Clearly, the distance between Bullets and Wizards is all too short.)

Before the Game, I went down on the floor to meet and greet. Connick was rehearsing "Sweet Georgia Brown." What are they thinking? But how about that star power backstage? Willis is holding court. Dr. J, looking like a head of state, is greeting fawning fans, Oscar is talking animatedly with a reporter and Tom Chambers? Tom Chambers? What the hell is he doing here?

Upstairs I join my son Robert in a seat high enough above the court that we might technically be in Maryland. We are in our element -- our section has a decided Eastern Conference bias. Every time Ray Allen touches the ball, the one woman yells out "Ray, Ray" while another yells "Jesus" with the same intensity. There are Philly phans directly behind us, including one teenager who, everytime the Mailman touches the ball, murmurs "Mr. Fundamentals" in a tone devoid of respect. This kid's game plan is simple: Isolate AI, and let him go to work. Robert and I are from Brooklyn. We're here for Allan, Spree and Steph ("Big Up, Coney").

With the East down 19 in the second half, a lot of the cheap-seaters start to leave, but our section has bonded. The Answer is putting the game on his back and Dikembe is furiously cleaning the glass and we make a run. They can't stop AI, we can't stop Kobe. When Steph nails two crucial threes, the Kid screams out "Philadelphia and Brooklyn are in the house!" Kobe's got the ball ("Kobe's no punk") but he incredibly dishes to TDunc (which must make Shaq feel just great) who misses from 12, with CWebb's putback rolling out at the buzzer.

We all jump to our feet, high-fiving, screaming and jumping up and down. The East team is all over each other, the West guys standing around with towels over their heads, not watching the winners celebrate, too dejected to move. But no one leaves the court.

Wait a minute. I've witnessed this scene before. This is W's worst nightmare and it's happening in his backyard: The MCI Center has become The Cage on West 4th.

And you know what? These guys could go one more.