The bizarre patches of unidentifiable odor, reckless cab drivers and the rush-hour grind. You'd never think that you'd long for these New York elements. It was apparent, however, that the laughable MTV Video Music Awards on September 10th, which soaked in the smog-thickened air of Los Angeles, desperately lacked the intensity and character of NYC, among other things.

Okay, no awards show is flawless. The MTV Awards, however, went beyond a few mere blemishes. Take the presenter's banter, for instance, the writing for which the MTV producers obviously handed over to some Catskills throwback getting off on double entendres that might have worked thirty years ago at Mount Airy Lodge. Yes, this is typical of awards shows, but MTV has always tried to rise to the occasion, letting the skin flow (Prince, Marilyn Manson and Howard Stern gave us an idea of what their proctologists could tell you), the performances unfold at their own pace (Pearl Jam going a few songs over their allotment back in 1992), and the hosts make the people with their finger on the bleep button develop nervous ticks.

Last year's Grand Poobah, Chris Rock was especially adept at the raciness, making a strong case that he could command a repeat performance for this year. But last year would not be duplicated in any way, shape or form. Maybe it was Mayor Giuliani's bullying of awards shows (the Grammys have also jumped town this year to head to Hollywood) or maybe MTV was looking to expand its California enterprise. Whatever the reason, the awards hit the Universal Ampitheater with Ben Stiller in the driver's seat. Based on his wry humor, which dominated this summer's laughfest There’s Something About Mary, and his long history with MTV, it seemed like a safe bet. Here, after all, would be the New Yawkish shlump mingling with Puff Daddy. Imagine their conversations backstage. There's Ben begging to be in Puffy's next remix video extravaganza preaching the word of Biggie.

Maybe the performances would up the ante from last year's batch of stand-out acts (Beck's Jumping Jack Flash dance and Jamiroquai spring to mind). Maybe the jokes would actually be funny. But none of these dream expectations panned out and when you think about it, it's completely logical. I'm proud to be a New Yorker and I would never settle for the West Coast. The reason is simple. I like to acknowledge myself as an asshole on occasion and New York gives me plenty of opportunity to do so. I push the tourists out of the way and head for the 1 or 9 train with no shame. I grumble to get in and out of the supermarket without being slowed down by a grandma in front of me. But every New Yorker with attitude wears it like a purple heart... proudly. L.A. folk can be just as rude, they just won't ever admit it. Rather, everyone tries to do outdo the other with fake smiles and fake breasts. And nearly everyone at the Awards Show on Thursday was wearing this LA attitude like a pair of warped falsies.

Stiller walks out in a sharksuit and instead of being the shmuck, he struts around like he's The Man. He's jumping into the crowd. He's pulling the Woo-Woo act that Arsenio buried along with his career years ago. He's talking with stars backstage like he is Puff Daddy. It doesn't work. Woody Allen gets away with shagging the Julia Roberts and Elizabeth Shues on film because he never plays the stud card. Stiller should be smarter than that. The man is not Leo.

Madonna steps onstage and the modern mom who hangs out with Ingrid into the late night at her favorite Manhattan rave spots disappears under a getup that makes her look like a Maharishi gone bad. She's cooing with Lenny "Where Have All the Dreadlocks Gone" Kravitz with her see-through top, obviously forgetting how to use her falsetto properly. When she speaks, she sounds more British than the Queen. No one says anything, including English lass Ginger Ex-Spice who presents the award to her for "Ray of Light" as Best Video. Ginger says she grew up wanting to be Madonna. Well Ginger, judging by Madonna's brogue, she wants to be you.

Beastie Boys seemed pumped enough during a romp-shakin' rendition of "Intergalactic," but while accepting a Video Vanguard award, Adam Yauch -- aka MCA -- has a flashback to his Tibetan Freedom Concert and starts preaching (reminiscent of Fiona's stint last year). MCA, the terrorists are not listening. The mall-rats that fill the pit begin to scream their approval as if this were the second coming of Ghandi, but MCA looks unhappy. He wants them to take his words seriously. It's kind of hard to do when Backstreet Boys are following you up and earlier, Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston have presented an award while stripping down their already revealing gowns soft-core style (Divas Do Dallas anyone?).

Most of these music folk have been here before. Most will be here again; some may not (Backstreet Boys, hope you enjoyed it while it lasted). But never before have all of them been so lost, so miserable. Won't someone please step forward and acknowledge they're acting ridiculous? The only three people to do so -- Beck, Marilyn Manson, and Busta Rhymes -- all played up their ham sides last year, so they don't count twice. Aerosmith comes out looking like Stevie Nicks crashed into an Urban Outfitters supply truck and can't even laugh at their fashion sense.

Courtney Love follows up Hole's pain-racked performance (my pain not theirs) by stepping backstage to talk about kidnapping Trent Reznor's testicles and how she's a smart one because she knows the word 'hubris' (hasn't this woman ever played Scrabble).

Green Day's Tre Cool was so high on smog that he climbed atop Universal's Globe like a two-year-old Spiderman who needed to be grounded. If it were New York, he'd have been shot down on sight and great TV would have been made. Out in the City of Angels, however, he can roam free. Looking at Kurt Loder and Chris Connelly sitting there speechless, one has to feel badly. They don't pay babysitters enough to have to deal with these raving kids. Maybe next year, MTV will come back to the Big Apple. Hopefully, rock stars with a sense of humor about themselves will come with them. If not, the Backstreet Boys will surely have their schedules free.