Do your thing on the runway.

There was a catwalk, a DJ, a bar, some food, awards and the press.

No, it wasn't the Oscars, Globes or New York Fashion Week.

This was the NJPA Awards in Trenton last night. That's the New Jersey Press Association for you non-newspaper types.

As a first-place winner, I was extended an invitation to the banquet to receive my award and mingle with peers and, unbeknownst to me, to walk a runway.

Now, from the moment I walked into the place, I knew this was going to have to be a blog. Heck, the journey there made me realize I needed to get this on the Web.

So here we go:

* I leave more than an hour early to get to Trenton. Come on, it's me -- I'm always late, but for some reason not only did I arrive on time, but early. I know. Most of you who know me well might assume that hell has just frozen over.

* I get my nametag and feel underdressed. Guys are in suits, women are in heels; I'm in pants and some flats. Now I know to break out the Kenneth Cole shoes next time.

* I attempt to mingle with people. Here's the problem: I don't really know that many people. (Hello, this was my first social event with other Jersey journalists, and I'm from Texas. Cut me some slack.) As that seems to not work, I go outside and call my friend in the City; I want to make an attempt to at least "look" cool. I don't think it worked.

* Someone I know talks to me and introduces me to other people. Hallelujah. I explain my Southern roots, how to pronounce my last name and the "fried Twinkie." The lights begin to flicker like at an opera house, alerting us to dinner. Pretty fancy.

* The Asbury bunch sit together, and dinner is served. It's chicken, the safety entree; it always is at banquets like these. You know what I'm talking about. The only thing was we couldn't identify the vegetable. It was green and small and oozing some sort of sauce. We asked the waitress what it was; she had to get a menu and still couldn't tell us. I left it on the plate.

* There was a "Woo-Hoo Girl." While one of the Journalist of the Years is awarded and while this guy talks about the war in Iraq and the environment, she woo hoos as loud as possible. Come on, it was a serious moment; you don't "WOO HOO" a serious moment. I don't know who it was, but I figured it was time to cut her off from the bar.

* The awards start, and I don't understand what category is being award. What I did find out: We must walk down a RUNWAY to get our award. Yeah, you read that right. Us journalist types strutted our stuff to get our award after our names were called, while a DJ spun some tunes. It was strange, but also sort of awesome. It may have not been "Project Runway," but I'll take it.

* Runway moments included four "Entourage" dudes standing on stage and strutting their stuff with their Vincent Chase-like leader, everything from The Beatles to Sean Paul blaring while awardees walked the catwalk, and some dude rockin' the runway -- arms up, award over his head and pumping the crowed up. Dude, you rocked!

I know this is long, but come on -- you know you laughed at the idea of journalists walking a catwalk. And if nothing else, you learned that fried Twinkies exist.

No iPod, but music I heard during the night: Sean Paul, "Temperature"; The Beatles "Hard Days Night"; KC and the Sunshine Band, "Play That Funky Music"; Kenny Loggins, "Footloose"; "Do You Love Me" from "Dirty Dancing" and some sort of techno music (and me without my glow sticks!)