It was an evening of glamour and spectacle and A-list celebrities and vintage wines and drag queens when Tori Spelling and Dean McDermott unveiled their Bed & Breakfast to the world Saturday in Temecula.

Wait, check that: Well, it was an evening of drag queens, at least.

Spelling and McDemott have purchased and renovated a B&B in the Temecula wine country for a nation’s hearty bemusement – it’s all for an upcoming Oxygen channel reality show, “Tori & Dean: Inn Love,” debuting March 20. And so, on Saturday, the couple threw the B&B equivalent of a movie premiere, where everybody who was anybody – well, anybody who was willing to endure a two-hour-plus drive through such alluring hot spots as Chino and Hemet and Walnut and Pomona, that is – was there.

Your Mayor and his companion – who, in honor of a request for anonymity, may or may not have been but probably wasn’t named Beyonce – made several grave miscalculations on our way to the swanky event. One, we took the invitation’s suggestion that the drive from L.A. to the B&B would take 90 minutes at its word; two, we were egregiously leisurely in our preparations, not allowing ourselves anywhere near the suggested 90 minutes before the event was to begin before embarking for the great rolling hills of Temecula; and three, we actually had the temerity to begin our trek from the heart of Los Angeles, which allowed for a fun-filled hour of sitting in the gridlock that is Saturday-afternoon L.A. traffic before hitting the open – or, as the case turned out to be, not-so-open – road.

Long story short, we arrived about a half an hour before the event was scheduled to conclude.

By the time we did arrive, all of the available red wine had been consumed; a variety of white wines from a local vineyard were still available. About which, let’s just say that there was no doubt a most compelling reason that “Sideways” was not set in Temecula wine country, for the screenwriters would’ve had to kill themselves coming up with variations on Miles’ line: “It tastes like the back of a f@%&ing L.A. school bus. Now they probably didn't de-stem, hoping for some semblance of concentration, crushed it up with leaves and mice, and then wound up with this rancid tar and turpentine bullsh!t. F@%&in' Raid.”

To take one’s mind off the lack of red wine – or, perhaps to spur people to gulp down the white regardless of its flavor – in a nearby tent, female impersonators lip-synced the songs of their doppelgangers, Madonna, Tina Turner and Cher. (Although Cher herself looks like a Cher female impersonator.) Which for a moment made me wonder if “Tori & Dean: Inn Love” was a reality show on Bravo, not Oxygen.

Tours were being offered of the B&B, some by Spelling (who looks ready to give birth at any second) and McDermott themselves. And, in keeping with Spelling’s professed goal “to reinvent the B&B, kind of do a modern take on it, and kind of reinvent it for our generation,” their place must be the first B&B with a velvet rope policy.

Security people weren’t allowing people to storm willy-nilly into the edifice, citing fire-marshal regulations, an argument that might’ve held water had not every other Hollywood event in history boasted a more sardine-like atmosphere. (To be fair, they probably didn’t want people who didn’t score a gift bag making off with the porcelain horse head in the foyer.) McDermott reminded the door security to bar all cameras and cell-phone cameras, lest anyone not attending the event see the décor before they book their reservations.

My companion – who, in honor of a request for anonymity, may or may not have been but was quite likely not named Corinne Bailey Rae – and I were trying to suss out the caste system at work, and were assured that most of the people being allowed into the home without waiting in line were associated with the show, and that celebrities weren’t necessarily being automatically granted access into the inn. “Perez Hilton wasn’t allowed in,” we were told.

“Well, sure – they don’t want to have to tent the place,” I replied.

And, as if to prove the point, Kato Kaelin was refused entry and told to wait in line with the rest of us plebes.

Ah, Kato Kaelin. His 15 minutes are long since past, but no one seems to have given him the memo. He was endlessly performing for cameras – the show’s cameras, infotainment reporters’ cameras, heck, had someone pulled out a cell phone camera he no doubt would’ve done some shtick for it, as well. And, as luck – or the utter lack of same – would have it, he was in our group for the tour of the B&B.

In one room, a model in a T-shirt, shorts and tube socks lolled on the bed, reading a magazine, creating an approximation of how homey the room was were you a model with tube socks and a magazine; Kato made out with a lot of “Hey, does she come with the room?” and “I’m comin’ to join you, sweetheart” kind of stuff, which no doubt amused his date. At another room, he disconnected the velvet rope and, for the cameras, wackily pretended that it was a snake on the loose. He did a lot of other stuff, as well, all of it loud and boisterous and faux-ingratiating and authentically grating, but fortunately, I’ve been able to expunge most of it from my memory.

The interior design strayed a good country mile from the rustic aura sought by most B&Bs: My companion – who, in honor of a request for anonymity, may or may not have been but most assuredly was unlikely named Eartha Kitt – an architect, declared it C-level Kelly Wearstler and noted how it provided a jarring counterpoint to the otherwise bucolic surroundings. Our tour guide wasn’t Spelling or McDermott, but a young woman brimming with knowledge. When asked who the designer was, she said she didn’t know. When asked what room rates would be when the inn opens for business officially next weekend, she said she didn’t know. (Before its extreme makeover, rooms went for between $165 and $395 a night, already putting it decisively on the high end of the scale for that area. This is the sort of assiduous crack research upon which you can rely from Your Mayor.)

What she did know was that patrons expecting Tori and Dean to serve them smoked-apple bacon and eggs and chorizo and gourmet pear-Hawaiian French toast in the morning will likely be sorely disappointed. “They’re going to stay based in L.A.,” she said, niftily torpedoing the reality show’s conceit in a single sentence.

By the time of our arrival, food wasn’t not only not being served by Tori and Dean, but had ceased being served in general; all that was available for the peckish were the comestibles on a lollipop tree. How lollipops fit into the grand theme of an evening defined by drag queens, local wine, amoretto liqueur, middling modern design accented by classic touches and Kato Kaelin remained a mystery, until my companion – who, in honor of a request for anonymity, may or may not have been but was clearly not named Agnes Moorehead – noted, “They’re sweet and colorful and simple and cheap and round. Just like Tori.”

Hey, she said it. Not me.