LOS ANGELES • On Thursday I arrive at LAX with a tuxedo in my suitcase and a screenplay in my carry-on; but it doesn’t feel like Oscar season until I see Ben Kingsley. Sir Ben is standing curbside with his beautiful young wife, waiting for a ride.

Every year, I anoint a celebrity as the mascot of my trip, and this year, the perfect man for the job is Kingsley. Like “Slumdog Millionaire,” he’s half Indian, half British and all Hollywood. As far as I know, he’s the only man on earth who has both made out with Mary-Kate Olsen and won an Oscar for playing Gandhi.

Just as I’m about to approach him, Kingsley is accosted by one of the video paparazzi who stake out the baggage carousels at the airport. Kingsley politely answers questions until his SUV arrives, just ahead of my own ride.

My chauffeur is my friend Tom, a college grad who ekes out a living as a human guinea pig.  He has promised me a tour of LA’s own slumdog quarter. We drive his battered old car downtown and stop at a bar on Skid Row called King Eddie’s. When an old-timer overhears me telling the barmaid that I am in town to cover the Oscars, he opines that Melissa Leo should win Best Actress for “Frozen River.” “She’s paid her dues,” he says.

Welcome to La-La Land, 2009.

When I go to the Hollywood and Highland complex to pick up my press credentials, a thirtysomething woman is sitting on the grand staircase that leads to the Kodak Theatre. She is holding a hand-lettered sign saying “Enjoy your Oscars − this Screen Actors Guild member is homeless.”

Surrounded by signs of urban decay, I make a pilgrimage the next day up the coast to Ventura, where I hope I can catch some sunlight and snag an interview with a friend of Heath Ledger: Ned, the cocker spaniel that the young actor gave to his then-girlfiriend Naomi Watts. Ned sometimes resides with a college chum of mine; but alas, the dog is now in New York with Naomi and her new baby. But I did get to see a shrine of Heath’s old throw pillows and wall hangings. And my friend causally mentioned that the beachhouse itself used to belong to John Ritter.

This is a town full of  surreal overlaps between art and life. At my hotel on Saturday, the entrance to the parking lot is blocked by a drunken Johnny Depp impersonator, tramping home from his street corner job on Hollywood Boulevard.

I expect to see the faux Captain Jack on Sunday, in the usual throng lining the avenues that lead to the red carpet. But security has been beefed up this year, and the fans are now squeezed behind long barricades. The only protesters I can find are two women with muscular dystrophy who have a beef with honoree Jerry Lewis and a codger handing out pamphlets saying the Holocaust was a hoax. He tries to hand a pamphlet to Ryan Seacrest, who breezes by oblivious.

While we are waiting at the long security line to enter the bleachers, Jim Moret of “Inside Edition” reports to his colleague Deborah Norville that the box office haul for “Madea Goes to Jail” is at $40 million and counting. “What’s the world coming to?” he asks.

For now, what the world is coming to is this particular block in front of the Kodak Theatre. For three hours I watch an unusually multicultural parade of celebrities. While the kids from “Slumdog” do a group interview on a podium, my section of the bleachers is serenaded by a South African vocal troupe.

The old pros arrive: Sophia Loren. Jane Russell. Mickey Rooney, who makes a plea to save the retired-actors’ home, which he says is more needed than ever. Kevin Kline gives me a shout-out for St. Louis.

As the minutes tick down to airtime, the star power and pace quicken. Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens from “High School Musical.” Mickey Rourke and Marisa Tomei. Sean Penn. Kate Winslet. At last, Angelina and Brad.

Michael Sheen, who plays the interviewer in “Frost/Nixon,” tells me “It’s weird to see so many famous people gathered in such a small space − beneath a blimp.”

The “Slumdog” children, many of whom had never left their hometowns, rush up to get autographs from Daniel Craig and Meryl Streep, who are delighted to see them.

Yet the person I’m most excited to see is Kimberley Roberts, the aspiring rapper and resident of New Orleans’ Lower Ninth Ward who is profiled in the extraordinary documentary “Trouble the Water,” my favorite film of 2008. As I shake her hand, I almost cry at the miracle of her survival during Hurricane Katrina.

But then I see Ben Kingsley, and I can’t help smiling. Soon his ancestral homeland will awaken from this dream, but for tonight, humble India is the center of a changing universe.