2008 VMA Diaries: Red Carpet Memoirs
by Angela Bruno
The very gracious Paramore.
Objective: Survive. Status: Just barely. [Ha!] As I began to ponder the last few days, I now know why celebs need to be bathed in unicorn's milk and massaged thrice weekly: Parties. Open bars. Free food. Late nights. No-problems-at-the-door. The sense of entitlement. Expensive hotels -- with turndown service and peanut butter cookies. What a tough life. [Sigh.] Fame (or, well, the mere observation of it, in my case), you are a fickle mistress. But just like that -- the VMAs are over. You watched the show, you be the judge. There will be no VMA punditizing here. Just behind-the-scenes moments of the big day from the Patagonial regions of the red carpet. Walk in my (luckily flat) shoes -- for 12 hours on the Paramount lot.
Now, that's official.
After four hours of sleep, a mad morning dash and a ride with a GPS-enabled-yet-totally-inept cabbie, I arrive at Paramount Studios to easy-breezily check in on time -- or get shut out. Or so I thought before being misdirected three times. After 30 minutes of jumping hurdles 'round the compound, I start to feel a little like Lolo Jones: so close but yet so far. But I make it, only to be corralled in the media holding room, playing the waiting game for more than a hot minute at slot 125 (out of 132) on the carpet. Hot or Not is even before me. Gross. We are warned that our mission would be hot and not so comfortable, that we'd have to elbow our way in, but they'd have water for us. After finally being released, I slither up 30 spots or so by playing dumb, if I do say so myself. As it turns out, the red carpet was a good time and not as inhospitable as anticipated, even with the sun barreling down. Except for when The Hills' Stephanie Pratt (the first sign of celeb life at my post) walked by and ignored everybody. Not that I was looking for her insight. But remember She-Pratt, you owe everything to your sociopath brother Spencer; what he giveth, he can taketh away. But I digress. All the hard journalism gets started when Heavy D's publicist approaches me for an interview -- but he never shows. And OMFG, my camera didn't charge -- but there are outlets. [Phew.] I even make a buddy-for-the-day, a journalist from Paris, who I will lose a few hours later at the afterparty as she smokes cigarettes with the Ting Tings and vanishes into the night. Basically, everything went according to plan.
THE WALL. The wall that blocked our view and laughed as T-Pain arrived on his pachyderm, as Jeezy rolled in with his Obama's Angels, as Danity Kane strutted their stuff. Also, for the first hour, this is pretty much what the red carpet looked like ... [crickets chirping] ....
... except for America's Best Dance Crew peeps and the cast of The Real World Hollywood (pictured).
Houseband DJ AM and Travis Barker. DJ AM: "We haven't seen [Britney] in a while. She's been in the gym killin' it." I'm so proud.
Best New Artist Tokio Hotel.
To quote 50 Cent: "Looking like a Michael Jackson jacket, with all them zippers." Because he's T-Pain. Here, he Rock-Bands out to the Talking Heads' "Psycho Killer."
In case you needed to see it up close. Note the quality craftsmanship.
All-around nice indie kids from Wisconsin, forthcoming MTV Artist of the Week and masters of understatement, Locksley: " I'm looking forward to Kanye. I heard he puts on a show." The Plain White T's admit to being out of it -- they didn't know that Britney and Kanye were even appearing/performing. And neither did these guys (below), but I forgive them ...
Calle 13. Suspenders. Boat shoes. Shades. Oh, and here's a little bit about the new album.
Residente (left): "The new album is called Los De Atras Vienen Conmigo. It's got Balkan music, music from Latin America. It's addresses plenty of social issues, but it's got everything. We've collaborated with Café Tacuba, Ruben Blades and Juanes. I think it's going to be super innovative for urban music."
Visitante: The cool thing is that it keeps getting more complicated. The lyrics are more complicated, but it still flows.
They just might be the freshest dudes on the catwalk. Giving them a run for their money are ...
... Ne-Yo, wearing the flossiest pair of blindingly shiny caramel patent leather wingtips ... and ....
... David Banner, looking quite scholarly ...
... and maybe even Korn's Jonathan Davis -- hey, he's in a suit ...
... and ... I don't blame him. It was really hot out. Fatman Scoop and his lovely wife are the stars of a web series turned new late-night sex advice MTV reality show aptly titled Fatman and Wife. So, what should one listen to while knockin' boots? Fatman: "Anything from Teddy Pendergrass. I kill her to Teddy Pendergrass."
Rhapsody: "Can you confirm that?"
Wife: "He kills me. I’ve done a little murdering myself though."
Fatman: "Today people talk about getting silly and snapping your fingers. You can't snap your fingers in the bedroom. That’s why you got to go back to the old stuff, like Al Green. Marvin Gaye will make sure you have a basketball team worth of kids."
Okay, so seriously, an hour and a half into the carpet,not one lady had made their way over to my section.I guess it's a pretty long walk. Oh well. Plenty of eye candy here anyway, like Tyga's Garfield chain. And just in case you were wondering how an 18-year-old could have so much ink, he started getting tattooed at 14. A member of his entourage asked to have my sunglasses. Ha ha ha. Yeah, right.
Where the party's at: bars, buffets, big screens. After escaping the red carpet, roaming the lot unescorted, running into David Banner and Seth Rogen at the rest room and passing Slash along the way, I finally get to Stage 16, B-Tank, to kick back (or actually remaining standing), watch the show and await Kanye's performance. His casted audience is nothing but barely legals in mini-dresses and some seriously psyched teenage boys.
Countdown 'til those light-up heart buttons hit Chinatown. It's Kanye. 'Nuff said.
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