I’m an observer on the edge of the red carpet at the American Music Awards tonight downtown at the Shrine and dizzy from the procession of tan, well-tended, tight, carefully manicured flesh – or was that just Lance Armstrong? As the sign said on the KFC joint down the block: “Leg and Thigh.”
Add some wing, breast and drumsticks, plus bumper-to-bumper bling, and you know why the limo drivers lined up behind the chainlink fence in the parking lot couldn’t stop smiling. The media was in its usual feeding frenzy, baying like jackals in heat when charisma-deprived Paris Hiton, plus sister Nicky, made her appearance before the cameras. Just another day at the office for the girl famous for something we can’t immediately recall. Does she spend more on a pedicure than most people play for their monthly mortgage payment? They all do! Dress code was standard Hollywood: funeral black for the guys, as much tanned flesh as possible for the girls, surrounded by anything clingy. Cyndi Lauper missed the tanning memo, and was marble white from head to toe, except for the parts covered by the black dress. Rapper Chingy wasn’t shy – making a show of his watch, a huge, hideous, diamond-studded timepiece begging to be ripped from his wrist and quickly pawned. Posing, posing, everyone posing. Where do they learn how to do that? Two hundred cameras, 200 poses. Carmen Electra and the devilish Dave Navarro did their swanning at just the right moment. It’s important to time your red carpet trot properly. You don’t want to get caught in a celeb logjam but you do want to arrive while the jackals are still in a lather. “Over the shoulder to your right. One time, Lindsay.” Lohan in action, in sparkly black, dangling diamonds from the ears, working the press. Why are we here? Something to do with music apparently.