Everyone's jumping back into limos and Rolls Royces and Porsches to attend after-parties in secret locations. Not much of a story for the newsies at the Shrine. Everyone thought Mariah would be the big sweep - and she ended up going home alone with one trophy of her four nominations.
Sometimes leg and thigh isn't enough.
See you at the Grammys!
The secret's out - everyone smokes. Outside the old theater where the American Music Awards plodded along, throngs partied in billowing clouds of Camel Lights. Agents, producers, musicians, arm candy, husbands and lawyers banded to together in every dark space, lighting each other up and inhaling to the heavens.
No cigars, though. Those are for the real nonsmokers.
Sean Paul is from Jamaica and he never lets you forget it. The dancehall rapper, who probably went to Harvard med, puts on a street rasta act for the fans.
Every sentence is punctuated with "ya na wha mean?"
Yes, Sean, we na wha mean. Na go 'way.
Everything's going all pear-shaped for Missy. After some sort of back surgery, the performer is zooming around backstage on a scooter, telling everyone that this "male-dominated world" is tough on female rappers.
We don't know if Chingy agrees or not - but he at least knows what time it is. That dazzling blingpiece around his wrist announces the presence of either a very self-confident young man, or one surrounded by a lot of heavy-duty security.
Shakira is blinding. For once, the 5-foot Colombian sex bomb is wearing clothing but that's OK. She's got a lot to think about: "Men went to the moon. I'm about 'expounding' myself, absorb new experiences, grow. That's what life is about. ... I don't think I can go to the drugstore in my PJ's, like I can do at home."
Home, for Shakira, is the Bahamas. Suddenly, I have a strange desire to visit the Rite Aid in Nassau.
"It was about sex and stuff. Coz I'm turning over a new leaf. I'm goin' raunchy with it," Smith says backstage, referring to a song? Not sure. A movie? Not sure? A trip to the bank? Maybe. Looking like a millions bucks, Smith blathers on about his pal Curtis Jackson, a rapper who we can't bring ourselves to call 50 Cent. "He's brilliant. We talk for hours and hours."
Smith announces that "rap music in general is in a renaissance period." Whatever that's supposed to mean.
He drops names: "Pac, Fifty...the artistry of the genre." OK, great. Is there any more pasta?
Sell and plug, sell and plug. He's eating up the attention. We're just eating.
In the press room, everything's peachy. The food is flowing (there's no alcohol, but the night's still young), the show is blaring from three Sonys and a couple of people are actually working. What a difference from the Latin Grammys last month....
I'm still recovering from that exercise in sensory deprivation. The Latin Grammys also took place here at the Shrine but with only a whisper of a budget for the poor lackeys covering the event. There was no food or water available for hours.
After half a day without nourishment, the press pen was beginning to resemble the New Orleans Astrodome. People were desperate, begging friends and family to drive downtown with food and water. Six entertainment writers, normally competitive in real life, pooled their money and planned an emergency run to a nearby taco stall.
At some point they allowed us to grab a bag lunch from a giant pile of them. The only thing to drinks was some kind of sugary pseudo-energy drink. Hideous.
Tonight, everyone is happy, well fed, watered and in a darn good mood.
Music? What music?
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.
