Grey’s Anatomy stars Isaiah Washington was just on stage to introduce the group Snow Patrol along with his co-stars Kate Walsh and Justin Chambers. I think his publicist hates me. On the red carpet, I asked him a few perfunctory questions then went right for it: “How are things on the set these days between you and Patrick Dempsey and T.R. Knight. The publicist starts making the “stop talking about that” motion, moving her finger acrss her neck. I ignore her, totally. Isaiah says the media has blown it all out of porportion and everything is fine and was fine shortly after the incident that left T.R. feeling that he had to come out publicly as a gay man. Isaiah seemed to want to talk despite the publicist making the “I’ll cut your head off sign” to me, her eyes bulging out. I ignore her some more, but want to laugh. I tell Isaiah, “Your publicist hates me.” He laughs. I give him major kudos for being polite and talking at-length. I don’t have time to transcribe just yet but will have a full account of our conversation tomorrow on my blog “Out in Holywood.”
Paris Hilton is such a “jackass.” I’m just quoting what someone else said when the heiress/reality show star/party girl/author/wannabe singer/author/hair extension wearer breezed past the press line talking on her cell phone. “She probably wasn’t talking to anybody,” sniffed one reporter. I didn’t much care. Whar could I have asked her: “Are you really as shallow as you seem?” “Was that really YOU singing on that CD you released/” “Who is your best friend/boyfriend this week?”
We got snubbed by bigger names than Paris that’s for sure. I stood on that red carpet yelling “Carrie! Carrie!” (as in Underwood). But she didn’t come over. Too busy doing television I guess. “Mary J. Blige! Mary J!” She at least managed a smile. Ohmygod it’s BEYONCE!!! “Beyonce! Beyonce! Daily News here!” She barely broke stride but she stopped to tell the girls from US and People who designed her gown. “Gwen! Gwen! Gweeeeen!” There went Stefani. In my next post, I’ll tell ya more about the folks I DID get a word with.
Karma is a bitch though: Jimmy Kimmel opens the show with a joke about Kevin Federline and Paris Hilton both releasing their first CDs this year: “Both SO talented,” he said, dripping with sarcasm. Poor Paris. Maybe she was on her cell phone and didn’t hear the joke.
Forgive the typos in advance. I can’t see a damned thing in this tent outside the Shrine Audistorium where they have put us poor press peeps. Josh Grobin is singing right now and I feel kinda special because about an hour ago I asked him a buncha stuff on the red carpet. I said, “When did you know you had this amazing voice?” He says, “Not until I was 14.” So I go, “Your parents never heard you singing in the shower or anything and notice those pipes?” He insists they did not. Anyway, he’s pretty cool, a great singer. But at the risk of sounding like his mommy, the boy’s gotta get a haircut, pronto!
So, I got placed between a People mag and US weekly reporter and they were nice to me even though I made fun of some olf their silly questions: “What are your workout secrets Carmen [Elektra]? Got some good gets though like Katherine McPhee who is, a goddess. And chatted up the dude who edged her for the American Idol crown, Taylor Hicks. He’s lost a ton of weight and has a flattering haircut and looks more than a little bit like George Clooney. He’s a real gentleman and prevented a potentially awkward moment when he ended up in the press line standing RIGHT next to Weird Al who has a song parodymocking Taylor’s song. But Taylor was a great sport and said: “How could you be mad? I’ve been listening to that guy’s music forever.”
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.
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.
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.
Continue reading “Chingy and Missy and … Shakira!” »
“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.
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….
Continue reading “Backstage in the Press Pen” »
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.”