Face to Face with The Post-Orgy Dilemma: The Third Annual BET Awards
Originally published in Welcome to The Land of Cannibalistic Horses (Puberty Press, 2005)
Sitting on the steps of The Magic Castle hotel in North Hollywood, I watched Wonder Woman walk down the sidewalk. Is this city, this Los Angeles, the fertile womb or the mass grave of the simulacra? Perhaps this sunny, dusty urban zoo is merely the end of the road, where all who roam eventually sink into, like some sprawling, vacuous quagmire.
“Hey baby!” I yelled at Wonder Woman. “Yo, baby, let me holla at you for a second.”
Wonder Woman smiled and waved a cupped hand without breaking her stride.
“Hey baby, wanna make some money? I know you’re freaky, baby, let me see them titties!”
Without even a glance over her shoulder Wonder Woman raised her hand and extended her middle finger.
I laughed and watched her disappear over the hill.
The traffic on Hollywood Boulevard had not wavered all afternoon. Cars, trucks, buses, limousines, and taxis raced up and down the street running red lights and making left turns from the right line. My father had left for beer almost an hour ago and I caught myself daydreaming about him, six-pack in hand, getting run over by some fake-n-bake, eyebrow-pierced burn-out borrowing her mother’s pick-up truck. I grew fearful and decided to go look for him.
Walking down Hollywood Boulevard, I step on names like Kermit the Frog, Paula Abdul, Bob Barker, and Rin Tin Tin. I walk past gay bars, Madonna songs oozing out onto the street. One nick-knack, tourist trap store window was pockmarked with Homer Simpson T-shirts, some with Japanese text. I linger near a street performer wearing a Shaq jersey telling racist jokes. Everyone in the crowd holds a video camera aimed at the silly bigot. I hear a growl and suddenly I’m face to face with the fucking Hulk, some sad ex-bodybuilder painted green wearing purple hot pants. I quicken my pace and bump into Obi Wan Kenobi, the Ewan McGreggor version only fatter. Our eyes meet and he points at my chest while announcing to the masses: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Jack Black!” Suddenly, people are taking my picture and I feel something bubbling inside me so I take off running.
Twenty minutes later I checked my pulse and left the porno store in which I sought shelter. Taking a deep breath, I started the long journey back down Hollywood. Is this the same street? Yes, but these stages, this red carpet, this limousine caravan, none of this was here earlier. I assume Puff Daddy or P Diddy or Bo Diddly is around and think nothing of the commotion until my path is blocked by a small army of the infamous, rarely forgiving LAPD.
“What’s going on here?” I ask one of the Latino police officers.
“The BET awards.”
“Really?”
“Yup. I’d stay away if I were you.”
“Thanks,” I say, surveying the scene: lights, cameras, squealing hoes, all kinds of action. I turn off Hollywood outflanking the pandemonium.
My father was back in the hotel room, sitting on the edge of the bed, said he had been there for an hour. “Did you see all that shit?” He asked.
“The BET awards?” I said. “Yeah, I’m thinking about going.”
My father laughed. “You? At the BET Awards?”
“Sure.”
“How much are tickets?”
“Fuck that, I’m not buying a ticket.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Thanks,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed and opening one of my father’s beers.
“I thought you were going to the BET awards?” he asked sarcastically.
I chugged the beer and tossed it in the trashcan. “I am,” I said.
“You’re gonna wear shorts and a T-shirt?”
“I’m sure as hell not gonna change,” I said, opening the door to leave. “Don’t wait up.”
First, I tried the loading dock, the back entrance to the Kodak Theater. While I argued with the large, bald man guarding the door, a limousine rolled up and parked. The guard stopped listening to me and he turned his attention to the limousine. The limo door swung open and out jumped a skinny little black man wearing a green suit and more gold necklaces than you would think his neck could tolerate. He rubbed his wrists together, rubbed one wrist on his neck, clapped his hands, yelped, and walked past me, past the guard, and into the theater leaving in his wake a vapor of cologne and sweetly pungent pot smoke.
“You gonna let him in and not me!” I yelled at the guard.
He didn’t even look at me when he said, “I’m done with you.”
Looking for another back door or a side door or a secret passageway into the theater, I only found a dozen more guards, all gigantic, not to mention unwavering.
“But I have to be in there, my editor will kill me if I don’t get in before it starts!”
“I don’t give a fuck,” one guard told me.
“I don’t give a fuck,” I mocked, walking away.
So I went in through the front door of The Radisson Hotel, which I knew was somehow connected to the Kodak Theater. Eventually I made my way to the red carpet and amidst a snowstorm of flash bulbs and well-dressed half-celebrities, I befriended a girl wearing an earpiece and a BET T-shirt. Yes, she was understanding and compassionate. “The press table is on the third floor of the hotel,” she told me.
“How do I get there?”
“It’s on the other side of the red carpet, so you got to go back outside, around to the — ”
“That’s not gonna work. I need to be there now, I’m already late.”
She looked me up and down and I wondered if Moesha, I mean Brandi has a twin sister. “What publication are you from?”
“The Village Voice,” I said.
“Oh damn… The Village Voice is here,” she said to herself. “Come on, I’ll take you over there.”
So she blocked the red carpet traffic and I crossed over, landing on the other side like a fucking gymnast. Moesha then led me down hallways and up escalators until we reached the press table where I expressed no gratitude and she returned to her distant post.
The press table was swarming with clean-shaven, good-looking black men, all of them talking at once. At the desk sat a cornrowed Malcolm Jamal Warner and a round-faced Nicole Kidman. Pushing my way through the journalists, I chose the woman: “Hi, my name is Andrew Smith, I’m here to pick up my press pass.”
“What type of media?” She asked.
“Print,” I replied.
She grabbed one of three stacks of paper, one of three lists in front of her. “What was your name again?”
“Andrew Smith.”
“Do you have any ID?”
“Uh, sure,” I mumbled, digging through my wallet for my expired “temporary employee” ID card from my internship stint at The Village Voice. “Will this work?” I asked, handing her the card.
“Oh sure, thanks very much,” Chubby Kidman said.
“No problem,” I said, quickly returning the card to my pocket. I wondered if there was a legitimate writer from The Voice in the building. I fought off a chill of paranoia as I watched Chubby Kidman run her finger down the S page. She took a pencil and started to cross off a name on the list but stopped and looked up at me. “What’d you say your first name was?”
“Andrew.”
“Huh,” Chubby Kidman grunted. “They have Olajuwon here on the list.”
I laughed as hard as I could while still sounding sincere. “How they gonna confuse Olajuwon with Andrew?” I said, and kept laughing.
Kidman laughed too. “Sorry about that,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I said, sneaking a glace over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t recognize anyone or more so that no one recognized me.
“So here’s you press kit,” Kidman said, handing me a purple folder. “And here’s your pass.” But she pulled back the press pass just as I reached for it. “You’re from Michigan, right?”
“Yes, and I’m already late!” I yelped.
“Okay, here you go, it’s just through those doors.”
So I hung the caution-orange pass around my neck, tucked the folder under my arm, and stridently walked through the metal detector.
Success. I was inside. “Black Entertainment Television is my bitch!”
“Amen, brother,” said a passing journalist.
“Amen,” I prayed with him.
The pressroom consisted of a stage with one flat screen television on each side, two sections of seating, three rows of tables — where those journalists with laptops could set up — and a large, entirely free buffet. I wasn’t even hungry but I filled a plate with fried chicken and roast beef and collard greens and watermelon and mashed potatoes and spare ribs. And I ate it all.
Then the MC, the stylish love-child of Denzel Washington and Mike Tyson, stepped onto the stage and said, “Okay, so for those of you just coming in, this is how it’s gonna work. If you’re a photographer, go in the other room. All the winners will walk through there for photo-ops before coming in here for questioning. Ya’ll can stay in here if you want but there will be no standing during the Q and A’s. You will remain seated and all photographs will be taken from your seat. If you have a question for one of the award winners, simply raise your hand, hold em high, and one of the girls will bring you a microphone. Let’s do this right. We’re all professionals here.”
I sat up straight and smoothed out my T-shirt.
“And if you haven’t noticed already,” the MC continued. “There isn’t a free bar this year. Last year ya’ll drank enough for two years and that cost me a lot of money. But if you want, we’re selling beer and wine and I think some champ — No, there’s no champagne.”
“No Chrystal!”
“So enjoy yourselves, eat something if ya haven’t and we should be starting in about twenty minutes,” the MC said in conclusion, and exited stage right.
I got comfortable, crossed my legs at the thighs, and eavesdropped on conversations:
“Call her up, she’s damn freaky,” the guy behind me said to his friend as they flipped through a stack of women’s headshots.
“And then I said, ‘Oh hell no!’” yelped the hootchie-momma sitting in front of me. Her thong was royal blue.
Glancing around, I noticed an elevated platform in the back corner of the room where four obscenely huge musclemen stood, arms crossed, slowly swiveling their heads from one side to the other, scanning the room, always pausing on me, one of only two white men. The other honkey sat in the last row of seats. He kept his head down, careful not to make eye-contact with anyone. I watched a Rasta ask him if the seat next to him was taken. The honkey flinched and quickly shook his head.
Then it hit me. What if Olajuwon Smith shows up? The monster security guards would have no trouble finding the T-shirt-wearing, bushy-bearded, loud-mouthed white boy, as Chubby Kidman would undoubtedly describe me. I took a deep breath and calmed myself. “I’m not going down without a fight,” I decided and smiled at the thought of getting carried out of the pressroom screaming about racism and discrimination and the first amendment, “I got a goddman right to be here!”
Suddenly, the pair of flat screen televisions flashed and the whole room was filled with a loud, booming voice: “The Third Annual BET awards!”
People scurried to their seats and got ready, pulling out notebooks and cameras and tape recorders.
I had nothing.
I watched the television as the host, big, bad Mo’Nique, waddled on stage and hollered, “Oh yes she did,” implying that she knew she was way too fuckin’ fat for her pseudo-church outfit. After she gave a short monologue, Stevie Wonder presented the first award to 50 Cent. When Stevie took the stage in the pressroom, everyone applauded warmly.
“First question for Mr. Wonder?” The MC asked the crowd.
I held my hand up high; the MC looked right at me, and then pointed to the Hootchie-momma blocking my view of Stevie.
“I’m a big fan, Mr. Wonder,” she said after snatching the microphone from some BET intern. “I was just wondering what it was like to present an award to 50 Cent.”
“Dumb bitch,” I mumbled as Stevie, blind but confident, answered the question. I didn’t care enough to listen.
Finally, after a handful of questions, the MC pointed at me and the BET intern handed me the microphone.
“Thank you all very much,” Stevie said, grabbing the arm of the lucky lackey in charge of leading him off stage.
“Mr. Wonder,” I said anyway. “Who are you more afraid of, Osama Bin Laden or Saddam Hussein?”
The whole room went silent. Stevie stopped mid-stride, cocked his head to one side, and then pushed his lackey to keep leading him off stage. The intern snatched the microphone from my hand and I felt the glares of two hundred angry and confused black journalists. “What the fuck did he just ask?” someone said.
Telling myself to remain calm, not to display any fear, I slowly, “slowly,” I told myself, walked out of the pressroom. I walked back through the metal detectors, exited The Radisson Hotel, and slipped into the first bar I found.
“What’ll it be?”
“Three shots of your top shelf tequila.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow and I just stared at him until he turned and reached for the bottle. While he poured my shots I caught him stealing a glance at the press pass dangling from my neck. Then he looked over his shoulder at the television airing the BET awards “Live from the Kodak Theater in beautiful Los Angeles, California.”
“Uh…” the bartender exhaled, looking at my pass, at the television, back at my pass. “Shouldn’t you be at the awards show?”
“It ain’t going no where,” I said. “Just keep the juice coming.”
Back in the pressroom, full of Patron label courage, I took a seat and asked my neighbor, a beautiful black cherry Nubian Sex-Kitten, “Who’d I miss?”
“Snoop,” she replied.
“Snoop was here!”
“Uhm-Hmm.”
“D-O-Double G was here an I missed it?”
“Uhm-Hmm.”
“Fuck!”
The Sex Kitten laughed.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She looked at me through Gucci sunglasses, smiled like one smiles at an adolescent, and casually redirected her attention to one of the televisions.
I shrugged and peeked over my shoulder looking around the room with lustful intent. “Which one of these girls wants a short, hairy Irish boy?” I wondered. One word: Beyonce.
I wanted to lick the flat screen television when Beyonce performed “Crazy In Love.” My Lord! That girl (she’s only twenty-one), has a face sculpted unlike any model on the Eastern Seaboard, more moves than a Swedish hooker, and more leg than any man can imagine wrapped around his waist. Or his face. Yo, that girl’s got it goin’ on.
But no, she didn’t pop in the pressroom for a little Q and A. I never saw her in the flesh. No James Brown either. The Hardest Working Man In Show Business is too busy for that. Sure, he performed, did his melody routine, slip-sliding across the stage only to traditionally fall on his knees and, to the shock of everyone, maybe even to The Godfather of Soul himself, none other than Michael Jackson walked on stage to drape the cape around the shoulders of the great James Brown. The King Of Funk immediately raised up and embraced The King Of Pop. Ladies and Gentlemen, it was a sight to see. And after the two had a dance off, Michael presented the lifetime achievement award to Soul Brother Number One. Let me take a moment to say, Mr. Jackson, you weren’t the only one crying tears of admiration, joy, and utter senselessness.
But no, neither Jimmy nor Mike graced the press with a Q and A. What would people say if there were three white men in the room?
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the MC announced as someone turned down the volume of the continuing awards show. “The CEO of the BET, Mr. Bob Johnson and Mr. Earvin Magic Johnson.”
Everyone could see the two men hovering off stage right. “Fuck, he’s tall,” I slurred to myself.
“Please be specific when directing your questions to either Mr. Johnson or Mr. Johnson,” the MC said.
Both Johnsons walked on stage and shook hands with the MC. The second one, the ludicrously smaller one, had a cheerleader clinging to each arm. In form-fitting red and black uniforms, one cheerleader was warm milk chocolate and one was chai tea. They smiled widely, happy to caress Bob Johnson’s navy blue, six-figure suit.
“Yes,” Bob Johnson, chuckled, “Let us know who you’re talking to.”
And the cheerleaders giggled.
During the Johnson & Johnson Q and A, I predicted every single boring-ass question. Magic, tell me about AIDS charities. Bob, what advice would you give today’s young black men living in the ghetto? Magic, what size shoe do you wear? Bob, is it true what they say about The Man?
Then, it was over.
“Thank you all for being so considerate,” the MC said as the Johnsons stepped off stage. “The BET awards will be re-aired in thirty minutes so if you want to rush home, you can catch all the parts you may have missed. Again, thank you and goodnight.”
I loitered for a few minutes hoping to get an after-party invite. I gave the editor of Jet Magazine my business card and flirted with Miss Cocoa Butta, but eventually I left, wanting another drink.
Making my way back out The Radisson Hotel, I felt like a survivor, the unequaled king of espionage. Hollywood Boulevard was flooded with both young and old alike, desperate for a glimpse at stardom. They clutched their digital cameras with sweaty palms and took snapshots of everyone; famous or not, the public assumed they were. I was swimming upstream, away from the lights, the magic, the Johnsons, the glamorous buffet, another tropical storm of fleshy pretension.
But it is Los Angeles, the birthplace of Darryl Strawberry, Judge Lance Ito, and Val Kilmer. Yes, this place has class, a reputation to up hold.
Wedged between Malibu and San Diego, this city of angels attracts only dreamers and losers. Eventually, the façade will crumble and Los Angeles will be revealed for what it truly is: a Plasticine commune, something like a Sodom and Gomorrah theme park hologram where if the police don’t kill you, the air will.
As I made my way down side streets with the stroboscopic pandemonium to my back, I realized that only now, June 24th 2003, had we finally achieved Manifest Destiny. This is it. There’s no place left to turn. Los Angeles has it all: the booze, the tits, the fame, the blame, the sun, and the moon. And it all looks the same. And it’s cheaper every day.
Climbing the steps of The Magic Castle I wished I could have asked just one more question.
What does one do after the orgy?
But only the Hollywood Hills know the answer. They whisper through the wind, and if you stand perfectly still, holding your breath, looking at just the right spot on the horizon, you’ll hear them say: “One succulent breast, one delicious waffle.”
For there is no truth in Los Angeles. No sincerity. No brotherly love. This city will never fade. Ideas like Los Angeles can only implode, scattering dust and ash across the desert.
Back in the hotel room, my father giggled when I showed him my press pass.
“Did you meet any celebrities?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said, opening a beer and turning on the television.
The next morning we had breakfast at Roscoe’s.
