I know that a lot of my friends are jaded LA-types. The Emmys? The Meh…mmys.
Still, there are plenty of solid, real Americans (blue-state and red-state) who eat this stuff up. So, let me be an enabler of your entertainment addiction. (And, I thank you for keeping me employed.)
Lynn and I fight bumper-to-bumper traffic, and we even deny some stretch Hummer limo from getting in front of us. Dude, I don’t care how “important” you are, you’re not in cutting line. Seriously, you’re not, so stop trying, asshole.
We valet the Prius among the 1400 other Priuses at the Nokia Theater parking structure. Just so you know, for the Emmys, trendy people always arrive in a Prius or other hybrid. Unless you come in a stretch Hummer limo. In which case, no one will ever presume that you are compensating for some physical inadequacy.
(By the way, I know your eye has already caught Sofia Vergara’s picture below. Please wait. Let me get there…)
Apparently. there’s a VIP line, then there’s a VIP VIP line. My cleavage (and ass) don’t qualify. Thankfully.
Still, no complaints.
Lynn and I walk the red carpet behind (but as the usher points out) not actually next to Sofia Vergara and her breasts. Her boobs are as generously-proportioned in real life as they are on TV (though the camera may add 10 pounds. Ten glorious pounds.)
Funny enough, she has a zipper malfunction later that is all over the internet. She Twittered this herself:
Surprisingly, her boobs aren’t trying to escape. Her butt is.
Back outside: Holy crap, it’s hot. 93 degrees, direct sunlight. The Entertainment Show hosts are broiling in the heat. Yet, somehow, I think Ryan Seacrest can deal with his $uffering.
We show our tickets at the door and head inside. I set off the metal detector with the Ziplock bag full of aluminum-foil wrapped Hershey Kisses stuffed in my pocket. (Lynn and I will need snacks.)
I whisper to the guard: (It’s chocolate, not a bomb.) She believes me. I offer her a couple of them. She smiles and takes them… Then I realize she could have hauled my ass downtown for interrogation on suspicions of terrorist threats. Did I mention that “Homeland” is the big show this year?
Bullet dodged, I think. (Though, I won’t say “bullet” out loud.)
Lynn and I mingle in the lobby for a bit. Oh look, there’s the guy from that show. And, Ooooo. She’s from… I can’t remember. (Ironically enough, Lynn and I watch very little TV at home.) But, Hey! She’s famous. I think.
They flash the lights, and we find our seats, and they aren’t horrible: Orchestra section, toward the back. You’d never discern our fleshy faces out from the multitudes. (Mom, don’t bother trying.) But, I’m sitting directly behind Tom Hanks. 35 rows behind Tom Hanks, but, still, directly behind Tom Hanks.
The show starts. Jimmy Kimmel is a charming host. A little bland, but there are a few bits that are quite humorous.
They hand out a few awards. Then, the energy level lags. It’s hard to sit in a theater chair for 3 hours, even if you are looking at the back Nicole Kidman’s head. Seat-fillers start to occupy the first 15 rows of seats. The actual Stars are out in the lobby getting wasted at the bar. $12 per watered-down martini. Sucks being rich.
(Yeah, I see you’re looking at those legs below. Bear with me. Hang on. We’ll get there.)
But, back inside, I’m sitting next to a hot 20-something girl in a salmon-colored dress that is cut as low as socially permissible and slit almost up to her hip. Her name is Raquel, which is the name of someone who would wear a dress like this (a Mildred or Edna would definitely NOT wear that dress). She is very, very pretty. (Yes, I know, my wife is sitting on the other side of me, and she is absolutely gorgeous. Hey, Man. Facts are facts.)
Anyway, Raquel’s dress seems to constantly slip off her thighs, which is surprising since her legs are coated in only two layers of baby oil. She keeps “trying” to cover them up. I try not to notice because I’ve been married for 20 years and all. But, honestly, I’m a leg man. What can I say? Can’t not notice.
I am not so crass as to sneak an iPhoto of my neighbor’s legs (though I could have), but this is a pretty close approximation of what I was looking at. Certainly, not as nice as my wife’s legs, but, still they rate highly.
Then something curious. Raquel has her legs crossed. She starts flipping her foot around. And, hitting the cuff of my pants at the ankle.
That’s odd. Doesn’t she notice? Open-toed shoes. Surely, she notices. Right?
This goes on for about a minute. Then, I start to think? My wife is Right There! Is she flirting with me? Is this some sort of Hollywood code that usually leads to something else. (God, this isn’t the ’70s, and I don’t know the codes.)
Raquel eventually stops flipping my pants with her well-pedicured toes. Chartreuse, by the way. I noticed. (I’m also a toe man.) I let it go.
Jimmy Kimmel makes a few jokes… Oh, look it’s the Best Supporting Actor in a Show No One Watched. Yay!
A few minutes later…
Raquel is back, flipping my cuff. My cuff notices. (I’ll leave it at that.)
My first thought is: “Yo, Dude. I already have a Date. And, she is Gorgeous. You have a Date, and I guess he’s Ok. (I dunno… Not into guys.) What are you doing?”
And my second thought is: “Oh, I’m sorry. My fault… Did I take some of your leg room?.. I did? I am sooo sorry.”
Raquel and her date excuse themselves to head back to the bar. Really, more bar is not necessary.
But, this is a LONG show.
Now, at home, you can always get up and grab a beer or take a bathroom break or flip the channel to Sports Center… But at the Emmys, moving involves making 20 people twist themselves into a pretzel while you work your way down the row. And, guess what: They all know you have to pee.
Lynn and I tough it out and clap politely at each award.
Jimmy says: Good Night.
Modern Family is the Best Comedy. Exactly No One is surprised. We are so out of there (as the kids say).
A brief walk outside leads us across the street from the Nokia Theater to the LA Convention Center for the Governors’ Ball.
The Governors’ Ball… First of all (note the apostrophe), it has nothing to do with the California governor. (Yes, I have been asked.) The Television Academy has a Select Panel of Industry-Knowing individuals. They are known as “Governors.”
Governors’ Ball. 2012. Taxpayer money not involved. (Though, probably, yeah.)
This is their party.
Lynn and I trade polite exchanges with our table mates. Then, my lovely wife excuses herself to the ice bar to get another gimlet.
Twenty-five minutes later, I start looking for her.
Kidnapped? Hostage? Truly terrible service?
Turns out, she’s been rubbing shoulders with famous people. Like, Louis CK. Yes, America’s funniest comedian.
She tells him how much she loves Pig Newtons. (Do some research.)
Louis, apparently, lives in my Family Room.
Don’t click “Play” if you are easily offended. This is my life. But, MAN! this is funny. Note: It’s starts off bad, and gets worse. Much worse. You Are Warned.)
We head back to our table. Kevin Costner blocks the aisle. Matthew Perry orders a martini (for a friend… He gets a diet Coke.) Heidi Klum is gorgeous. Didn’t actually see her at the Ball, but she is.
Anyway, the night winds down, we get the car from the valet, certain the guy has stolen our parking meter quarters. We are delighted, most of the quarters are still there. And, only a few scratches on the bumper!
So, anyway, that’s my report. See you next year.