Here’s the thing that people don’t understand about red carpet events: They imagine this glamorous lifestyle where Will Smith or the members of N’Sync will come and chit-chat with you about what they’re wearing or how excited they are to be there, and you’ll all laugh like you’re old friends while someone films the entire thing. (So that is why you should get super dressed up, ladies!)
The reality, most of the time, is a lot more like manual labor camps. You and hundreds of other people are assigned a place based on numerical order and how important the staff deems you to be. For example, print media is just before online websites, but after the radio and everyone else. (Sorry, really disillusioned lady from Elle.com!) You are sent to mingle in a holding pen, crammed in with hundreds of other hungry, crazy-eyed journos and magazine freelancers, some of whom will take up inordinate amounts of space with their equipment and some of whom will be openly agitated and/or weeping. When someone sneezes inside these close quarters, you think, this is how epidemics are started.”
You are not allowed to leave your little cattle pen, until someone with a clipboard and eight burly bodyguards starts barking out numbers, of which you are one, because that is all you are to them—a number. You scramble to get up and enter the arena, where you are escorted past the salivating fans straight out of The Hunger Games and marched all the way to some previously unknown area of the perimeter, right next to the dumpsters. There is a gate separating you from the red carpet. You cannot cross that gate; that is verboten. But if you’re lucky, like at last night’s MTV Video Music Awards (VMAs) there will be a little place card on the floor with your publication on it, making it harder for poachers to snatch your spot.
Then you wait for two hours while deafening screams reach your little annex in Siberia. What is going on? No one can say. The fans have a better view than you do. Read More