Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2007 | 7:28 a.m.
On the Palms casino floor on Sunday afternoon, under a sign for Fort Knox slots, were a bunch of beery drunks. This was as close as they were going to get to the wild, debauched glamour they thought waited beyond the ropes and security guards of the MTV Music Video Awards. But they were still making the scene and hitting on all the hot looking women walking by. You ever seen so many?
One of the drunken guys notices me waiting with my notebook up in the air.
"Who are you waiting for?" he said.
Nobody, really.
"Oh," he said. "Are they important?"
In honor of that guy, and anyone else who's ever been drunk, leering and desperate to boogie down, or maybe just curious about it, here's what the important people were doing beyond the ropes.
Britney Spears: Triumphant comeback? Flop? Surreal satire of the Dark Heart of Modern Blah Blah Blah?
Who the heck knows? No one inside Rain nightclub in the Palms knows.
MTV chopped the Video Music Awards into a dog's breakfast of mini parties and live feeds. The sound feed from the awards show was busted for the first 30 minutes. From Rain, it's a mime show in sparkly underwear. Later, people said Spears lip-synced and danced like a drunken toddler.
So what? No one should hold it against her for faking it on a night when MTV pretends to care about music, and people pretend to care about it pretending to care.
You want significance? How about this: In the fifth stuttering year of an unpopular war, as ice caps melt and millions of children go without ponies of their very own, what daring social protest is there? Justin Timberlake demands that MTV play more music videos.
Oh, and Fall Out Boy tries and fails to smash their guitars and otherwise disgraces the house that Pete Townshend built out of Gibson flinders.
Again, from inside Rain, this is all in mime as the DJ practices his art of playing music that goes fruuuumn-frum-frump with enough bass to dissolve kidney stones.
It's enough to get one woman in 6-inch heels to slink and grind against her much older date, who also is wearing heels and has carefully mussed hair. He's uninterested and annoyed. She notices and goes into a pout. He apologizes and pays attention.
Finally, the sound is worked out and it's time for Linkin Park to play for the live shot of this wild, exclusive nightclub party.
Above the stage, two women wearing golden little nothings, body glitter and no visible tan lines line up against the rail. As the fog comes on and the lasers shoot through it, they turn their backs, hold a camera out at arms length and vamp sexy for it.
Down below, Linkin Park screams into song as cameras swoop. After one song, they're done. Roadies run on stage with towels.
Above, the glitter girls are staring down. A cameraman comes up behind them and uses their shining hair and shoulders to frame a shot of the nothing going on down below. They don't notice.
Over at the bar, a guest talks with the bartender.
"It was way cooler here than in the other parties."
"Yeah."
"Looked cooler on TV, though."
"Yeah."
That was the party. The after party is out by the pool and starts at 8, right after the show.
Of course everyone is late, so there's time to work out a few kinks.
A technician fiddles with a remote control shark. There were supposed to be six, but this sputtering hammerhead is the only one working. Kind of.
The tech guy starts begging it to work.
"Come on, Peter Pan. I believe in you."
He asks me to help out by clapping. I do.
Nothing happens.
"Well, I'm sure you really believed."
Then the DJ starts playing Stevie Wonder's "Superstition." The shark starts moving. It keeps going.
It's the song.
"Yeah, totally."
The shark stops. When you believe in things you don't understand, then you suffer.
"Maybe he's waiting for 'Ebony and Ivory.' "
Now it's 9:40 and the party's getting going. People have had a few drinks and are starting on food.
One guy is wandering around carrying a quarter-scale inflatable woman. He sits down on a planter to eat, the doll's head resting gently in his lap.
The music's at ear-plug volume, and it becomes clear the awards were a sham and ignored the will of the people. All the prizes should have gone to that guy who does that song that goes "in the club, in the club." Or maybe to that other guy who sings about "in the club." That's a catchy one, too.
It's important we recognize these talents before we're all out of clubs to be in. Take this party. No one thinks it's a club. People are too busy playing with their BlackBerries to find a state of in-clubness, which Jamie Foxx is about to learn.
It's 10:15 when the official host of this shindig, Foxx , grabs the mic and starts giving shout-outs. This takes several minutes. Then he tries to get the crowd, still checking its BlackBerries, to do a little call and response. He gets as far as call. Then he asks them to wave their hands in the air like they just don't care. Alas, they seem to care.
He does manage to get some applause when he drags Quincy Jones, whom the industry crowd likes, up onto stage. Jones tosses his head at the crowd like a sleek old lion.
Thrilled with Jones' success, Foxx grabs the mic back and says, "This is a Jamie Foxx Party!" maybe too soon.
Without much luck, Foxx tries a few rounds of going "hey, hey, hey" and "go, go, go" at the crowd. Then he asks someone to bring him "a whole bottle of sex on the beach."
Sex on the beach, champagne - these guys drink like prom queens.
Foxx finally gets his bottle and starts pouring people shots from the stage.
The guy with the fake mini sex doll is in the front row, trying to shove it into the crotches of various stage VIPs.
At 10:45, Foxx gives up the hosting business for dead.
But people have gotten much, much drunker. One guy falls asleep next to a megalithic speaker tower that makes your eyes water and your fillings hurt. But he only sways gently to the tipping point, jerks up and starts swaying again.
Back in front of the stage, a man points up in the air and says : "I told Jamie! I told him!"
The woman holding his other arm says : "You did baby. It's OK, you did."
At 11:20, a knot of bodyguards streaks out, trailing entourage. It's Paris Hilton. Up close she looks just like a magazine cover, glossy and two-dimensional. Let's make signs: "Feed Paris!"
About 11:50, Dave Grohl and Foo Fighters unknown jump into the kiddie-shallow pool with a bottle of Jack Daniels. Actual rock 'n' roll behavior. But tonight, the Foo Fighters can get only two women to jump in the pool with them. Also, one non-Foo dude in a leather vest and no shirt. How do we know he isn't in the band? Because after security gets everyone out of the pool, the band's manager-type person won't vouch for vest guy. Security leads him away.
Someone in the crowd yells at security, "Come on, they're the Foo Fighters! Show some love."
"Oh we will," a guard says. "Lots of love."
At 12:03, doll guy (still with doll) is trying to get his date to the exit. His real date. Yes, he has one, or found one. And boy, is she drunk. Falling down, limper than the doll. Security comes by to lend a hand.
While they do, two couples jump into the dinky pool. They're hauled out quick, but, whoops, one guy jumps back in. Security will have a few extra words with him.
By 12:20 doll guy and his date have reappeared without the doll and with security. Security is waving an ID at him and shouting who knows what. He's shaking his head and shrugging, palms out. Meanwhile, she's losing a staring contest with a flashlight. As paramedics come over, security hustles him away. The paramedics take a quick look at her and decide there's nothing to do but give her a saline IV and toss her on a gurney.
Over by the remains of the buffet, a guy turns to his buddy.
"Eat up. We got to go to the next party."
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