In the beginning, there was chaos.
Sunday, September 22, 2002, started with a string of drama queen disasters. There was a terrible map. There was a terrible hairdresser. There were 100 degrees on the thermometer, and a taxi lacking A/C. There was a driver who knew not the Shrine Auditorium, or decided to take us to it by way of Boston. There were dresses around our waists and $50 hairdos far, far on the wrong side of "windswept."
And then, there was magic.
Sunday, September 22, 2002, ended as one of the best days of my entire 31-year-old life. You see, I love celebrities, and I love TV. And there we were, at the 54th Annual Primetime Emmy Awards. That alone? Phe-nomenal. (Did you know Paula Abdul is like 4'5"?!) What I never would've imagined is that, by 11:00 that evening, My Emmys date and I would be plucking sushi off a silver tray held by a tuxedo-clad waiter inside a tent with Oriental rugs on the ground and Conan O'Brien loosening his tie at the next table.
What else do I love? I love Peter Krause. So I stalked Peter Krause. At the Emmys, I told Peter Krause that his Letterman spot was "the fucking funniest interview I ever saw." I swore at Peter Krause! Then, I took a picture with Peter Krause.
But I get ahead of myself.
Golden Moment #1: Our seats were $200 numbers, the cheapest in the house, up in the birds-eye section of balcony #3. We left to stake out the first-floor bar, where we saw an endless list of TV stars and drank $10 plastic cups of Pinot Grigio. I reminded Eric McCormack that he and I went way back, and Drake consoled Freddy Rodriguez on his undeserved loss. As I approached the bar for Pinot #3, my eye was drawn to a set of tickets, seemingly abandoned by their careless owner. I picked them up. I saw they were marked "Front Orchestra $600." I asked the bartender if they belonged to someone nearby. She said, "no," I said, "I think they belong to me!" and she said,"I didn't see anything." And then, we were 15 rows from the stage. We braved whispers and points, braced ourselves for the worst, and watched the rest of the show from 50 feet back.
During a commercial break, my dear comrade walked in front of the stage (THE stage!), placed her hand on Matthew Perry's shoulder, and wished him luck.
Golden Moment #2: The Emmys were over. We were flying high on good luck and cheap wine. We had no way home. We meandered over to the pack of C-listers waiting for their limos, and we crossed our fingers. By the grace of the Hollywood gods, I clumsily bumped into an angel from heaven, who would soon invite us into her limo and offer us a ride home. Ten minutes later, we found ourselves toasting champage in the back of a stretch and learning all about visual effects for The X-Files and Band of Brothers. Thirty minutes later, we found ourselves ushered into the HBO party at Spago, where we pretended we were the new stars of Sex and the City and that Mr. Big didn't really have that awful mustache.
It was amazing.
Though the blisters on my feet and the bags under my eyes tell a different story, September 22, 2002 was truly a miracle. There are stories I'm forgetting or am too tired to tell (did I mention that we walked into Sky Bar after the HBO party like we belonged there, and rubbed shoulders with Kelly Osbourne while Drake finished her conversation with Matthew Perry?) Though before I sign off, I would like to thank Adam Sandler, our kindly ticket benefactor. Without you, none of this would've been possible.
Sunday, September 22, 2002, started with a string of drama queen disasters. There was a terrible map. There was a terrible hairdresser. There were 100 degrees on the thermometer, and a taxi lacking A/C. There was a driver who knew not the Shrine Auditorium, or decided to take us to it by way of Boston. There were dresses around our waists and $50 hairdos far, far on the wrong side of "windswept."
And then, there was magic.
Sunday, September 22, 2002, ended as one of the best days of my entire 31-year-old life. You see, I love celebrities, and I love TV. And there we were, at the 54th Annual Primetime Emmy Awards. That alone? Phe-nomenal. (Did you know Paula Abdul is like 4'5"?!) What I never would've imagined is that, by 11:00 that evening, My Emmys date and I would be plucking sushi off a silver tray held by a tuxedo-clad waiter inside a tent with Oriental rugs on the ground and Conan O'Brien loosening his tie at the next table.
What else do I love? I love Peter Krause. So I stalked Peter Krause. At the Emmys, I told Peter Krause that his Letterman spot was "the fucking funniest interview I ever saw." I swore at Peter Krause! Then, I took a picture with Peter Krause.
But I get ahead of myself.
Golden Moment #1: Our seats were $200 numbers, the cheapest in the house, up in the birds-eye section of balcony #3. We left to stake out the first-floor bar, where we saw an endless list of TV stars and drank $10 plastic cups of Pinot Grigio. I reminded Eric McCormack that he and I went way back, and Drake consoled Freddy Rodriguez on his undeserved loss. As I approached the bar for Pinot #3, my eye was drawn to a set of tickets, seemingly abandoned by their careless owner. I picked them up. I saw they were marked "Front Orchestra $600." I asked the bartender if they belonged to someone nearby. She said, "no," I said, "I think they belong to me!" and she said,"I didn't see anything." And then, we were 15 rows from the stage. We braved whispers and points, braced ourselves for the worst, and watched the rest of the show from 50 feet back.
During a commercial break, my dear comrade walked in front of the stage (THE stage!), placed her hand on Matthew Perry's shoulder, and wished him luck.
Golden Moment #2: The Emmys were over. We were flying high on good luck and cheap wine. We had no way home. We meandered over to the pack of C-listers waiting for their limos, and we crossed our fingers. By the grace of the Hollywood gods, I clumsily bumped into an angel from heaven, who would soon invite us into her limo and offer us a ride home. Ten minutes later, we found ourselves toasting champage in the back of a stretch and learning all about visual effects for The X-Files and Band of Brothers. Thirty minutes later, we found ourselves ushered into the HBO party at Spago, where we pretended we were the new stars of Sex and the City and that Mr. Big didn't really have that awful mustache.
It was amazing.
Though the blisters on my feet and the bags under my eyes tell a different story, September 22, 2002 was truly a miracle. There are stories I'm forgetting or am too tired to tell (did I mention that we walked into Sky Bar after the HBO party like we belonged there, and rubbed shoulders with Kelly Osbourne while Drake finished her conversation with Matthew Perry?) Though before I sign off, I would like to thank Adam Sandler, our kindly ticket benefactor. Without you, none of this would've been possible.
