The Academy Awards Party

In which Our Protagonist crashes the Rolling Stone Magazine Academy Awards After-party

March 5, 2006. Sunday.

Last Sunday I was driving out to the Viper Room to catch my friends' band, the New West. Unfortunately, I got stuck in terrible traffic and it soon became apparent that I would not be able to make the show on time. I was very frustrated. To pass the time, my roommate David and I attempted to peer into the windows of the limosines that we were surrounded by. I made a mental note not to try to drive to Sunset Strip on Oscar night.

At around 9:40 I realized that I had doubtless missed their set entirely. Disappointed, I took the next right turn off of San Vicente in an attempt to avoid the mob of limos. As I drove, I realized that I was passing what appeared to be a huge party at the Pacific Design Center. Limos were cuing out front, and there was a huge crowd of well-dressed people and paparazzi. I promptly parked my car in the nearest spot, and David and I went up to investigate.

Security were everywhere. Two tables were set up out front, where some girls were managing the guest list. I approached the girls and began making conversation with them, all the while attempting to read the guest list upside-down. Soon my small talk began to grow thin...

"Are you on the list?" one of the girls asked.

"Yes," I replied as I glanced down, scanning the list for names.

"For which party? The Rolling Stone Party or the Elton John Party?"

"Uhh, the Rolling Stone Party."

"Name?" she asked, as my eyes finally deciphered one of the names on the list below.

"Sean Lemon."

She perused the list briefly. "We don't have a Sean Lemon here."

I quickly realized that I had misread the print.

"Uh, I mean 'Sean Lennon.' I'm with his party. He tends to use 'Lemon' as a nom-de-plum, as it were. I helped engineer his tracks on the Deltron 3030 album."

"Well, sir, if you are with his party, he'll need to call down and authorize you and you friend."

"Thank you... I'll try and get him on the phone now."

I walked away, but instead of retreating, I meandered closer to the line as I whipped out my phone and called my friend John McGuan.

"Hey, man, how are you?" he asked as he picked up.

"Doing good, Sean, how's the new album going?"

"Sean? What?"

"Just play along," I whispered. "Pretend you're Sean Lennon. I'm trying to crash an Oscar party."

John and I chatted briefly as I discreetly ducked into line behind all of the people who were actually supposed to be there. No one seemed to notice. I motioned for David to join me, and he did.

"Alright, take it easy, Sean. I'll see you inside."

At first, I felt like we stuck out like a sore thumb. Everyone else in line was wearing clothes roughly 10 times as valuable as mine. I figured I'd have to be especially cocky to pull off my casual look in such company. David and I started bullshitting.

"You think we should go to the Elton John party later?" he asked.

"Naw, last time I saw that dude he was all over me. I mean, he's a talented guy, and I respect him as an artist and all, but he is waaay to friendly."

"Yeah, he can't really handle his drinks, can he?"

"Total lush. He just doesn't seem to comprehend that I don't swing that way."

A line began to form behind us as we waited, and soon we were surrounded by well-dressed and attractive people who were presumably obscenely wealthy. We were blatantly underdressed, but there was no turning back now. Celebrities were arriving and skipping the line, walking straight up the steps to the red carpet beyond. Security was tight, however, so I figured we had a better chance sneaking in with the b-list crowd and I remained in line.

"What about Prince's party?" David inquired.
"Prince is cool, but he's a bit of a misanthrope, man... his parties are always kinda small. I think we'll have a better time here."

It was a generally quiet group in line, myself and David being notable exeptions. People around us weren't sure what to make of us. They seemed awed by our boisterous conversation and our conspiciuous name-dropping. Due to the context of our conversation, they weren't quite sure whether we were full of shit or not. At one point I made a joke that prompted giggles from the gorgeous group of girls situated immediately behind us.

I turned and introduced myself to the one who laughed loudest, an extremely buxom woman in an elegant black dress. Her name was Christina. She was draped in diamonds, so much that I wondered how many villages in Sudan were enslaved in order to mine the veritable fortune she was wearing on her neck and wrist.

She said she was a professional golfer. Though I was initially skeptical, I googled her name the next day and found out she was telling the truth. The blonde, trophy-wife type woman she was with was her manager. Soon, she took my arm, and her manager took David's arm. We, the most underdressed guys in the line, had somehow become the escorts of the most elegantly dressed women present.

"So what do you do?" Christina asked me.

"Oh, I'm an independent recording artist. Rolling Stone is going to be giving me some press in the near future, so they offered me a pair of tickets to this esteemed event."

"An independent recording artist, eh? Is that what they call it these days?"

"Well, it sounds better than 'underpaid aspiring rock star.'"

"What's your stage name?"

"Osirus."

By this point we were now at the front of the line. A small velvet rope and a handful of security guards still remained between us and the red carpet. The Hilton sisters arrived. Nikki hammed it up for the paparazzi, but Paris skipped the red carpet and snuck in through a side door. Some other actresses whom I had never heard of were also greeted with loud flashes and cheers.

Ron Jeremy, the hedgehog himself, attempted to enter but was stopped by the rather humorous security woman who stood nearby. Apparently she didn't know who he was.

"Hey," I said to the security guard, trying to help Ron out, "you should let this guy in! He's famous!"

"Yeah, thanks for your support," Ron Jeremy said, rolling his eyes. He seemed to be a very bitter man. Perhaps he had misunderstood me. Eventually, however, the woman let him pass.

Jamie-Lynn DiScala, who plays Meadow on the Sopranos, walked by. She seemed somewhat timid and distraught, but she loooked great. She was very small, however.

"When does the new season start?" I asked her.

"Next sunday," she responded, somewhat taken aback. I fear that I may have frightened the wee lass.

Meanwhile, Christina was looking stunning as my inexplicable date. We were getting along very well and she had a great sense of humor, especially in comparison to the rather subdued people behind us in line. Immediately behind us were a group of very attractive girls, who were looking at me and David as if we should ditch our current consorts and change our scenery a bit. As they seemed rather quiet, however, I ignored their lascivious stares and continued entertaining my present company. As we chatted Kevin Connolly from Entourage walked by.

"Ok, you four, come on in."

Smiling from ear to ear, arm in arm with our respective women, we entered as the velvet rope was drawn aside. We had proceeded only a few steps, however, when we were stopped by some other security guards.

"Wristbands?" they enquired. The ladies proudly presented theirs, while David and I made a show of looking for our non-existant wristbands.

"Come back when you have wristbands, boys," they said as they kicked us out. Christina and her manager looked at us in dismay as we were ejected, but soon they proceeded without us. The girls in line who had previously been checking us out looked at us like we were complete losers.

We were so close...

Heads bowed, we walked away... I was ready to try again, however, and David was a few steps ahead of me. He approached the sign-in tables, making sure to choose a different one this time.

"Name?" they asked.

"Sean Lennon," he replied confidently.

The woman checked two marks on the list and handed us our wristbands. We put them on excitedly and rushed back to the front, eschewing the infinite line and heading straight for the A-list entrance. We flashed our wristbands and they let us in.

On the red carpet the cameras were flashing loudly and brightly for a few young starlets whose work I was not familiar with. They soon passed and David and I approached, strutting confidently and striking poses.

For a brief moment, it was as if all human technology was rendered impotent. Every last camera stopped. There was not a single flash. All was silent. We struck a few more poses for paparazzi who simpy did not care, then continued on our way. Immediately after, I head shouts of "Ludacris! Hey, Luda, over here!" The loud flashing commenced once again. David and I shrugged at eachother as we entered the building.

The girls were a story above us, and they yelled down from the escalator. "Hurry up, guys!" Christina called. I smiled and set forth.

"Were you guys even on the list?" she asked, incredulous when we arrived at the next landing.

"Of course we were...." I rolled my eyes.

"Wow, you just totally crashed this party, didn't you?"

"Guilty as charged."

"That's really hot."

We arrived in style. People in tuxedos working the door greeted us with warm smiles as we entered. I felt like I was poised to take over Hollywood. David and the girls went to grab a few drinks, which were complimentary, while I excused myself to use the facilities. I had pounded a few too many beers on the drive over.

In the opulent restroom, I ended up pissing next to Scott Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots. I refrained from introducing myself, however... a handshake in a bathroom is a rather unsavory idea to me.

I emerged and David greeted me with a Cuba Libre.

"Were these really free?" I asked.

"Hell yeah."

"That is amazing. To think that I thought this night was gonna be a failure cuz we missed the show. Here we are at an Oscar party, with two beautiful dates and free drinks all night. Apparently that traffic was a blessing in disguise."

"Hear, hear!"

We toasted and smiled. The night had just begun.

To be continued...