VMAzed

My off-the-hook weekend with MTV.

photo and text by Joanie Cox

The MTV Video Music Awards tore through Miami like Fat Joe at a buffet. If you were anywhere near the 305 Aug. 26 through 29, there’s a big chance you were stuck in traffic with Missy Elliott on Collins Avenue or tripped over Paris Hilton’s entourage on your way into the Sagamore hotel. Jacked up on Red Bull and armed with a notepad, digital camera and entourage of my very own, I took on the scene to bring you a true insider’s look at what really happened at this year’s VMAs.

Friday, Aug. 27

5:30 p.m.: My friend Sheika leaves my house after doing my makeup, and my boyfriend, Josh Rowand, and I get ready to head down to the Sagamore for Us Weekly and Adidas’ barbecue for Missy Elliott. On the way down, traffic sucks, but we find refuge in the Lincoln Road parking garage.

9:30 p.m.: Hundreds of people crowd the velvet rope trying to convince the Schwarzenegger-esque security guard that their name is on the list. Madonna’s ex-lover, Ingrid Casares, steps on my foot as Josh and I make our way through the velvet rope. Missy is already partying near the pool, and Paris Hilton walks in right behind me. She’s just as skinny as I imagined but a lot tanner. I want to hate her and call her a skank, but I can’t, because she’s annoyingly pretty. I rummage through my handbag for my camera and almost miss Queen Latifah in the doorway. We follow them out to a poolside tent where Missy is shakin’ her groove thang to Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean.” Diana Ross shows up and jumps up and down in the tent. It’s truly surreal.

1:30 a.m.: After a bite at Barton G’s, we stop at a light on Collins Avenue and admire the Rolls-Royce coupe next to us. Then, we realize it’s Ja Rule.

Saturday, Aug. 28

3 p.m.: I take a motorcycle ride over to the Delano for a red-carpet press conference for the movie The Cookout. It starts raining halfway through, but Farrah Fawcett, Marlon Wayans, Diana Ross and Queen Latifah show up anyway. Tori Spelling’s little brother, Randy, stops and introduces himself as I try to get Queen Latifah’s attention. Her evil wench of a publicist pushes her down the red carpet.

5 p.m.: Vivica A. Fox trips over the curb on Collins Avenue. I walk a little farther down the street and see Missy Elliott driving her white Rolls-Royce with the windows down, waving to fans. “You look good, Missy,” a fan screams to her. Missy smiles and says, “Thank you, girl.” Then, two cars behind Missy, I see a very paranoid Pauly Shore leap from a Ford Expedition and bolt up to the Sagamore. He keeps turning his head around, hoping his fans won’t mob him, but he forgets he left them all in the mid-’90s.

9 p.m.: I run over to Nobu, because I hear that the Olsen twins are chowing down on sushi there. While I’m looking for them, I run right into Queen Latifah, who’s smoking a cigarette in a dark corner and contemplating the true meaning of hip-hop with a friend. I finally get to tell her I loved her in Chicago, and she gives me a high-five and thanks me.

10:30 p.m.: My friends and I stop for a bite at Jerry’s Deli, where we opt to sit outside so we can star-spy. Two girls walk by in dresses made out of Kool-Aid packages, and a guy with a video camera won’t leave us alone because he thinks I’m the redhead from That ’70s Show.

12:45 a.m.: My posse and I join 3,000 others at the Mansion for Paris Hilton’s party. The Courvoisier flows like tap water.

1:22 a.m.: My friends and I squeeze through the bottom level of the Mansion and the fog machine is working overtime as a mix of “Sweet Home Alabama,” “Jump Around” and “Insane in the Brain” blasts.

1:26 a.m.: Still no sign of Paris, but there are plenty of debutante wannabes with Hermès scarves tied around their heads and Ashton Kutcher look-alikes wearing sideways trucker caps and fake vintage T-shirts.

1:35 a.m.: The Jessica Simpson clone next to me keeps whining, “It’s a full house; the Olsen twins should be here any minute,” but she’s too stupid to notice Andre 3000 dancing right in front of her.

1:53 a.m.: Simon Rex gets jiggy in the VIP area, and in comes Paris. She’s wearing a short, pink chiffon dress and wastes no time before she starts grinding on a random girl to “Are You Gonna Go My Way?”

2:03 a.m.: I’m overwhelmed with the cheese factor as I watch Simon swig a Heineken and sing every word to Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.” I think I may vomit, but the girl with her head halfway in the Cristal bucket does it for me.

2:45 a.m.: Paris and Simon leave to hang out at the Raleigh. Paris never sings her new song, “Paris Is Burning,” and I’m secretly thankful.

2:53 a.m.: Jaime Pressly arrives more lit-up than a Christmas tree and almost falls off the stage twice. I watch her down vodka and cranberry juice and then screwdrivers while perfecting her stripper dance moves. I try to snap a picture of her, but her bodyguard freaks out and says, “She’s drinking a lot tonight. No pictures.”

Sunday, Aug. 29

4 p.m.: Josh drops me off at AA Arena, and I wait around in a freezing room with TV crews and other journalists. I befriend a really awesome girl from a Brit magazine, and she tells me Paris Hilton was once on a photo shoot and left her bloodied thong in the corner after it was over. I feel nauseated again.

5:30 p.m.: I secure a spot along the red carpet. They say we can ask the stars anything we want. The first A-lister to walk the carpet is Ashlee Simpson, but she stops only long enough to say Jack Nicholson’s daughter designed her dress.

5:45 p.m.: The Ying Yang Twins walk over to me, and I have to ask them what advice they have for young hip-hop artists trying to make it. “You’ve gotta have real gold teeth,” they insist. “I tell all the young kids out there to make sure they get the real one, because the fake one turn your teeth green. I got my grill from a dentist.” Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson zoom by, and I’m amazed at how short she is. She always seemed a lot bigger on TV, but she’s more like a bobble-head of herself in real life.

6:30 p.m.: Hulk Hogan and his equally tall daughter Brooke walk by as she sings a Spanish song for every single news camera along the red carpet. It’s her first event like this. I ask Hulk, “Which is better, the VMAs or Wrestlemania?” and he replies, “The VMAs, man!”

7:20 p.m.: It’s J.Lo! She’s beautiful — just as glam as I always imagined, but her booty is not as impressive as Beyoncé’s.

7:30 p.m.: Bam Margera and his mom and dad, April and Phil, are standing right next to me, and I tell them how much I’m obsessed with their show. I ask Bam if he’s enjoying Miami, and he says, “We’re from New Jersey, so we’re really happy to be anywhere. You can actually swim on your beaches.” April wipes chocolate off Bam’s cheek before he poses for a pic with me. I ask Phil what he thinks of all the “Don’t Feed Phil” T-shirts. He says, “I don’t even know why you kids want this stuff.” Bam’s family rules.

7:46 p.m.: I yell out to Steve-O and his mystery girlfriend. He remembers me from a previous interview we did, and he hugs me. I tell him he’s a sexy bitch as he walks away grinning.

8 p.m.: The awards show starts, and I’m in a side room with a lot of other press waiting for more star interviews. Hilary Duff comes in to tells us her outfit was really pants, but she cut them into shorts this morning. Matthew Lillard tells us the craziest rumor he has ever heard about himself is that his penis is 10 inches limp, because it’s really 11.

8:45 p.m.: Eva Mendes admits to her “borderline scary” obsession with The Strokes, and Carson Daly mentions that the first album he ever owned was Rick Springfield’s Working Class Dog. I ask Carson which was his favorite party. “I skipped all the parties like Mansion. The lines are too long, and it’s crazy. I don’t know who goes to these parties anymore,” he says. “I hang out at Skybar and The Shore Club. The guy from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs was the DJ, and Johnny Knoxville was there.” I am actually glad not to have been trapped in Mansion with him Saturday night. He’s really boring.

9 p.m.: The Aussie band Jet walks in, and I ask the guys who they wrote “Are You Gonna Be My Girl” about. They tell me they wrote it about me, and I turn bright-red. “The song is about a girl you can’t have, and we can’t have you, therefore it’s about you,” drummer Chris Cester explains. I am severely flattered. Then, another reporter asks him who the band’s stylist is. “Jesus Christ, I don’t have a stylist,” Cester snorts. “My outfit was $50. It’s called thrift-store shopping, baby!”

9:15 p.m.: Lil Jon comes in, and I ask him about his cup. He tells me he put a LoJack on it because people like me keep trying to steal it.

10 p.m.: Thirteen-year-old singer JoJo is up obviously past her bedtime to whine about her old life. “When I was home in public school, I was burning, because I knew there was something more I could be doing,” she avers. Yeah, maybe stay home like the rest of us and be 13.

12:10 a.m.: My boyfriend picks me up from AA Arena, and we head over to Privé for the Jessica and Ashlee Simpson party, where Biz Markie will be DJ’ing.

2:20 a.m.: We spot Nick Lachey sipping a Heineken with his arm around Jessica’s dad in a VIP area.

3 a.m.: Manny Puig from Wildboyz breezes by with four young hotties. He shakes our hands and heads down to the bottom level of Opium, where Fat Joe is filming a new video.

4 a.m.: I can no longer shake it like a saltshaker, because my feet are starting to rebel against my platform shoes, and I’m pretty sure my VMAyhem is done. I’m tired, hungry and in serious need of my own bed.

7 a.m.: I’m finally home and lying in bed, and I can’t help but be depressed. What the hell am I doing next weekend?

Contact Joanie Cox at jcox@citylinkmagazine.com.