Jonas Brothers Concert: Play by Play
Continued from last week's post The Hottest Ticket in Town.
7:00 pm. Me: jeans, painfully high, black patent heels, white tank top, grey blazer, very heavy black bag. My mommytrack’d partner in crime: jeans, painfully high, black heels, grey tee shirt, black cardigan, very heavy black bag. Dinner: a trendy sushi restaurant on Sunset Boulevard. Several cosmopolitans and lychee mojitos are imbibed.
8:20: We arrive at the Roxy. Our lovely media contact person from 77kids informs us that “the boys” have already arrived, and that we missed quite a scene. Disappointed, we are shuttled past a red carpet; we catch a glimpse of flashbulbs snapping in the face of an attractive woman I don’t recognize. Inside, there’s an open bar (yay!), a small stage, and a floor with no chairs. Off to one side, a roped off area with booths and tables. We are told this area is verboten. We are told that it is for “the celebrities.”
8:25: Cosmos in hand, we try to go back outside to see what’s going on on the red carpet, but we’re stopped by a bouncer and told we can’t take our drinks outside. We decide to keep the drinks.
8:30: My feet are starting to hurt. These shoes have a standing limit of six minutes, seven, tops. We make our way to the celebrity area to see if anyone interesting is there. The “celebrities” are as follows: Jenny McCarthy, Lisa Rinna, Harry Hamlin, Camryn Manheim, Kris Kardashian-Jenner, and all of their kids. Plus Disney stars Selena Gomez and Brenda Song, who is texting furiously while a group of little girls line up for her autograph. Little girls, who, apparently, are more important than us, because they are allowed in the VIP section.
8:40: My MT companion and I get into a discussion about how cute Harry Hamlin looks in his funky black glasses. And my arm is starting to hurt from holding my bag.
9:00: The Jonas Brothers are supposed to begin playing. They don’t. I am now beginning to resent the celebrities, their children, and all of the very important little girls, as they are seated, and thus unencumbered by heavy bags and painfully high shoes. I see a woman carrying a very sleepy five or six year-old who is wearing the most adorable silver shoes, and I silently thank God that I didn’t bring my six year-old. Both because I know she would want me to carry her, and also because I don’t know how I would explain to her why we aren’t allowed to sit down in one of those booths, but those other little girls are. My MT companion and I get into an intense discussion about how hard it must be to raise children when you are a celebrity, or a producer, or an agent, and your children are always being invited to special events like this. Because what, then, is ever really special to them? And how do you keep them from always expecting to be treated like a VIP?