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Red Carpet Reminiscing:Sunday on the Carpet with George

What would I wear to go see George Clooney?

This was my dilemma on the day of the Academy Awards.  I was assigned to cover Red Carpet arrivals during which I would stand on the edge of the carpet, ensconced in the swell of media, flagging down Hollywood A-listers to ascertain their favorite film, favorite Oscar moment, and favorite American Idol contestant.

It didn’t help that I woke up feeling like the Incredible Bulk.  I had tried to stick to a special-event starvation diet earlier in the week, but within a few hours, I was so ravenous that I ate every bit of canned cupboard food that should only be consumed in case of the Apocalypse or if you can’t leave the apartment because you’re waiting for the cute guy from the gym to call and getting into the elevator would mean 27-seconds of no cell phone service.

Anyway, there I was, Oscar morning, standing in the doorway of my closet, hands on hips, with a full-on concentration head tilt.  The rack was crowded with random skirts, sweaters, and age-inappropriate hot-weather outfits that I was sure I’d fit into by the summer.  I pushed aside the informal attire and focused on the dressy-dresses. I considered, then passed over, a red-beaded strappy number, the short white and silver 60’s fem-bot look, and a green halter-top dress that required Jessica Biel-buff arms and shoulders. Eventually, I freed a black flowy gown from its smushed sartorial prison. It had a generous lower half and crystals on the neckline. It was my perennial go-to gown that accommodated me no matter how carby-licious I became.

I hung the dress on the outside of the closet door and whipped through my 40-minute getting-ready ritual which included flat-ironing my hair to within an inch of its life.   I took the gown off the hanger, stepped into it,  and prayed that the side zipper would close without me having to call the building Superintendent to help, as I’d done a few months earlier.*

*Flashback: December 2007.  I was able to get the zipper halfway up, at which point it got stuck and wouldn’t go up or down.  I tried for almost an hour, contorting myself into positions that a Yoga master would envy. I was slick with sweat when I finally called in the reinforcement: Dale, the Super, who was in the dimly lit hallway replacing a bulb. I cracked open my door and hid my body behind it, leaving only the left half of my face visible. It was like a scene from a Boris Karloff movie. Dale was understandably reluctant.

Me:  ”Psst. Dale! Comemeer!”

Dale: “Pardon?”  

Me in a stage whisper: “I need you to come in here for a second. You should probably bring tools.”

Dale: (Backing away) “What kind of repair does your place need? You could fill out a maintenance request.”

 Me: ”I don’t have time, and it’s not really an official documentation kind of thing. I need you to help me with the zipper of this dress before my elbow locks into permanent Chicken Dance position, which I’m sure would be a hit at weddings, but not so much on a tightly-packed press line. Please?”

Me again: “I won’t hurt you, I promise, and the only thing you’ll see is armpit cleavage and a dark patch of skin shaped like the Czech Republic between my shoulder blades where I couldn’t reach the tanning lotion.”  

Finally, Dale capitulated, cautiously approached, and hoisted up the zipper. I gave him  hush money a tip, and hoped that the embarrassing wardrobe malfunction would remain our little secret, though I’m sure it will make into print if he decides to write a book. (He could call it “A Super Life” or “From Superintendent to Superhero, How I Saved a Tenant from Dress Distress”.  There could be a forward by Schneider from One Day at a Time.)

Back to George. The dress cooperated and I was out the door with my purse and a small shopping bag containing reading material, a bag of whole-wheat bagels, wheat thins (I would be out there for at least 3 hours), water, and high-heels for when I arrived at the venue. (I wore sneakers for the long walk from the parking lot to the shuttle to the Kodak. Nothing says “sexy” like a woman in a formal gown and Nikes, weighed down by a bag full of baked goods.)

I arrived at the location a little damp. It had been raining and dreary, but thankfully, the entire red carpet area was tented. After searching for our assigned spot up and down the carpet like a sparkly shooting – range target for about 20 minutes,  I discovered our sign on the third tier next to a gi-normous Oscar trophy whose gleaming gold buttocks could probably be seen from space. But, wait! How would I conduct interviews if I wasn’t on the ground level?  Apparently, there was credential confusion and we were slated to shoot, not to ask questions.  Only the cameraman needed to be there, but I stayed, anyway. I had never covered the Academy Awards and this would be an up close and personal view of the bow-tied, the Bo-toxed, and the boney.

One by one, the glitterati stepped onto the carpet greeted by varying degrees of applause and whoo-hooing from the fans in the bleachers. There was a flashbulb frenzy each time a celeb posed in front of the photo pit, rendering the stars temporarily blind as they continued down the press line to the TV crews.  An awkward moment arose when Gary Busey overenthusiastically greeted Ryan Seacrest, Jennifer Garner and Laura Linney. The entire journalistic jackpot moment was captured live by a cadre of cameras. 

Then, HE walked in. The carpet was so packed that he almost entered unnoticed, until an explosion of audible excitement erupted from the fans. George Clooney (with only the top of his head visible to me) and his girlfriend, Sarah Larson, glided through the throngs, sporting designer duds and a platinum-tinged aura of success and sex appeal.

George waved to the fans and engaged the media in his usual friendly manner. I’d interviewed him a few times before and always found him to be polite and genuine. Today was different, though, because he looked like a man in love, which along with the tux and disarming smile, made him even more appealing. He introduced Sarah to every reporter and kept one hand on her lower back the entire time. I sighed a girly sigh that translated to:  What would it be like to be on the receiving end of such unfettered adoration? Hold on, let me dig out my to-do list: Pick up dry cleaning, call cable company, enchant a handsome movie star. Got it.

(P.S. The camermen were quite taken with Sarah also, judging from the private post-event commentary. )

As the arrivals continued, I watched the whole scene unfold from my perch above the carpet.  I saw Helen Mirren, Daniel Day-Lewis, Jessica Alba, Heidi Klum, Johnny Depp, Harrison Ford, Faye Dunaway, Julie Christie, Ellen Page, Diablo Cody, and many others take their turn in the spotlight.  It was a rich tableau of old Hollwyood and new, guarded and gregarious, those who embraced the awards-show experience and posed proudly for pictures and those who tolerated the media attention as part of their jobs. 

Finally, the celebs were seated inside the Kodak and the Red Carpet press packed up. I gathered my belongings and trekked back to the shuttle, with one less bagel in my bag, and one more Tinseltown event under my belt.  I took a seat near the window and daydreamed about a life of door-to-door transportation, magician-stylists who would slough and buff me like Dorothy when she got to Emerald City, and an assistant who would make sure I’d never forget to send back the Netflix.

I stepped off the shuttle, got behind the wheel of my 10-year-old, paint-faded Jetta and headed to my friend’s home where she’d organized a casual Oscar viewing party. There was home-cooked food, loads of laughs and a front row seat on a comfy couch from where I watched the show.

When I arrived home, I de-glamorized, put on a pair of Walgreen’s sweat pants (They have pockets.) and fuzzy socks, then, opened the window to let in the cool bedtime breeze. I folded myself into the covers like a burrito and drifted off to sleep thinking about my Good Night and Good Luck. Watching Hollywood history unfold was a memorable experience. If I’m there next year, maybe I’ll sneak my screenplay into the goodie bags…