…Nothing moved for quite some time. In the blistering heat of the California sun, we, my ludicrously dressed and vapid companions for the afternoon, simply stood like saps next to the Gibson Amphitheatre, waiting for the call that would surely come. It must come. We had been summoned, like druids to a solstice, or soccer moms to a Tupperware party. The MTV staff flunkies, no doubt unpaid interns, seemed as stumped as us as to the delay, though they assured us in no uncertain terms that we were mere minutes away from salvation, and would we please maintain the structure of the lines.

The seriousness of it grew to unbearable heights. Order broke down. Lines disintegrated as people sought shelter in the shade of palm trees and unstaffed vendor booths. Water bottles mysteriously made their way through the crowd. I actually felt pity for the numerous women who, in shortsighted enthusiasm for all things MTV, had actually worn high heels. Maybe heels help the posture and push out the chest in a flattering bit of self-indulgence, but they do nothing for the pedestals holding up one's body. I also regretted not wearing a hat, as I could feel my scalp gaining a rich, sanguine, scorched-earth feeling.

Then, a fluttering. The lines began wavering, like a flag in the breeze, and suddenly the sublimely ridiculous occurred.

Convergence.

Utter dissolution of the grid. Lines collapsed, like the French during wartime or moments of rationality. But perhaps more ridiculous was the utter disregard for the disorder on the faces of the MTV coordinators. No attempt to reorder, no marching instructions, no reclamation of meaning, symmetry, or planes of separation was made. It was a farce of the highest order, contempt for the previous four hours of wasted potential, a laugh in the faces of everyone present, including myself.

I don't often pride myself on my rebellious nature. I tend toward anarchy in thought, though I'm a straight arrow lad when it comes down to the point. But I do run a rebellious and perfidious streak that often runs very counter to my higher instincts. The celebration of such base nature is not typically my modus operandi. This day, however, I allowed my mind to run riot.

What if we were all to simply give up and go home? Leave. Make MTV pay for taking our entire afternoon away. There's no way they had five hundred extra seat fillers waiting in the wings behind us, just in case an uprising took place. The show, from a showbiz perspective, would have been lost. Or had we risen up and taken control of entrance to the theatre, the show might very well have been cancelled. After all, we are the audience. When the audience breaks allegiance to the show, does the show exist?

These were the thoughts flashing through my mind as the crowd converged into a point about twelve feet wide, where three or four staffers tried to funnel us into the maw of the theatre. Again, no order, just the hope I saw hanging in their eyes that they would not be crushed in our bid for independence. They lined fifteen up at a time in front of each door, then allowed each line to move into the building, enacting a kind of proto-order, like waiting for Godot on Planet of the Apes.

They let us in, and the cooling of the theatre was an instant relief to the anarchists' thoughts running riot in my mind. But only for so long. We were led to a section near the main stage. Every other seat had a "Reserved For" sign with a celebrity's name attached. We were to be the replacements for celebrities whose seats these were. This is the way it works: A celebrity may be required to leave his or her seat during the show, but because filling the house is not as important as making the house appear filled, it is imperative those seats are full at all times. Thus, MTV staff constantly escort celebrities in and seat fillers out, then later when the celebrity wants out, seat fillers come in. This often occurs multiple times throughout the show. Our greatest hope was that our celebrities were too busy to attend, or too drunk.

This they did not tell us until about ten minutes before the show started. In the hour while we sat and watched silent music videos play on the massive screen on the main stage, no one told us what we were to do or what to expect. We watched the chaos of preparations for a live TV broadcast occur in real time, feeling secure in our dislike of the proceedings, feeling somehow that despite being allowed into a complicated and technically brilliant operation, we were actually the ones in charge. Again thoughts of mutiny strayed into my conscious thought. I suppressed them.

Finally we were down to five minutes. The warm up guy, the MC, the corny guy hired to prep and hep the crowd into a juicy frenzy, tried to convince us we were having fun. And I suppose we were. It was just the kind of fun you have after the real fun has flown off with its friends, leaving you with a misty plastic sheen of something not quite edible or pleasant smelling, but is labeled clearly as "FUN." The show itself was merely a bookend to an otherwise blogworthy day. If you want the inside scoop on the content, watch the countless reruns, or view the highlights on YouTube. Me, I've got better things to do.

So after reviewing my experience at the 2007 MTV Movie Awards, I have only this to say: You can shine a turd till it's got a nice surface. You can even call it a diamond and stick it up on television. Hopefully when someone asks why you're polishing a piece of shite, you can tell them it's not the rocks that make the man rich, it's the straining, grunting, groaning, and just plain hard work it took to make that rock that counts.

Like I said in Part 1, I've had better times on the toilet.