Five years ago I snuck into the Grammy Awards.
I was supposed to have been invited but things don’t always work out as planned.
It all started a year before that when I wrote in my journal: “Next year I’ll be at the Grammys.” (You’ve got to really be careful about the things you write in your journal. If you’re an action oriented person, they may just happen.)
My being at the Grammys was less about my desire to hob-knob with rock stars and more about my relentless drive to always do what I say that I’ll do, to be courageous in the face of my fears, and to live my Life with authority. If you do anything with enough authority, the world will take you seriously.
The following is a brief account of what happened.
PREPARATION
“Having paid heed to the advantages of a plan, the [Uberman] must create situations which will contribute to their accomplishment. By ‘situations’ I mean that he should act expediently in accordance with what is advantageous and so control the balance.” –Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Every action involves a degree of preparation. The greater the action, the more preparation is needed. As soon as I made the decision to actually bust my way in, I put my head down and started to research. I wanted to know everything there was to know about the 2006 Grammy Awards. Where was it taking place? What time were the artists supposed to arrive? Who was producing the event? What kind of credentials would I need? What were some important names to know (and drop)?
I found out that the company producing the event was called Rogers & Cowan, so I went through their website and made a few calls. Basically, I wanted to know the names of anybody who was anybody.
Next I worked on my appearance. I wanted to seem like an agent with swagger or somebody’s manager, so I opted for the classy-casual look: a fitted black suit with a v-neck white tee, an expensive (looking) watch, the biggest diamond (looking) stud my ear could support, and some fresh, new, scuff-less white Vans. (Oh, and aviator sunglasses—you can never go wrong with aviators.)
My roommate at the time was a movie extra and a film festival fanatic, so he had credentials (those cards you wear around your neck) just lying around. I put on about 5 of them.
I wanted to drive my bosses Porsche to the event, but I didn’t have the balls to ask, so I opted for a rental. The rental companies were pretty much sold out of everything [cool], as it was just days before the event and everyone was in town. So I drove my 5 year old, champagne-colored Toyota Solara. (Hey, agents drive glorified Camry’s right?)
Lastly, I put on a giant Bluetooth earpiece (they were huge back then) and stuffed the BlackBerry into my jacket pocket. The goal was to pull it out and start asking (neurotically and extra-loud) about the ‘status of the deal’ and ‘how come they hadn’t deposited her $5 million yet’ and other such agent-like things. I would even call my voicemail just so the giant blue light would flash when I talked and I would look extra douchebaggy.
I was to ready to rock.
AUTHORITY
“If an [Uberman] is not courageous, he will be unable to conquer doubts or [carry out] great plans.” –Sun Tzu, The Art of War
The original plan was to crash the event with my friend and partner in crime James (the extra). I decided to leave early just to scope out the Staples Center and its security arrangements. A 5-block perimeter was created around the arena, with one makeshift entrance being frequented by expensive cars. This was the entry point. I called James and told him that I was going to go for it, and that I’d call him when I got in. (I was absolutely certain, there was no such thing as ‘if’.)
I rolled up to the police officer guarding the entrance. Her badge said T. Beckham and she had a fairly pleasant look on her face. I called my voicemail.
“Excuse me sir, your car doesn’t have the orange placard. I can’t let you in.”
Blue-light flashing: “Madonna, one second please…uh, hello officer, I was told to pick it up at the venue.”
“No sir, they were supposed to mail it to you prior to the event.”
“Wow, what an oversight…I actually have to meet up with my client 5 minutes ago. Is there anything I can do?” A Bentley rolled up behind me.
“Well, if I let you go they may give you problems at the gate.”
“Listen, Becks, let me deal with the men at the gate. I don’t want to keep Jay-Z or whoever is behind me waiting.” She looked at me for a second. A slight smile formed. She waved me in.
If you do anything with enough authority, the world will take you seriously.
My heart was beating faster than ever. Success! If I could get in that easy, the rest would be nothing, right?
I rolled up to the gatemen guarding the parking garage. More police officers.
“Excuse me sir, do you have your parking placard?”
“What? I was told that they’d give it to me at the venue. Anyhow, I’m on the list. Go ahead and check.”
“There is no list, sir. Please pull over to the side.”
My heart was in my throat now, pumping harder than it ever had. The officer huddled with his colleagues for minutes-that-felt-like-hours before walking over to my car.
“Listen; just ask…Roger or Cowan. I’m super late though. Can we make this quick?” I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of my mouth. The officer lowered his sunglasses and looked me directly in the eye. His face wasn’t as pleasant. He then ripped off a giant orange ticket from a stack of about a hundred and placed it on my dashboard.
“Have fun, sir.”
No way was this happening. I drove off slowly, almost suspicious, like a guerrilla-unit SWAT team would jump out from some trash cans and gun me down, Bonnie & Clyde-style. No guerrillas or SWAT team arrived.
“If courageous, he gains victory by seizing opportunity without hesitation.” –Sun Tzu, The Art of War
The parking lot was littered with Lamborghini’s and Bentleys and Aston Martins and such. I felt like I was on the set of some car porno. I think I orgasmed every time I walked past a Ferrari or G55 Mercedes Benz.
ACTING AS IF (or FAKE IT ‘TILL YOU MAKE IT)
“If you want a quality, act as if you already had it.” –William James
Once inside the compound, I assumed the persona of a top-flight uber-agent. I walked straighter, made eye-contact with everyone, was super-chatty, and even winked at a few women that walked by. From time to time I would pull out the BlackBerry, call my voicemail, and have fake conversations with celebrities, politicians, and even the Dalai Lama. My goal was to feel like an agent, so my attitude and actions would flow naturally.
I was inside the compound but I hadn’t really made it yet. Each entrance to the actual Staples Center building was guarded by metal detectors and large men in multi-colored blazers. I tried a few of the entrances, only to be rebuffed on the account of my lack of real credentials.
I got real close once, in fact I made it into the building, only to be given away as the metal detector went off due to the digital camera in my pocket. Apparently, I should have known that all digital cameras were prohibited from the event. I didn’t get the memo.
I went to the on-site credentials office to pick some up. The woman ran my name through the computer.
“What? No Okorougo on the list? Ok, try Sam Cohn.”
I didn’t get my credentials.
FAILURE AND REDEMPTION AND FAILURE
“There really is no such thing as failure. There is only the rearrangement of plans.” –Susan Falter-Barn
I sat on the curb outside the credentials office feeling a little bummed. How could I make it this far without getting into the building? I thought about what to do next. If I could create the most ideal situation, what would it be? Getting on the red carpet!—easy. So off I went.
I was told that the red carpet was positioned next to the VIP parking lot, where small pockets of well-dressed people stood chatting next to limos and giant SUVs. I made it a point to say ‘Hi’ to all of them as I passed, even stopping to join in on some conversations.
One group happened to include Coldplay’s limo driver, who was also rather ambitious and interested in seeing the carpet herself. We arrived at a carpet that was red, but less glamorous than one would imagine it to be. I went up and gave the lady with “the list” my name. (I don’t know why I kept doing that, like I was expecting it to magically appear if I said it enough times. Of course, it didn’t.)
“That’s weird. Well, I’m supposed to meet my client on the red carpet. Should I just wait for her to arrive?”
“Oh, they didn’t tell you? The carpet is green this year. And it’s on the other side of the Staples Center.”
Damn, another memo that I somehow missed. I thanked her and headed off in that direction. My escort, Coldplay’s limo driver, had to stay back in case Chris Martin needed to grab his piano or bong or something.
I followed a group of MTV journalists and photographers to the new GREEN carpet. Sticking close to the group and doing my best to stay incognito, I got but five feet away from the limo arrival point. The first limo that arrived was carrying Jennifer Love Hewitt. The flashing lights went off and the photographers started yelling for her to look in their direction.
I paused. Here was my chance. All I had to do was trail after her, wave a few times, walk the 15 yard carpet and duck into the building. My hands trembled and my palms began to sweat. I took a few steps toward the carpet and extended my right foot, placing it slowly onto the lush green floor covering.
I’m on! Now the left foot, Obi. I must have looked like I was doing the Harlem Shake ‘cause my whole body shivered in fear. I looked up to see if anybody was paying attention to me. I’m not sure how long I stood there, but it must’ve been long enough because a large tuxedoed security officer looked directly at me and whispered into his walkie-talkie, walking quickly in my direction.
I ducked behind the photographers from MTV, crouching a bit. Someone grabbed my right arm firmly and pulled me away from the group. It was the security guard.
“What the hell are you doing?!” he asked.
“Uh, well, I’m supposed to be here.”
“Let me see your credentials.”
Sheepishly, I pulled one out from my suit jacket. It read:
LA FILM FESTIVAL (VOLUNTEER)
The guard once again grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the street.
“Hey man, I’m parked here.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am. In the subterranean parking lot, underneath the Staples Center.”
“There is no parking lot under the Staples Center,” he lied.
“Yes there is, and I’m parked there, orange placard and all. Now get your hands off me,” I said with authority.
There wasn’t much he could say after that. There’s no way I could have known that if I didn’t park there. He let go of me and grabbed the walkie-talkie attached to his jacket lapel.
“I have an African-American man, mid-20s, approximately 6 feet tall, black suit, white shoes. Please be on the…”
I didn’t stay for what came next. I walked away from the green carpet, away from the flashing lights, past the credentials office, around the VIP parking lot, past the guards with the multi-colored blazers, past the orgasm-inducing Lamborghini’s, and back into the safety of my car.
I sat there for about 30 minutes before driving off. I was bummed—yes—but also a bit high with excitement over what just happened. I was definitely having a meditative moment. I felt alive and everything around me felt richer and more real.
I was there…I was really there.