What Happens In E-Vegas Is Apparently Pretty Skanky
As part of MTV’s efforts to make this year’s Video Music Awards “interactive,” the powers that be have set up what they’re calling the Virtual Video Music Awards–basically a chance for people to create smoking-hot avatars of themselves, hang out in the virtual Palms Hotel and Casino, and maybe even e-make-out. As part of our VMA coverage, we’re making Idolator intern Kate Richardson check in periodically (she’s the only one of us who has a computer that can actually run the damn thing). Today, she saw how e-groupies can work their virtual magic and make her worry about the future of civilization:
All-American Rejects/Taking Back Sunday/Dashboard Confessional knock off band Boys Like Girls stopped by the Pepsi Smash Sky Villa Saturday evening to be mobbed by groupie avatars and generally ignore or not notice my questions. Thankfully I had somewhere to be in the real world, so I could only stay a few minutes, but even my brief time in the Villa was enough to convince me of the impending apocalypse. Seriously.
So here’s the anatomy of a virtual makeout session with your favorite emo star: First you declare your love.
In case that’s difficult to read, it says “paul omg i love uu…like seriouslly.”
And that’s basically it. After that, if you’re well-versed enough in the proper avatar commands, and assuming he’s willing, you will make out with him.
I know it’s basically impossible to see because of the quality of the picture and all the pervy bystanders, but “BLG_Paul” (guitarist Paul DiGiovanni) is saying “tongue, tongue, tongue…” How grossed out are you right now?
Luckily I did have one successful encounter with lead singer Martin Johnson about the VMA gift baskets.
He hadn’t received his yet, but he had already gotten “a sick free pair of sunglasses and some video games.” Just a little something to tide him over until he gets his ridiculous basket of bullshit that he doesn’t even need. Seriously, MTV. The polar bears are dying. When the revolution comes, your executives will be the first ones up against the wall.
After that I tried for a while to awkwardly bump my way through the hordes of avatars to get to the band members, but my measly attempts at hard-hitting virtual journalism couldn’t prevail in the overwhelming clamor of desperately suggested makeout sessions.
Me to Martin Johnson: hey do you think this is weird? Crazed girl to Martin Johnson: martin!!! wanna makeeee outtt :o
That’s when I knew it was time to leave.
And for the record, the Laguna Beach towel epidemic continues to haunt the halls of the virtual Palms:
