I booked my own flight and hotel. It’s not a paid gig — you cover all your own costs. Flights weren’t cheap; it was about $600 round trip. I used some [credit card] points [to help cover the cost]. The hotel was the most expensive part. People asked me, “How much do they pay you?” and I was like, “Oh no, you don’t get paid at all.”
Check-in on Sunday was between 1 and 3 p.m. PT at this random parking garage by the L.A. Convention Center that shows up on Google Maps as “permanently closed.” I remember thinking, “This is so shady.” But it wasn’t. You wait in line, they check your ID, give you a purple ribbon to pin on your dress so they know you’re a seat filler, and then they march you what feels like the longest way possible around the Convention Center and Crypto Arena to a tent out back.
It was the world’s warmest tent, full of hundreds of us, there were no real instructions. Just water and handwritten numbers on index cards. Then you sit and wait for hours, listening for your group [number] to be called. When they do call you, you line up again, shuffle through hallways and wait some more until someone needs your seat. It’s a lot of standing and a lot of walking.
The first email spelled it out: you’re there to blend in. You’re taking the seat of someone who probably paid $25,000, or so I was told, inside the venue. You’re not there to make friends, you’re not there to take pictures and you’re definitely not there for free food or drinks. If you’re seen with alcohol, you’ll be removed. If you refuse to move when asked, you’ll be removed. They weren’t messing around.
Dress code was strict: men had to be in tuxedos or dark suits, women in formal dresses that were dark and simple. No red, no white, no frills, nothing too long. Flats are recommended since you’re on your feet for hours. If you brought a purse, it had to be a small clutch — and you held onto it the whole night because there’s no coat check.
Even with all those rules, things happen. At one point, the [scent of] fragrance in the room was so overpowering — everyone’s perfume and cologne — I got a migraine. I asked security if I could get some water so I could take my migraine medication, because we were told we weren’t allowed to buy drinks. The security guard just looked at me and said, "That’s insane. Go get something to drink. If anyone hassles you, tell them my name. Then come back." He was great. But the perfume situation? It was like walking into a teenage boy’s locker room — just brutal.
My first placement [of the night] was technically on the second level, but during a commercial break I noticed other seat fillers with ribbons making a beeline down to the main floor. Nobody was yelling at them, so I just followed. That’s how I ended up right in the middle of everything.
I was definitely sitting near people who were important, but not necessarily the stars themselves. I could tell they were writers or production people, but I had no idea who they were. You feel a little awkward — I know you’re someone, but I can’t ask, ‘Who are you?’ So I just sat there, smiled and tried to be polite.
At first, I thought his countdown bit was clever — like, “OK, this is a funny way to get people to keep their speeches short.” But no one respected it. They all just kept talking. Pretty quickly, it stopped being funny and just got awkward.
The woman sitting next to me said, "Get this guy off stage," under her breath. You could feel the audience souring on it. Sometimes they’d flash the score and it would say something like negative $36,000, and people would go "Ooh," but the speaker wouldn’t stop. The energy in the room shifted from lighthearted to uncomfortable. Everyone just wanted him to move on.
