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Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for the event pretty much died the minute we stepped into the "tour bus." The whole night turned out to be an obnoxious promotional campaign for a deodorant company that will remain unnamed, so I quickly learned that Ludacris didn't actually use the bus apart from the occasional pre-show nap. You can probably imagine my disappointment. Maybe I let my imagination get away with me when I was thinking of walking into the bus and seeing champagne flowing from glasses, disco balls spinning on the ceiling and condoms strewn about the floor.
Still, what I found was far from what I expected - two beige rooms covered with at least eight plasma televisions quietly airing BET.
The people hosting us were kind enough to answer a few questions on their version of what Ludacris was "really like" and put out some chips and a few Snickers bars, but that was the extent of their hospitality. I ended up just sitting on the bus for over an hour contemplating the million other ways I could have wasted an entire evening while Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" was stuck on repeat in my head.
Eventually, they kicked us out of the bus and directed us into the building to wait another two hours for the show to start. Love is a large, swanky, well-kept bar and dance club located in the middle of a crappy Northeast neighborhood. It was only 8 p.m., so the five other college newspaper writers and I stood around the lobby area watching the decked-out clubgoers straggle in. For two hours. Two excruciatingly long hours.
