That’s right, to get into Hotel Elevate we had to leave our digital cameras
and mobile phones at the door. Now I know
Salt Lake City has some seriously demented laws about the consumption of
alcoholic beverages, but now we can’t even document our belligerency? Something
was definitely amiss.
Annoyed at the fact that the people on the patio inside confirmed for us that
Hotel Elevate had the strongest drinks in the city, we had no choice but to give
up our technology. So we called up a friend and dumped about $2000 worth of
digital cameras and Blackberries into the back of her car’s trunk. But no way
was I going with my mobile (I haven’t seen a pay phone since the early 90’s and
alcohol has a strange way of leaving you stranded in the middle of the night).
Unable to stick my cell phone in my bra—where I normally hide money, car keys,
and a bag of snack size Lays Potato Chips—I was forced to stick it in my
panties.
"The first club we went to was offering free haircuts onstage
at 10pm."
So there I was, the feel of ice cold metal on my womanly parts,
walking into the club as if I had just been personally manhandled by
the entire Dallas Cowboys football team. We got frisked for the
third time by the bouncer who couldn’t help but smile at his
unbelievably good fortune. Behind our gaggle of girls was a
bachelorette party, equally livid at the fact that they could not
document Brenda’s last flirt. All of us entered at once, (each
paying the membership fee, courtesy of Salt Lake City’s most
annoying law ever), when we discovered the source of the
inconvenience.
Wearing a hoodie, not drinking, and surrounded by a plethora of big ugly
bodyguards complete with corn-rolls was
Lindsey Lohan, fresh out of rehab, wearing a hoodie and not…I repeat not,
drinking anything, with a miserable look on her face. Camera phone still stuck
in my panties, I figured fishing it out would have my crotch more of a photo
opportunity than the bored look across her face.
But really, what was she expecting? First off, it was techno night. Second,
the only people dancing were Brenda’s entourage of overweight rock star
bridesmaids who were wearing some serious spandex on top of what I assume were
elevated mini-runways. Third, it’s Salt Lake City. The first club we went to
(Bliss) was
offering free haircuts onstage next to the DJ station at 10pm, with only a
strobe light to guide the stylist. Seriously! I can’t make this up! You can only
imagine what a crazy night it was with our stale cranberry juices and tonic
waters.
As I went to retrieve my phone from my knickers I got a clear view of Lindsay
leaving in a different hoodie, but still looking terribly bored. The least she
could have done was buy a round of drinks for the whole place—there were, after
all, only about 14 of us there: a bridal party, a handful of girls with lost
hope, and two guys still trying to work a glow stick routine.
So, if you’re ever in the area, spend the money, rent a bus, and head up to
Park City. You’ll thank me in the long run, and
so will my womanly parts.
