>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama
By staff writer Simonne Cullen

October 14, 2007

Four solid weeks of training at my new job and we only have two days off. The first was spent studying. The second was spent getting frisked outside a club by bouncers.

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 give 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.


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