Dear Bret Michaels (and all ya'll other guys whose names I do not know and such),

I attended your concert in good old Salt Lake City, on Tuesday night (okay, mostly as a total joke, but still...) and man do I have a bone to pick with you! As you may or may not know, I often like to express my feelings "through the lens" so, here we go.

This is what I looked like shortly after arriving at your concert.

...and this is what I was saying to myself:

"I am sooooo excited to see Poison and Def Leppard in concert!

This is going to be like, totally awesome!

The hour and a half that we just spent in totally horrible,

sticky summer traffic is going to be totally worth it in the end,

I just know it will be! How could it NOT be?"

Then I thought:

"I am going to be jamming out to

'Pour Some Sugar On Me'

in T minus 5 minutes, and taking hilarious pictures

of totally drunk girls in the most horribly trashy outfits

imaginable and it's going to be sooo funny! Best. Night. Ever!"

Then I thought:

"I'll bet Bret Michael's Britney-esque old man weave will look way more real

(or "realer" as I prefer to say) in person!"

Then I totally realized that what I'd just thought was crazy,

and then I thought:

"Okay, realistically though, it totally, probably,

maybe won't look any more realer after all. What was I even thinking? ha ha!"
(that was me laughing to myself... I do that sometimes.)

Then I was TOTALLY thinking:

"Oh for the love of pure, unadulterated joy,

this is going to be the best night EVER!

(And full-on nostril pictures can only make it

that much better, yes?)

My hair is hood-ratted to perfection,

I'm wearing enough make up to give an 80s groupie

(or a French prostitute)

a run for her money,

and I've even thrown on my favorite new

Betsey Johnson Belt

(Leopard side OUT ya'll! Rawr.)

for good measure.

I am ready to R-O-C-K!"

Then I got to the gate, and do you know what they told me?

Do you, Bret?

Huh?

Do. you. ?

They told me I had to take my camera back to the car!

They did.

That jeeeust happened.

...and something tells me that it's all. YOUR. fault! BOO!

Do you wanna know what I was thinking on the l-o-n-g,

devastating walk back to Jill's car?

"Who the heck do you think you are? Gwen Ste -freakin-fani?

I can't bring a camera in to your concert? Are you kidding me?

Why, because you don't want everyone to see what a crappy,

boring concert you guys put on?"
Then I yelled a little.

Then, feeling more than a little bit resentful, I got to thinking:

"Do you remember that one time when I watched

'Rock of Love'

for 3 full minutes
before I promptly threw up,

took 3 showers,

and scheduled an appointment to meet with my Bishop

because I just. felt. oh. so. dirty?

Remember that?

Well that sure as heck isn't ever happening again!"

(so there.)

...and then I was feeling childish.

I got it out of my system though.

On the bright side, before your evil henchmen

took it upon themselves to send me and my beloved camera packin',

I DID get a few amazing shots.

(Like the one of my hilarious friend Natasha

- who is 6 month pregnant,

and wearing hot pink stretch pants and a shredded zebra print shirt -

in front of a big ole line of motorcycles.)

and let's not forget this one:

Wow, I have no idea who these guys were,

but it's a pretty safe bet that they are cooler than you, Bret Michaels.

So put that in your pipe and smoke it - eh?

Oh, and Bret? I just wanted to let you know that it was the

hot wings,

and the cheese sticks,

and the pregnant BFF in hot pink stretch pants

that made my night memorable.

Not you.

Boo on you.

The whole lot of you.

but you shouldn't be too terribly hurt/discouraged/sad about that.

I like hot wings and magenta stretch pants more than I like most things.

So, you're not alone.

Sincerely,

Lola Bef