Vegas Chronicles Part 4: Just Follow the Golden Tower

The completely unnecessary journey from Allegiant Stadium to In-N-Out Burger featuring freeway bridges, emotional trauma, and hot tub evidence.

Readers, I promised you the story of how the boys and I ended up at In-N-Out Burger at 1 a.m. after the Morgan Wallen concert questioning every decision we have ever made in our lives. So here we are.

First of all, apologies for the delay. Life has been a little chaotic lately which honestly feels on brand for me at this point. I will explain that disaster in another post because apparently the universe refuses to let me live peacefully for more than twelve consecutive minutes.

But for now?

Grab a snack. Grab a drink. Maybe put on some emotional support Morgan Wallen in the background while I explain how the three of us survived Allegiant Stadium, crossed what felt like seventeen freeways, and somehow ended the night half-delirious in an In-N-Out Burger questioning reality itself.

Now what nobody warns you about is that leaving Allegiant Stadium after a concert is less “walking out of a venue” and more “participating in the collapse of civilization.”

The SECOND that concert ended, the gates opened and suddenly we were trapped in a massive moving herd of drunk country music fans all trying to escape into the Las Vegas night at the exact same time.

Cowboy hats. Boots. Fringe jackets. Half-empty beer cups. People yelling lyrics into the void.

Just chaos.

And naturally the boys and I had absolutely no plan whatsoever because apparently our survival strategy as a group is simply vibes.

So there we were shuffling along with thousands of other exhausted people when Bestie suddenly stopped, dramatically pointed into the far distance, and announced:

“Just follow the golden tower.”

Readers.

The Tower was approximately seventeen states away.

Okay not literally. But close enough emotionally.

On a normal day the walk from Allegiant Stadium to the Trump Tower is over three miles and takes more than an hour. At midnight after a concert while slightly drunk and emotionally unstable? That distance becomes psychologically impossible.

Absolutely not.

My feet had already entered the stage of suffering where every step feels personal. The cheap concert alcohol was hitting. Craig was somehow still full of energy which honestly should be medically studied.

So instead we decided to walk to In-N-Out because apparently every bad decision made in Las Vegas eventually ends beneath fluorescent lights eating burgers at 1 a.m.

Now technically In-N-Out was only about a mile from the stadium.

TECHNICALLY.

But Readers when you are exhausted, slightly intoxicated, overstimulated, dehydrated, and being pushed through pedestrian bridges with thousands of other people, one mile becomes a Lord of the Rings side quest.

At one point we were crossing freeway overpasses surrounded by traffic and crowds while Bestie continued pointing toward the glowing Tower in the distance like he was leading settlers across the Oregon Trail.

“Just keep walking toward the gold building.”

SIR WE ARE TRYING.

Craig claims he carried me for part of this journey.

I have no memory of that.

Honestly there are gaps in my recollection that can only be explained by emotional trauma and stadium margaritas.

What I DO remember:

• my feet actively trying to detach from my body

• Craig needing to pee every twelve seconds

• me threatening to Uber alone and leave them behind

• Bestie acting like this was a perfectly reasonable athletic activity

• and all three of us slowly deteriorating mentally while crossing Vegas pedestrian bridges at midnight

At one point I looked back toward Allegiant and genuinely wondered if we would ever make it back to the Tower. The Tower looked fake by then. Like one of those movie endings where the characters hallucinate safety before collapsing dramatically in the desert.

Anyway somehow we survived and finally stumbled into In-N-Out around 1 a.m.

PACKED.

Of course it was packed.

Readers I am convinced there is no hour on Earth where an In-N-Out is not overflowing with people. Nuclear apocalypse? Still a line out the door waiting for animal fries.

We ordered burgers. Extra fries obviously because our bodies were running exclusively on grease, sodium, and poor decision making at that point.

Then we sat there looking absolutely destroyed while waiting for an Uber back to the Tower because not a single one of us was surviving another mile voluntarily.

The Uber ride itself felt emotional.

Like soldiers returning from battle.

And THEN because apparently we are incapable of acting normal, we got back to the hotel, ate MORE burgers, and climbed directly into the hot tub.

I know this happened because unfortunately there is video evidence.

Video evidence that I apparently almost posted on Facebook.

Readers.

Do you understand how catastrophic this would have been?

I already have to crop Bestie out of photos like he’s in witness protection. Craig requires editing approval like he’s a celebrity publicist. And somehow I almost uploaded drunk hot tub footage of all three of us to the internet at 2 a.m.

Bestie would not have spoken to me for six to eight business months.

I would have been removed from the polycule immediately.

Escorted out of the Tower carrying leftover fries while Craig watched sadly from the balcony.

Anyway.

Morgan Wallen?
10/10. Amazing. Incredible. Worth every second.

The post-concert pilgrimage back to the golden tower in the sky?

Deeply concerning.