All right, well, my answer is no.

Sweet, my answers get out of my car.

It does beg the question, what has gone wrong with young holly?

Honest to God, what is the problem?

Hello and welcome for another episode of Laudeau remember this, where we look back on all the Hollywood stories of the early aughts,

a time in history when America found out that with a trust fund, a sex tape, and a dream, you too could become a star.

As always, I'm your host, Darla Lane. Last time, we discussed the storied history of Laudeau, a club that served as the backdrop to many celebrities' late-night escapades. For this was a time

in history when stars had their last remaining vestiges of privacy. No Instagram stories, no Snapchat. The low-quality

sidekick cameras couldn't take a clear picture in a darkened club. And even if some fangirl

who drove in from Long Beach took an incriminating picture of view with her digital camera she was

wearing as a wristlet, there's no way she's not forgetting it on the bathroom's toilet paper dispenser

by the end of the night. You'd just have to hope the next girl who goes into that bathroom

stall and takes the camera doesn't find the picture of you blowing rails with Tara Reed in the

VIP area. The biggest thing celebrities had to worry about was the walk from their blacked-out

SUVs to the club's back door. If you

could get through that gauntlet without flashing your Brazilian wax, then you were good to

go. You could escape behind the heavy doors and in relative anonymity drink

vodka red bulls till your eyeballs rolled back into your head. That is until your

bodyguard has to put a pair of

Rayban Wayfarers on your face, hoist you up, and drag you out of the club back to the SUV

like this is weekend at Brittany's. We only saw the before and after of these weeknight club

hops until one show opened the velvet rope and let us take a peek inside. Of course I'm talking

...