Back in the day in the Florida Keys,

I hooked up with a speedo, and sang (badly) on stage.

After the incredible CU football game in Miami, Hammer, Slaw, and I still had a few days left to explore, so we put the top down on our rented Buick Reatta, and headed south on Route One, to the Florida Keys.

I insisted we stop in Key Largo, (to honor that classic Boggie/Bacall movie featuring villain Edward G. Robinson) and after pulling over at a nice-looking restaurant called The Italian Fisherman, we were greeted by charming tag-team waiters, Dennis and Alan, (shortened to "Den-n-Al" on the vanity plate of their classic wood-paneled station wagon in the lot).

Den and Al were a gay couple who'd been working together for years, and everytime we asked for something like another napkin, or parmesan cheese, they'd lean in extra close and cock their heads to the side, holding one hand up to their ear like a big catcher's mit.

"BEG A PARDON?"

"COME AGAIN?"

We'd repeat ourselves, speaking slower and louder each time, and they'd just look at us as if we were speaking in tongues, but it didn’t matter, because they were really nice, and the food was delicious.

Continuing a bit further down the "Overseas Highway" we made it to Islamorada Key, and decided to stop at a cute motel with a pool and a tiki bar, desperate to go back to Colorado with a tan. Different docks and boardwalks led in opposite directions, and after some time by the pool, we found an outdoor restaurant where we could perch on wooden stools, and toast the sunset with strong rum punch.

As the night went on, the restaurant became more of a crowded bar, and the DJ set up in the corner had people dancing and on the prowl. I kept making eye contact with a super-hot guy in a cut-up tanktop, but the Bimbos just laughed when I pointed him out.

"That Chippendales's looking dude?" (hahaha) "Seriously?"

"He's fully hot. Chippendales or not."

(hahaha) "Sure thing. You should go for it."

"I just might! Now where'd he go?"

And as I scanned the room for the guy, a male voice spoke from directly over my shoulder.

"Looking for me?"

I knew it was him, and shivers ran my spine when I nodded, and he put his hands on my shoulders to turn me around.

"Hi, I'm Bill."

"I'm Brooke."

That was about all it took. The attraction was real and unabashed. Neither of us with any illusions of a more meaningful relationship - it was all about the sex - and we quickly made our way to a darker part of the dock to make out, and then to a random hotel room to fuck.

It was one of those anything goes moments, and I spent the night with Bill, (local boy/model who drove a black Firebird, and also ran a tourist Shell Shop with his brother) enjoying each other every which way possible.

The next day I found the girls back at the pool tanning, but I was just there grabbing my swimsuit, on my way to meet Bill at his boat. He wanted to take me on the water and have more sex. (Check and check.)

That evening Slaw, Hammer, and I drove back to the same restaurant, The Italian Fisherman for dinner, where I replayed the sordid details of my day with Bill, until getting to the part where I said he took his shorts off and jumped in the water.

"Wait, did he have a swimming suit on?"

"He jumped off the boat naked?"

I assured them he had a swimming suit on... it was a speedo.

"A SPEEDO?!

BWWWWAHahahahahahah!!!!!"

"Oh my God, YOU HOOKED UP WITH A SPEEDO!"

"Wait, was it more SPEEDO, or more LaLANNE?

"Dude, you have no idea… If anyone should be rockin' a speedo it's this guy, he's fucking fine."

"SPEEDO(!) AHHHHHAAHAHAHAHAHA -WHAT COLOR? WHAT COLOR WAS THE SPEEDO?"

"Okay, well I know I shouldn't even tell you this, but it was leopard print ."

"AHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

OH MY GOD YOU FUCKED A LEOPARD PRINT SPEEDO!!!!!

What??? - I CAN'T EVEN TAKE IT!!!!

Slaw and Hammer belly-laughed so hard they literally almost fell out of their chairs, forcing Den-n-Al to rush over and beg a pardon if everything was okay.

"You know he's just using you." One of the girls stated, as the other agreed, "How does it feel to be one more random tourist this guy has gotten with? He probably doesn't even remember your name." And they seemed to take quite a lot of pleasure making sure I felt like shit.

But it didn't work.

"I'm pretty sure we were using each other." I smirked. There's nothing wrong with a random hookup if you don't feel used - matter o' fact, I feel gooooooooood."

That seemed to take the wind out of their righteousness, and after the best shrimp scampi, seafood linguini, and lobster with butter (chin), we made our way back to Islamorada, to a locals’ favorite dive bar called Woody's.

(*SIDE NOTE: Bill did remember my name, and we actually kept in touch, writing to each other a few times, and making plans to meet up again; until I started working at the Boulder Bennigan's, and dating a guy named Keenan - but twenty years later Bill even found me on Facebook - so there!)

The house band at Woody's was a group of giant Seminole Indians called "Big Dick and the Extenders", and front man Big Dick, spotted us right away, decked in too much CU gear, overly boastful of our National Championship team.

"OHHHH, HELLO GIRLS! Looks like we have some CU fans in the house tonight!"

"Woohoo! Go Buffs!" We squealed back.

"Girls, why don't you come on up here and sing us a little song or sumpin'?"

"Yeah! CU in the House! Woohoo!" And we made our way on stage as if we knew what we were doing.

"First, why don't you start by telling us your names...

What's your name darlin'?" Big Dick asked, as he held the microphone in front of Slaw.

"Me? I'm Erin." Slaw answered.

"Well Erin, you're just about as cute as can be."

"And next, what's your name sweetheart?" As he moved the mic over to Hammer.

"My name's Michelle." She stated.

"Well, that's just great Michelle, we’re so glad to have you at Woody's tonight!"

"And finally, who do we have here?" and he put the mic in front of me.

"I'm Brooke."

"Okay... so Brooke .... I wanna' fuuuuuuuck you."

And he got a big laugh from all the drunks in the crowd.

Then we proceeded to join in singing with the band as they played, "Wild Thing" by the Troggs, and I'm sure we broke a few eardrums with our horribly squeaky,

"Wild Thing! You make my heart sing! C'mon c'mon WILD THANG! You make everything groooooooovy!"

It was a night I hope I'll never forget, and in the morning we drove up the coast to Ft. Laurderdale, returned the rental car, and boarded a flight to Colorado - one more Florida adventure in the books.

(Go CU!)

Back in the day in Aspen,

I got dosed at 'Ruggerfest', my date went missing, and the Godfather of Soul made it alright.

I'd only been to Aspen once or twice before college, considering it a place for actors, wealth, and privilege that most Colorado natives chose to avoid. But when a second round of housemates moved into The Boulder Big House, I became friends with a bad-ass, skier, hippie-chick, named Meredith, who'd gone to high school in Aspen, and ended up renting the small room upstairs.

Mere was smart and feisty, enrolled in CU's Journalism School, and one of the first Jewish people I'd ever known well. Before moving to the Rocky Mountains from Michigan, her dad had been a successful orthodontist, trading his dental chairs for plow trucks to start a high-dollar VIP snow removal service, using middle-of-the-night shovelers bailed from the Pitkin County drunk tank.

Mere's dad was super-cool, and every time a big group of us would show up unexpectedly, he'd hurry to set out piles of extra pillows and blankets, insisting his delicious, made-to-order hangover breakfasts be eaten before allowing any of us to leave the next morning.

That's when Aspen became our go-to place for:

• Ski weekends,

• Music festivals,

• Birthday or New Year's celebrations,

• and of course, Ruggerfest

Turns out Ruggerfest was a world renowned International Rugby Tournament held every fall, (called ‘Druggerfest' by the locals) where hundreds of die-hard rugby fans and Aspen socialites mixed around the public square, guzzling craft beer and pink champagne, sharing key-bumps of cocaine and hits of ecstasy, as brawlers from across the globe battled it out on the pitch. You didn't have to know the first thing about rugby, (me) because the scrum was so close you felt like you were part of the action; and spectators were regularly hit by clots of mud, grass, and if they weren't paying attention, an out of bounds player.

As soon as a match would finish, giant six-foot-something beasts from places like Australia or South Africa, would literally walk off the field directly into one of the surrounding bars - that gash on their head, or split open shin dripping blood all over the floor, mixing with muddy footprints they’d tracked in.

During one unforgettable Druggerfest weekend, Merle Saunders and the Rainforest Band headlined legendary music venue: Belly Up, where Meredith's best friend from high school (a girl named Sabrina) somehow got the address of the house party the band was playing afterwards.

Huge double wooden doors opened a random stone mansion setback in the trees, and something dripped on my head as we stepped inside. More unknown liquid hit the back of my neck and hands as a bunch of snickering shapes tried not to be noticed, crouched behind a railing on the shadowy second level landing.

"Need some more Vitamin A?" they taunted.

Ducking and running for cover, Sabrina took things way too lightly, speculating we'd just been dosed with LSD, explaining that all the cool kids in Aspen called liquid acid 'Vitamin A'.

She snickered a devilish look, nonchalantly wondering how hard we were going to trip, and after a few hours zoning-out jam-band style in a dark sunken living room, we maneuvered our way onto the free shuttle to Snowmass Village, and stayed up all night talking and laughing, before enjoying multiple plates of French toast and breakfast potatoes.

***

Another memorable night in Aspen, was New Year's Eve 1992, when a big group from Boulder took advantage of a party being thrown by some rich guy named Charles, who happened to be dating Sabrina, (the Vitamin A girl).

Up I-70, through the Eisenhower Tunnel, passing Breckenridge, Copper Mountain, Vail, and Beaver Creek, taking a left at Glenwood Springs through Carbondale Valley, our 4-car caravan finally arrived at Meredith's dad's house in Snowmass.

• Car One : Me, my date Keenan, Jana, and her date Crazy Allen

• Car Two: Funny Bunny Alice, her boyfriend Barclay the Third, and her best friend Sonja the Lounge Act

• Car Three: Meredith, Erica, and her date, Milton (heir to his grandpa's soft-serve ice-cream fortune)

• Car Four: Tra-Ling (Restauranteur and complete boss) and her boyfriend Doug/Charles (his name was really Doug, but he preferred to be called Charles)

Jumping the shuttle and finding our way to the classic alpine chalet, our large unruly group quickly took over the upscale gathering, downing trays of catered hors d'oeuvres and cocktails as fast as a bunch of idiot college kids could.

A few different drugs got passed around before heading out to the clubs, where I quickly became separated from everyone else, wandering through balloon-filled ballrooms and glitter-covered dance floors, happily out of focus, thinking everyone was Mariah Carey.

Just before midnight, Jana and I gleefully spotted each other across a bar, and we squealed and hugged, making a big deal about me being lost for so long.

She led me outside, where along with the entire town of Aspen, our group had gathered on the red-brick pedestrian mall, ready to count down the remaining seconds of 1992.

Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one!

Fireworks illuminated the snow, splashing bursts of pink, orange, and gold sparkles over stands of dark forest, while bottles of champagne appeared out of nowhere, and everyone hugged and kissed, before spontaneously bursting into that sad familiar song: 'Auld Lang Syne'.

Before I knew what was happening, rich party host Charles had pulled me in close to his chest and was planting a long, fantastically hot, kiss on my lips. I tried not to respond, but DAMN (!) when a guy like that kisses you unexpectedly, it's hard not to like it.

I stepped back as everyone made uncomfortable eye contact, Sabrina glared accusingly, and Keenan just laughed.

Pretending nothing weird had just happened, I faded back inside, losing myself in the abyss of an anonymous pulsing dance floor, and when the harsh lights of closing-time came on, I kicked a few plastic cups out of the way and joined some of the Boulder group outside on a snow-covered sidewalk.

Becoming colder and more annoyed the longer we waited, stomping our feet to stay warm as clouds of hot breath swirled the air, we watched the bar crowd thin and disperse, finally deciding Keenan and Charles must've already gone to the chalet without telling us. And the entire freezing walk back, we grumpily planned how to punish them.

But at the top of the steep wooden stairs, the house was dark and empty, and everyone's moods changed from pissed, to mildly concerned, speculating where the guys might be, and throwing out different theories...

-maybe they went to get something to eat

-maybe they were still in one of the (closed) clubs

-maybe they'd found an after hours party

-maybe they were taking the extra long way home

But the later it got, with more time passing into the wee hours of nothing being open, we really began to worry, and darker theories began to swirl...

-maybe they'd been mugged

-maybe they'd been drugged

-maybe they'd wandered into the forest and gotten lost

-maybe they'd been attacked by a bear or a mountain lion

-maybe they'd been in a fight and gotten arrested

When the sky turned pink, most of us decided to go back to Mere's dad's house to see what he thought we should do about our missing friends.

Just when we'd finished telling him the story and were ready to call the police, the phone rang.

It was Keenan (!) who couldn't have sounded safer and happier, laughing over loud band music, telling me not to worry... because after he and Charles had been debating college football at the bar, they'd decided on a whim to take a private plane to New Orleans, to see the National Championship Sugar Bowl.

WTF?

(Not a scenario we'd imagined.)

There were no words for how pissed we all were, that they had just disappeared like that without a trace , but Keenan played it off… innocently claiming they couldn't find anyone before taking off in a taxi from the bar… and that they had a super-short departure window to make the flight.

Nothing to do but eat pancakes and go home.

***

The absolute BEST time ever though, was one glorious Colorado summer weekend at the 'One World Music Festival', held on the side of the Snowmass ski hill, graced by the vocal stylings of the one and only GODFATHER OF SOUL.

Riding a chairlift over runs usually groomed for snow, now full of wildflowers and sunshine, we got off at the top, and carted blankets and beer coolers back down, looking for a good spot to set up.

The entire day was reggae music 'mon, and for several hours, the hillside of festival-goers passed bowls and joints, lolling in the good vibes of Jah Rastafari - soothed by the music of Yellowman and Black Uhuru - together in one love.

But then....

Called back from our dazed group meditation, a singular voice screamed through the amps,

WHHHHHaaaaaaaaaoooooooooooooAAAAOOOOOOO!

So completely different sounding than every other set we’d heard that day, the unique singer wasted no time instructing us to:

Get Up!!

GET ON UP!!!

Automatically we did as told, jumping to our feet as a tidal wave of funky energy washed over the mountainside, and James Brown and the Bittersweets, (a group of legit backup singers and dancers packed tightly into sequined blue-satin dresses) and the best fucking horn section of all time took us on a wild-ride to soul town.

Everything changed the minute his singular voice ripped through the air like a groovy call to prayer, and the entourage of sexy dancers and pinstriped musicians took the stage.

As much as I love a peaceful reggae jam, there's nothing better than funkin’ and groovin' with all your heart, on the good foot, with thousands of other people doing exactly the same thing.

It was one of the best moments of live music experienced this lifetime, and whenever I hear his signature sound, I long for America in the Nineties, when things weren't so dark and divided.

As depressing as it gets sometimes, we should try and heed the Godfather's wise words, telling us to….

Get up offa that thing,

And dance 'till you feel better

Get up offa that thing,

And try to release that pressure.

(here's hope for a brighter future)

Back in the day at the Rainbow Gathering,

I drummed for fried potatoes, and dodged naked guys on stilts.

After the flea misadventure in South Beach, life settled back into Denver normalcy, until a very strange encounter, sent my friends and I wandering around a forest in New Mexico - chasing rainbows and magic energy.

In the mid 90s, I was at a Vegas Dead show with Jana, and no matter where we went, all throughout the stadium, this same strange guy seemed to just pop up right next to us.

First we found a spot on the floor, near a group of people we recognized from the lot, but then, all of a sudden BAM - this other guy was standing there instead of them.

My dumbfounded friend and I looked at each other like,

"Huh?" How did that happen?

But guessing we must be tripping already, we brushed it off, assuming we just hadn't seen him.

A little while later we relocated, and standing in line to get concessions, recognized the same random guy, staring at us from another vendor a few feet over (weird coincidence).

We wandered around a bit, running into friends from Boulder, eventually ending up in an entirely different section of the stadium, before worming our way through the blissed out crowd to claim a rare open spot.

Singing and dancing to the music, suddenly the person directly in front of us turned around and it was THE SAME GUY! The chances of that happening seemed astronomical, and I still get chills thinking about it.

Jana and I stared at each other wide-eyed, both trying to convince our own warped minds that we must be tripping really hard.

A slow calming smile crossed his face, and he nodded his head stepping aside, allowing us to see the stage better.

When the song ended he turned to us and asked,

"Are you going to the gathering?"

We had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, standing there completely creeped out, wondering how in the hell this could be the same guy?

He continued talking,

"You know it's in Taos this year, Carson National Forest.

Fourth of July weekend, of course.

Follow the rainbows until ...."

We smiled awkwardly, unsure what was happening, but then The Dead started playing again, and we turned our attention to Jerry.

A few minutes later, glancing sideways in the direction of the guy, chills ran my spine to see a different person where he had just been (!) and my brain was unable to comprehend how he could be right there, and then POOF/gone.

We kept looking over our shoulders freaked out, scanning the crowd, trying to figure out just exactly- what the fuck? - and left Las Vegas early the next morning, rolling into Denver around 5pm, road weary and hungry.

Going inside to chill before unloading the car, the moment I sat down on the couch and flipped on the television,

THE SAME FUCKING GUY

was staring at us from the screen. (I swear.)

The channel was tuned to a PBS Depok Chopra special, and at that exact moment, as the cameraman scanned the audience for thoughtful reaction shots, he zoomed in on the same strange guy from Vegas, now looking directly at us from the tv dimension.

We were blown away, flabbergasted, stunned into incomprehension, and both of us knew... there was no denying... we had to go... to whatever that rainbow thing was he was talking about...it was a sign.

***

Luckily, one of my Bimbo friends (Hammer) had some basic gear, and after recruiting her to come too, she and Jana and I loaded up THE ENTERPRISE and drove to New Mexico, figuring we’d mostly be car-camping.

Closer to Taos, we began to see little signs nailed to fenceposts, or stuck on trees, depicting a rainbow with an arrow, or with the words: "Welcome Home", and figured we must be going the right way.

Eventually, the signs led us off the highway and up a dirt road, to a couple of hippie buses parked next to a lodgepole gate, where a group of people who looked Straight Outa' Woodstock, were handing out tinfoil packages containing some sort of black tar-like paste. Pretty hippie girls opened their arms wide, swaying back and forth, and repeating,

"Welcome home sisters, welcome home".

We drove on, coming to a massive area of parked cars, trailers, and busses, but unsettlingly, NO PEOPLE.

Unsure what to do, eventually a seasoned 60s couple walked by, and when we asked them where everyone was, they laughed as if we were the three dumbest white girls on the planet, before answering,

"In the Valley girls, go to the Valley."

So we divied up as much of Hammer's minimal camping supplies we could carry, and started down a narrow dirt trail sloping off the parking lot. Before long, a low rumbling could be sensed in our feet, every step closer becomming louder, until the sound we felt was a constant drumming noise, with discernible rhythmic patterns.

Up and over rolling hills, across muddy low spots, between tall shade trees, and through tight rock outcroppings, the walk was much further than we'd hoped; and our arms felt like they were going to break carrying all of our shit like that.

Finally, around the last leg of the trail, a large valley opened up in the form of a beautiful mountain meadow, filled with thousands of people spread out across, and swarming the surrounding mountainsides.

Tents, flags, teepees, blankets, kites, and tarps, of all colors, shapes, and sizes, created a patchwork of shelter and statement, and from our vantage point, the clusters of people moving along interlaced lines looked like a giant human ant farm.

We found a clear spot between a couple of pines to set up the 2-man tent, (for the three of us) while watching a few naked guys go in and out of what we guessed was a peyote sweat lodge.

They went back and forth from a smoldering fire ring, to the tiny door of a stacked-stick enclosure, slowly moving large hot stones inside. Naked, except for paint markings all over their bodies, it definitely seemed like they were on psychedelics, and we sat there laughing at the great people-watching they provided.

Making our way into the fray, we discovered a beautifully simple social system, where each ant-farm cluster was actually a different "camp" handing out free food or drink, as long as you worked for it.

Word would spread quickly about a certain item in the works, or ready to be served at (whichever) camp, and everyone would rush that way to get a taste.

Different camps included:

• Native American Teepees - (Where you could get roasted corn made over a fire, if you helped shuck, serve, or clean-up.)

  
  

• The 'Bread of Life' Christian Camp - (Where you could get hot homemade bread, if you helped knead the dough or shape the rolls.)

  
  

• Drum City - (Where you could get fried potatoes cooked in oil, if you helped peel and cut them. *If no peeler or knife was available, you were asked to drum, and keep the incessant circle going at all times.)

  
  

• Krishna Camp - (Where you could get raisins, dates, and pistachio nuts if you stayed a few minutes and listened to their religious beliefs.)

  
  

• Sereni-tea - (Where you could get hot black tea from a big cauldron, and if needed, spend time resting on a little woven mat.)

(I'm sure there were more, but those are the only ones I experienced personally.)

There was also an area called 'Barter Town' where you could walk up and down perusing rows of blankets laid out on the ground, exchanging your stuff for their stuff.

No actual money was involved, just traded things like:

• a weed pipe for a leatherman,

• a half empty bottle of vodka for a few candy bars,

• or some magic mushrooms for a sleeping bag

Getting a few sideways glances from the hardcores, my friends and I took off our jewelry and lip gloss, and put on more layers of flannel - trying to grunge ourselves up to fit in better.

At noon on the Fouth of July, everyone lined up around the valley, joining hands to form a gigantic human chain. We found a spot to link up, connecting to the magical energy pulsing the hillside, watching it travel like the wave at a football game.

I could FEEL the LOVE emanating through all of us, filling the mountain meadow with joyous Om energy, and then all of a sudden as if on cue, the circular human chain raised their arms and let out a majestic happy roar, and everyone rushed their section of slope, converging in the center.

That's where everything became a complete and utter free-for-all celebration, and we incredulously bounced through a crowd of:

• Native American Indians in full ceremonial dress, dancing traditional dances,

• Vestal Virgins in gauzy see-through dresses, carried on flowery platforms,

• Dreadlocked rastas in regal green, gold, and red robes, smoking big communal bowls,

• People dressed like fairies throwing glitter in the air,

• Braided hippie chicks dancing crazy dances,

• Bearded drummer boys banging chaotic beats,

• And of course, Naked Guys on Stilts (their business on full display, at an unfortunate, unavoidable eye-level)

All in all, I'm so glad we went - to experience such hopeful, loving energy, uniquely and wildly American.

Thanks to the strange guy in Vegas for getting us there….and for the…

.