Back in the day in Thailand,

I found weed in the closet, opium in the jungle, and nirvana at the Bangkok Oriental.

One random day in '97, (when I was living in NYC) my good friend and former boss, Tra-Ling, called on the landline.

"Hey you know what?" She asked in her adorably hard-to-understand Taiwanese accent.

"You know where you need to go?" (She didn't wait for an answer) ... "Thailand!"

"Yeah sure Ling, everyone should go to Thailand ... maybe someday."

"OK, I call you right back."

Ten minutes later the phone rang again.

"Hey okay get pack, I told client, I need "horticultural consultant" for to check the orchid pots. I go next week, now you come too! It gonna' be so much fun!"

"Huh? But I'm not a horticultural consultant."

"Sure you are! You plant girl in New York! But don't matter, I already know, pots gonna' work, I just need way for you come too!"

"Well hell to the yeah Ling! Are you serious? You're so fucking awesome!"

"I know that!" She squealed back laughing, "Tee-hee-hee-Tee-hee-hee. What airport you want?"

At JFK a week later, I boarded a fourteen hour flight to Tokyo, connecting with a seven hour flight to Bangkok, and it was the middle of the night when the plane made its final descent.

Following signs written in letters like flourished sprocket parts, I thought I was heading to ground transportation, when someone ran up from behind and grabbed my arm.

"Hey, where you goin'? This way."

"Ling! Oh my god! You scared me!"

"Tee hee hee hee - C'mon, I got surprise for you."

 "Dude, I can't believe I'm in Bangkok!"

Ling had already been there a few days, as well as a couple of trips prior, making deals for her Asian Manufacturing Sourcing company, and had no problem maneuvering us out of the airport to a waiting car, directly to the Erawan Grand Hyatt Hotel.

Despite standing just under five feet tall, Ling is a straight up FORCE OF NATURE, masterminding every situation before anyone even notices she there, speaking half a dozen Asian languages, and running countless successful companies since arriving in America on her own at seventeen.

***SIDE NOTE: I first met Tra-Ling at the Fox Theater in Boulder, when she thought I was standing too close to her boyfriend Doug/Charles, who happened to be a co-worker of mine at a cafe on Pearl Street. Halfway through a Big Head Todd song, a very well-dressed, very tiny Asian woman, started poking me HARD, reaching up to stick her finger in my chest:

"HEY, you wanna' tell me WHAT THE FUCK you doin' talkin' to my boyfriend?"

"Geez Ling, calm down!" Doug/Charles told her. "It's just Brooke, we work together at Pour La' France."

And somehow, by the end of that first night, Ling and I were tight, and I'd decided to take a few shifts waitressing in one of her Boulder restaurants: The Pleasant Street Cafe, where even though she was my boss, our friendship became uniquely close.

***

Inside the cushy Bangkok hotel room, Ling couldn't stop giggling, excited to show me her big surprise.

"Tee hee hee, look in the closet. I got you a present!"

Pulling open the slated wooden door, I caught whiff of a shrub-sized portion of Thai Stick wrapped in newspaper like a bundle of dried flowers (which of course it was) taking up the entire top shelf of the closet. The buds were the biggest I'd ever seen, literally enough to last a hardcore stoner like myself a year, and I gasped out loud at the giant green bundle.

"Holy shit Ling! That's a lot of weed! Where'd you get it?"

"Tee hee hee, I know you like to smoke that stuff, so I ask around and got it in the market."

"They sell giant bushels of bud in the market here? Damn! And we won't get in trouble for having it?"

"I don't think so... pretty sure just get in trouble for heroin here."

If Ling said it was okay, then it was okay by me, and I constructed an impromptu pipe out of a soda can poked with a safety pin, and lit up real Thai Stick my first night in Thailand.

The next day I hurried along, trying to keep up through Buddhist temples, open-air markets, noodle stands, and some random lady's apartment for an uncomfortably twisted massage on a floor mattress, as Ling charmingly captivated everyone she met, quickly learning their names, and gathering recommendations for everything under the sun; constantly fostering new business relationships.

Her recent boyfriend, Jeff, had also made the trip, and that evening the three of us took an overnight train to Chiang Mai, a main northern city close to the borders of Laos and Mynamar, referred to as The Golden Triangle,

Jeff was a super-chill, laid-back, ex-hippie/sailor, and also a successful Boulder restauranteur, making him the perfect match for Ling.

(Proof positive they're still together- 28 years later!)

In Chiang Mai, we toured the orchid pot factory that we were officially there to see, as well as the temple of Wat Phra That Doi Suthep, where an army of bald-headed, orange-robed, monks protected the sacred Buddhist site made entirely of gold.

Ling had planned an overnight trek to a hillside village, and we joined a nice young couple traveling from the Netherlands, to hike up a dusty trail guided by a local man named "Stumpy" Sawat.

Pacing myself, I'd stopped next to a clump of palms when Ling caught up and poked my side.

"Look what I found?' She said, a bit more subdued than usual, handing over a wad of something wrapped in plastic and brown paper.

"What is it?"

"Tee hee hee hee - I think it might be opium."

"Opium?! No way! You just found it?"

"I don't know... maybe... tee hee hee hee."

And then she scrambled off to catch up with Jeff.

We eventually made it to a misty hillside village nestled in rolling green vegetation, where a group of Lahu people welcomed us into their homes with kindness and smiles. I emptied my bag of anything remotely interesting to give the sweet children who were excited about everything, including :

• a notepad from the hotel,

• a few pens,

• some pieces of melted chocolate,

• half a box of tic-tacs,

• and even stickers from airport baggage claim

  
  

  

  
  

***SECOND SIDE NOTE: The following year Tra-Ling returned to the same Lahu village with crates of art supplies for the children. The year after that, she went back and had a school built for them, its continued operation guaranteed through a deal she'd brokered with Whole Foods - agreeing to sell Lahu woven bags in all its stores, with proceeds going directly back to the tribe. Now, thanks to my friend Ling, the Lahu children have a school, and guaranteed future operations. (Like I said, straight up force of nature.)

***

Even though it was in a cold raised hut, and beds were hard wooden planks, we slept like rocks, and the next morning scarfed down eggs and coffee prepared over an open fire.

Once the morning air warmed, a Lahu man led us through the forest to meet his faithful working-companion elephant, who graciously permitted us onto his back and gave us a ride to the river. As the incredibly smart animal responded to his handler’s hand signals and vocal commands, his large gentle eyes conveyed innate wisdom and grace, and I thanked him telepathically, trying to show my love and respect.

Soon we were balanced on makeshift bamboo rafts floating miles downstream, eventually getting packed onto benches in the back of a covered truck to make a quick stop at the Mekong River.

Back down in the southern part of the country, after an adventure with the 'found' opium, a missed ferry, and a night with an International Jamboree of Boy Scouts, we ended up on the heavenly island of Koh Chang, which is part of a protected marine archipelago where the sand is baby powder soft, and the trees drip with orchids.

(FYI: Thailand is known as: The Land of 10,000 Smiles, but they also say, although someone might be smiling, it doesn't always mean they like you.)

After a few days in paradise, we headed back to the crazy hustle of Bangkok, just as the country was experiencing a major national currency crisis, causing the Thai baht to be astronomically devalued compared to the US dollar.

In other words, our American money went hella far compared to a few days before, and we wasted no time checking into the elegant, exorbitant, Bangkok Oriental Hotel.

With three-hundred dollars suddenly going as far as three-thousand, Ling and I booked an entire day at the Spa at the Oriental, (arguably one of the best spas on Planet Earth) where we got the works as androgynous staff repeatedly:

• applied treatments of salt scrub, body polish, mineral mud, or kelp wrap

• between trips to a multi-headed shower where they would rinse me off and do it all over again

• followed by massage to every inch of my body, while laying on a bed suspended over moving water and floating flowers

Leaving the private spa island in a speechless state of bliss, nearly incapable of functioning after being so pampered, the seats of the boat seemed extra hard, the motor obnoxiously loud, and the sun uncomfortably bright - but we survived.

And so here's to Tra-ling ... for being an inspiration to women everywhere, and a true blue!

Nothing but love. (Tee hee hee)

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 to grab my swimsuit, on my way to meet Bill. He wanted to take me on his boat and have more sex. (Check and check.)

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

"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." I replied.

"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)