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…

.

Back in the day in South Beach,

I bailed on a three-way, and was driven out of town by sand fleas.

Finishing graduate school at CU, I finally decided it was time to leave Boulder, and my friend/housemate Jana, and I, flipped a coin between Miami and New York - and it came up tails for Miami.

So, one icy January morning, we drove out of Denver with my two cats, (Bella and Dimitri) and ALL OF OUR belongings, packed into a 32-foot long Ryder truck.

We literally took it all with us:

• couches, tables & chairs,

• boxes of books,

• pots, pans, & dishes

• two futons, & bedding

• two bicycles,

• two tvs,

• two stereos,

• crates of hair tools and toiletries,

• and trash bags full of clothes
  

*(The only reason any of that matters, is because six months later, when we drove away in a cargo van, we had our cats, bikes, and hair tools - leaving the rest for the fleas.)

We made it to Dallas the first day, and New Orleans by dinnertime the second, but after being asked to leave for violating the hotel's pet policy, we decided to just continue driving, getting to Mobile, Alabama around 1am and pulling over at a shitty roadside motel too disgusting and creepy to actually sleep.

*Side Note: A few months later, Jana and I saw that same roadside motel featured on The Jerry Springer Show, as one of the most dangerous places in America, due to its number of unsolved murders. We got goosebumps recognizing the crookedly-lit sign and grungy room, feeling lucky to be alive.

Out of there at the crack, we made it to Ft. Lauderdale by mid-morning, and stopped at Denny's for a:

• 'Moon over My-Hamy' breakfast, (minus the ham)

• a Miami Herald newspaper,

• and a short stack of quarters.
  

Posted up in the back booth - the one with an actual payphone attached to the wall, we sat there drinking free coffee refills, circling ads in the  classifieds section, and calling about apartments for rent - quickly setting an appointment to see a place on 8th & Lennox.

Making the last leg of the journey down the A-1A to South Miami Beach, I was stressing out turning onto busy Collins Avenue, trying to avoid side mirrors of parked cars, but couldn't stop grinning at Jana - bouncing along to loud Latin beats blaring from storefronts, gazing up at palm trees, and pointing out all the interesting people in our neighborhood.

The Armenian landlord guy was super-cool, renting to us on the spot, even helping unload the truck, drop it off at the rental place, stop at a grocery store on the way back, and call the utility and phone companies to get everything hooked up.

By just the third afternoon of leaving Denver, we were completely moved into our new Miami Beach apartment - with sheets on the futons, food in the cupboards, and our new cordless phone plugged in and getting tone.

Both sets of parents were stunned and amazed when we called to give them our mailing address and phone number so soon - the big move across country pulled off without a hitch.

***

Quickly signing with a modeling agency, Jana booked a few Coors Light commercials that were shot in Puerto Rico, and her male model co-star looked exactly like Rob Lowe.

To make things extra confusing, his name was Ron, and it was impossible to keep from first doubting, and then correcting yourself - knowing that his name was Ron- but seeing the face of Rob - constantly saying,

"Ron, Rob, Ron, I mean Rob, no Ron."

Eventually we didn't care, rechristening him: Ron-Rob-Ron.

But Ron-Rob-Ron was a total tool, and despite working as an extremely handsome male model, he was super-annoying, and would rollerblade to our apartment from four blocks away, wearing:

• a helmet,

• full elbow pads,

• wrist guards,

• knee pads,

• super tight spandex shorts,

• neon terminator glasses

• and a wife-beater tank top

As soon as he'd roll through the door he’d ask if he could take a shower.

"No! Go home and take a shower! Why do you always want to take a shower here? You live four blocks away."

But without hesitation he'd be in and out of our shower, parading around the apartment pinching a tiny hand towel around his waist- because for some reason, he could never seem to find the regular-sized bath towels stacked in the same place.

He'd strike a pose, ass out, bent over the arm of our couch, complaining of sciatica, trying to get Jana or I to"rub it out". But we’d vehemently decline, mocking him and his oversized ego, daring each other to touch Ron-Rob-Ron's ass.

For some reason, weed was EXTREMELY hard to find in Miami, (especially considering we were so close to Jamaica 'mon) and the main reason we hung out with Ron-Rob-Ron was because he could score quarters of kind bud from his doctor friend, and save us from getting scammed by a dealer named "Poopie," who lived on the handball courts near Flamingo Park, and sold a mixture of tobacco and dirt weed.

Ron-Rob-Ron also had a DVD player, and Jana and I would sometimes pick up a few red box movies, and let him make us dinner. But the last time, when he tried to score a three-way, we ran out of there laughing and never went back.

Surprisingly, his concoction of: orzo pasta, spinach, green apples, and marinara sauce was actually tasty, and when he claimed that the DVD player in the living room wasn't working anymore, we sat on-the edge of the bed watching the one in his bedroom.

Soon enough we'd gotten more comfortable, fully engrossed in whatever was on, and before Jana and I realized, Ron-Rob-Ron had wormed his way between us, and had one hand on me and the other on her.

He kept trying to grope us both, while also trying to place our hands on him, and after about one minute of that, Jana and I made eye contact and telepathically said to each other,

"Yeah, no."

Then we cracked up, jumped off the bed, and couldn't stop laughing the whole way back to our apartment, lliterally bursting into hysterics if we even glanced each other's way. The weird encounter forever became something we’d haze each other for: the one-minute three-way with Ron-Rob-Ron.

***

Our apartment building was perfectly located just four blocks off the beach, set up around a pool like Melrose Place, and most mornings we'd ride bikes to The Bagel Stop, and grab half a dozen everything bagels to share with Helen (the old Jewish neighbor) who lived across from us. We liked to leave our door open for the cats to go in and out, (and also to be able to hear the stereo) making sure we were back inside by the time Springer came on.

Usual places for partying were:

• Mickeys (A cool-ass biker bar on Collins Avenue owned by Micky Rourke. Every once in a while he'd show up on his Harley and ride it around inside, spinning circles and burning rubber on the dance floor, making it smell really bad.)

• Club Amnesia (A huge nightclub with an anonymous cavernous dance floor, frequented by lots of celebrities like: Axl Rose, Sylvester Stallone, and Arnold Schwarzenegger partying VIP style.)

• The bar without a name (My most favorite: a little white box of a building with no signage, no velvet ropes, no VIP section - just newspaper over the windows, minimal lighting, and the funnest, coolest, most raucous scene inside, packed with beautiful people doing shots, standing on tables, singing sitcom tracks at the top of their lungs George Jefferson style:

  
  

...ah well we're movin' on up <movin' on up> to theeee top, to a deeeeee-lux apartment, in the sky-hi-hi...

***

Letting the cats go outside turned out to be a horrible idea, which we realized the day the sand flea eggs hatched.

Grizzabella the Glamour Cat

I couldn't figure out why Bella's face looked like it was moving when she was not, and upon closer examination, spotted thousands of little brown bugs crawling all over her, under her chocolate brown fur. I didn't know what to do since fleas are not a problem in Colorado, and ran to the nearest market for a bottle of flea shampoo for cats.

Count Dimitri

Bella was having none of it though, and by the time I’d finished trying to hold her in the sink and douse her with flea treatment, she'd scratched and clawed my neck and arms so badly it looked like I’d been attacked by a slasher.

Two days later both cats and our entire apartment had become infested with fleas, and we covered every surface with newspaper and plastic, wearing long socks pulled up to our knees and high-heeled clogs to distance ourselves off the carpet, but the incessant jumping parasites would still bite our ankles.

They were EVERYWHERE, and we tried EVERYTHING to get rid of them.

• flea spray

• flea shampoo

• flea powder

• flea collars

• and even set off a giant can of flea defogger designed for a 3-bedroom house

  
  

Nothing worked, and we had red welts all over us when Tra-Ling, (our good friend from Boulder) called and offered two tickets to Big Head Todd at Red Rocks the following weekend.

"Yeah, we'll be there Ling. We're out of this FLEA FUCKING HELL! "

We took the cats to the vet for a 'flea dip' (a process I don’t even want to imagine) and rented a cargo van to load up some bare-min belongings. No fabric, clothes, bedding, or even mirrors, since we were told the microscopic flea eggs could survive and stow away on anything - even a glass surface.

At that point we didn't care, we just wanted to be away from the fleas, and so we abandon our belongings, broke the lease, picked the cats up on the way out of town, and said PEACE OUT South Beach.

Later that day, approaching a crossroads in Atlanta, one highway headed west towards Denver, and the other north to New York. Pulling off to flip a coin, it came up heads, and we got back on the road west to Denver.

(Sincere apologies to our nice Armenian landlord.)

Back in the day in Tempe,

I tried to be a dancer, fought flaming roaches, and almost saw The Pope.

High school in the 80s was exactly like the movies - all Fast Times and Flashdance - and as Lakewood High School's Head Pom, (captain of the halftime dance team) I wrongfully imagined myself the next Paula Abdul.

Upon graduation, I planned on chasing dreams in New York City, but when my dad literally begged me to go to college, I agreed, but only if it was to the:

NUMBER ONE PARTY SCHOOL IN THE NATION - Arizona State University.

*(being a brat since I couldn't go to NYC.)

The ASU Sun Devils had been at the top of the "Best Party School List" for six years running; and move-in day I was assigned Room 1104 in Manzanita Hall, (eleventh floor/west side corner) with two adjacent suite-mates (Rachel & Casey) and a roommate named Stacy, from New Jersey.

Her harshly teased hair, green contacts, fake nails, gold jewelry and tough as shit attitude, made Stacy a standout all through the building, (especially when compared to the Cali-girl clones) and she tolerated me because I also loved the Beastie Boys, and would blast 'License to Ill' at full volume every afternoon - cold kickin' it live.

Riding the dorm elevator with Stacy could be awkward- especially when she'd make a fist next to her head and growl,

"Whadda' you lookin' at?'

intimidating nearly everyone who stepped on and made eye contact.

The floors in the building alternated boy/girl, and a couple of guys I knew from high school (Kimo and Brad) lived on the Fourth Floor, next to an elaborate fake ID operation, where I paid fifty bucks to stand in front of a cardboard sign, and become twenty-one year old, Lisa Johnson from Tennessee.

Almost every weekend,

• the guys on Eight would set off the fire sprinklers by playing lacrosse in the hall,

• or we'd be evacuated to the parking lot because an M80 had been thrown down the elevator shaft, usually in the middle of the night.

KAAAA-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The massive explosion would shake the building, set off alarms, and send everyone stumbling outside in our pajamas, waiting an hour or more for the fire department to let us back in.

Manzanita was one of the tallest buildings on campus, and students used masking tape to write crazy stupid messages on the windows, easy to read by people on the street.

Sometimes they'd tell of a party in that room, or a phone number for a hookup, but usually it was just a crude remark about whoever lived next door, or something about that week's sports opponent - kind of like a pre-internet message board.

Most of my classes were in the ASU dance department, where I was waaaaaaaaay out of my league, quickly realizing that being a high school cheerleader does not make you a dancer.

Even though I was actually (kinda') good at choreography, I hadn't had nearly the level of ballet, or serious modern dance training required to be in such company; but for two years I stumbled along offbeat in the back of the class.

***

The entire drive to ASU my dad and stepmother laughed at me, while I cried like a baby, dramatically sad to leave my boyfriend (a guy I'd been dating a little over a month, who was six years older). Todd followed as soon as I got settled, moving his entire life from Colorado to Tempe, renting a duplex with a guy named Tom next to a couple of other guys, (Chad & Steve from Idaho) and everybody did a lot of blow.

Weekends at the duplex usually meant three-day cycles of:

1. idiotic people chopping lines in the bathroom,

2. those same people talking nonsense over each other, chainsmoking cigarettes in the kitchen,

3. eventually gathered on the patio (still talking over each other & smoking cigarettes) but waiting for Carl the dealer to show up, worried how soon they'd get more cocaine.

One of those weekends I'll never forget was:

THE ATTACK OF THE FLAMING FLYING ROACH

In the main bathroom with a few other people, slow movement behind the shower curtain caught our attention, and we watched a GIANT ROACH crawl up out of the drain, spread a pair of gross brown wings, and fly directly toward the mirror.

Someone grabbed a can of hairspray and doused it good, but it just turned around and flew directly toward their face.

Freaking out, someone else sprayed it with Arid Xtra Dry, and as it flopped around the sink, another person lit it on fire.

Instead of slowing down and dying, the roach monster rose like a phoenix into the air, and came toward us even faster, but now IT WAS ON FIRE!

We screamed, flung open the door, and ran down the hall.

Believe it or not, the Flying Flaming Roach followed, and as we shrieked around the corner back into the kitchen, Tom picked up a broom and whacked it hard- slamming the fireball into the glass patio door, where of course it kept buzzing and flying, soon catching fire to the flimsy curtains.

Even cokeheads act fast in a fire, and someone grabbed the dirty kitchen floor mat already wet with spilled beer and beat out the flames, while Tom used his broom to direct the disgusting bug outside onto the concrete driveway.

The entire party was now completely invested in killing the mutant roach, and we all ran out and watched while Todd drove over it, back and forth with his heavy motorcycle. We heard it crunch and break with every tire roll, and cheered and toasted our drinks in the air celebrating the successful kill.

BUT THEN... standing around congratulating ourselves, no one noticed it crawl away, and the next time we looked down it was gone.

Totally fucking paranoid, we all panicked and ran inside, because we were sure the mutant roach was on its way to get its family to exact revenge.

***

One day, not long after school started, SWAT agents scurried around the entrance to Manzanita, and about an hour later, loud knocking on the door demanded we come into the hall for a briefing.

They said our building was being secured for an upcoming visit by Pope John Paul II, and that we needed to: get out right away, and not come back until the following Tuesday.

"GO, Immediately. You have an hour to be gone, or you'll be arrested."

The cops in sunglasses and shoulder holsters didn't care where - we just needed to be gone.

So, five of us packed inside a random girl's Mazda from across the hall, and drove to Victorville, California (where she was from). We spent the long Pope weekend crashed on the floor of her parent's house, avoiding crack addicts at McDonalds, and playing beer pong with her high school friends.

Back in the dorm a few days later, some guys were going door-to-door selling t-shirts, and I just had to get the one with bible scripture and the Pope's likeness on the front, and the caption:

He Came

He Saw

He Kicked Some Ass

Ahhhh Tempe…. a great place for cockroaches, cacti, and cokeheads… even blessed by the Pope.