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.

Back in the day in Vegas,

I saw Jerry make it rain, cracked a rib on the volcano, and shroomed at the circus.

In the early 90s, nearly the entire CU student body made the pilgrimage each spring to Vegas to see The Grateful Dead.

Even if you didn't have a ticket, it was only a ten hour drive, and you could always find someone with a room to crash in.

My friend Jana, (part of the second round of housemates living in The Boulder Big House) was easy to talk into a roadtrip, and we made the drive to The Dead a few times, once in my 1975 Delta 88 Royale Convertible, called:

THE ENTERPRISE

The ENTERPRISE was by far the coolest car I've ever owned, more like a plush 486-V8 living room on wheels, powering up Vail Pass with ease, cruising down the Vegas Strip like a lounge act - a magnetic force compelling random strangers to run alongside and try to jump in.

We could fit eight easily, (ten if you squeezed) and with reference to Star Trek The Next Generation, Jana would sit next to me on the broad bench seat, and the moment the light changed from red to green, would declare,

"MAKE IT SO NUMBER ONE."

And I'd punch the gas and reply,

"EN-GAGE."

(I loved that car.)

It was parked in the lot of the UNLV Silver Bowl when Jerry made it rain, (and I swear that's not the drugs talking.)

Okay, yes, sure, the entire stadium of people was on one big psychadellic acid trip, but I absolutely watched him bring about layers of grey, blue, purple, and black clouds, swirl and mix them overhead, amplify the electricity in the air, and then callback thunder and lighting with his hyptotizing encore.

Chords and guitar riffs cracked open the sky, as big fat drops hit our heads, and we rushed to the top of the stadium to spread out on bleachers and experience it better, letting rain splash our faces, and the music overtake us.

As the sound and mood changed, sunlight emerged, and in an act of TRUE JERRY MAGIC, I watched his guitar literally paint a rainbow over our heads - one of the most extraordinary phenomenon witnessed in my life.

***

In 1993, Jana and I hitched a ride on a private plane to see The Dead in Vegas, with a hot rich guy we'd met at a party in Aspen, who happened to be going there on business.

I had no idea I'd get to sit in the cockpit of his King Air and speak over the radio, but he showed me how to set the course heading, dial in the autopilot control, and ask permission to land from the McCarran Airport tower. (Total rush.)

"Tower, this is November-Eight-Seven-Six-Seven-Uniform. Requesting permission to land."

A white stretch limo took us to the Mirage Hotel & Casino, and even though Jana and I insisted we could find somewhere else to stay, Charles got us a room there anyway, and we roamed the resort checking out the:

• tiki-torcch tropical rainforest,

• slots and table games on a gold casino floor,

• glass enclosure where Siegfried & Roy's white tigers paced and looked sad,

• man-made volcano, scheduled to erupt every hour, on the hour, from noon 'til midnight.

He'd never seen The Dead, and so Charles invited himself and his business associate along, and the four of us hopped in another white stretch, which to be honest, felt completely sacrilegious, cruising in air-conditioned luxury, while so many barefoot Deadheads walked hot asphalt with signs like:

"Looking for a Miracle" or "Jerry's Kids"

(Meaning they had no money or ticket, but hoped someone would just give them one)

Sting had just finished the opening set as we made our way inside, passing around a fat bag of magic mushrooms; gobbling down the disgusting blue-streaked caps and stems as fast as we could to try and not taste them.

They didn't take long to kick in, and we laughed our heads off, watching crazy dancers flutter like kaleidoscopess; enjoying delicious servings of music garnished with spumoni ice cream clouds.

Charles and I stood a little closer and gazed a little longer, and cozied up in the limo after the show, we were mesmerized by bent neon lights, and how tripping mushrooms makes the act of touching someone's skin feel truly amazing.

Later, he taught me how to play baccarat in the Mirage Baccarat Room, and it must've been crazy beginner's luck, but whenever the shoe of cards came back around to me, Bank would have extremely long runs, and everyone at the table would switch their bet from Player to Bank. By the end of the night, we'd all won mad money and the (mostly Asian) gamblers took turns patting me on the back, grinning and calling me "Lucky Banker Girl".

Charles and I decided to celebrate with a couple of chilled Jaeger shots, but throwing it back gave me a hot head rush right away - like maybe the shrooms were kicking in again.

Fresh air helped, and before I knew what was happening, he’d taken my hand and was leading me down a sloped metal ramp, to step over a thick chain barrier with a sign reading: "NO ENTRY"

We walked across another metal rampway over the moat, and snaked our way through palm trees and transformer boxes to the top of the Mirage volcano.

Being well after midnight, there was no danger of an 'eruption', and standing at the top of the faux caldera filled with propane valves and gas lines, Charles pulled me in close and kissed me hard. It was thrilling scary, and perfect zen all at once, but before I could fully enjoy the moment, an angry voice yelled out to us:

"HEY, YOU CAN'T BE UP THERE!"

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

"YOU TWO COME DOWN HERE NOW!"

A mean-looking security guard eyed us from the moat walkway, but Charles just ignored him, hopping down the other way, and continuing out of sight to another level. I tried to follow the same way, but my platform shoes and mini skirt did not help me stick the landing. Instead, I actually crashed sideways into a hidden metal box, and sat gasping for breath in a nest of ferns and fake rocks.

Charles rushed back, scooped me up, and carried me the entire way down. He strode purposefully through the moat - water up to his knees- across the hotel lobby - inside the special gold mirrored elevator - to gently set me down on the massive bed in his upgraded suite.

I never saw the security guard again, and couldn't believe we didn't get into any trouble, especially when Charles asked hotel medics to come check me out. They decided I'd cracked a rib, and after wrapping my midsection tightly with a Mirage-logo ace bandage, gave me a couple Tylenol, and told me to be more careful...that was it.

***

The next night we went to see a new show, something called Cirque du Soleil, playing its first run at The Mirage.

Finishing off the rest of the mushrooms, we took seats in the front row, having no clue we were about to:

TRIP BALLLLLLLZZZZZZZ

• the Chinese acrobat family stacked up and folded in half

• the Tarzan strongman one-arm swinging directly over our heads

• a lopsided clown balanced on fifteen wooden chairs, teetering at different angles

• or the trapeze hummingbird people, flipping and flying across the stage

The music, sets, costumes, and performances were trippy to say the least, but especially when actually on psychedelics, and Charles and I freaked out with exaggerated response, giggling, pointing, gasping, and covering our heads, completely awed by the superhuman acts.

As the circus came to a close, the Ringmaster pulled Charles on stage, leading him to the center under a tight spotlight. Rolling his pants up like shorts, and twisting the bottom of his shirt through its neck like a halter top, he placed a tiara on Charles' head, and gave him a giant brass handbell to hold.

Random people around the audience were given smaller handbells, which they rang on pointed cue in a beautiful impromptu bell piece. He finally pointed to Charles to ring the final note of the show, and when people noticed him later in the casino we couldn't stop laughing.

Good times.

(What happens in Vegas doesn't stay there forever.)