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.)

Back in the day in Miami,

I survived a murderous cult, and saw CU win the National Championship.

My first time in Miami was for the '91 Orange Bowl, when the University of Colorado beat Notre Dame to split the National Championship title.

Two of The Bimbos and I, (Slaw, & Hammer) took the redeye flight to Ft. Lauderdale, and the clock struck twelve somewhere over Alabama. Everyone joined in as the captain counted down the last ten seconds of 1990, the crew passed around free champagne, and we rang in the New Year, singing Auld Lang Syne in an unexpected moment of joyful camaraderie.

It seemed the entire plane full of people were also going to the game, and everyone stood up to yell/sing the CU Fight Song, and we all beat the ceiling with fists for the last best part:

FUCK 'EM UP! FUCK 'EM UP! GO CU!!!

Being fearless/clueless college girls and die-hard Buff fans, we rented a car in the middle of the night from the same place a rash of German tourists had recently been carjacked, and drove to Miami to stay at the only place left in our price range: The Yahweh ben Yahweh Sun City Resort Motel.

Walking inside the sketchy rundown building, we were first struck by a strange odor; (like heavy jasmine perfume mixed with cooked meat) and noticed pairs of men and women dressed in matching head-to-toe white robes, white pants, and white head-wraps, walking two-by-two very slowly along each corridor … and it was the middle of the night.

It was super-creepy, but since we’d already been drinking heavily on the plane, the girls and I just laughed it off - even when the front desk man insisted we sign a form agreeing to:

• No EATING

• No DRINKING

• No SMOKING

• No DRUGS

• No SEX

• No SPEAKING PROFANELY, and

• to SHOW OBEDIENCE TO YAHWEH (whatever that meant)

Tasseled tapestries printed with religious symbols and arabic writing lined the walls of our room, and odd flute music played softly through speakers that couldn't be turned off.

We still crashed without care, 'til morning when Slaw called her family in Cali to check in.

Her brother had just arrrived home for the holidays, and completely freaked out the moment he heard we were staying at a Yahweh resort.

Grabbing the phone from their mom, he began yelling,

"OH MY GOD! GET OUT! GET OUT NOW!"

A law student at Tulane, Slaw's brother was well aware of the Cult of Yahweh ben Yahweh, the charges he faced in Louisiana for beheading people, and possibly being responsible for countless missing girls.

"Seriously! Don't wait another minute! You could be drugged and never heard from again! GET OUT NOW!"

Needless to say, we grabbed our stuff and left in a hurry, striding quickly past the odd pairs still roaming the halls, and the selection of colorful (juice?) drinks in glass pitchers by the door.

***

Avoiding the Yahweh cult, safely back in the normal world, we made our way through central Miami to the original Orange Bowl stadium, a warped structure coated in red and white peeling paint, surrounded by twisted chain fencing, and dangerously potholed asphalt.

Anticipation for kickoff was building amongst crazy tailgating fans, busy smashing beers and turning dogs on crooked hibatchi grills, predicting a win for either the Buffs or Fighting Irish.

Our last-minute purchased tickets somehow got us into the parent section, directly next to the band, just a row behind one of our star player's dad. We could see him swell with pride every time his son gained even a yard on the down, and would join all the fans yelling together every single time:

Eeeeeee-Beeeeee-ENEMY!!!

(for the one and only, Eric Bieniemy)

The game was painfully close, with CU up by only a point late in the fourth quarter, when we stupidly punted to Rocket Ismail, who immediately ran it back for a touchdown, right it front of us.

ALL WAS LOST- but while we were moaning and wallowing in despair, Mr. Bieniemy climbed to the tippytop of the chainlink screen put there to keep fans off the field, and was hanging on with one arm, screaming, and pointing wildly with the other:

CLIPPING!!!!

CLIPPING!!!!

THERE WAS CLIPPING!!!!

And sure enough, a yellow flag was lying on the other side of the field, the touchdown was called back for illegal clipping, and CU held on to win 10-9. We jumped up and down, hugging, cheering, and praising Mr. Bieniemy for seeing the infraction first, and after the game, thousands of CU fans showed up at the hotel where the team was staying:

The Sheraton Bal Harbour Resort, much better than the Yahweh cult motel.

We grabbed a table near the dancefloor to take in an impromptu show, as some of the FINEST college athletes on the planet stripped down to nothing but their tight grey workout shorts, and celebrated their victory by popping bottles, and pouring champagne on each other- exactly like a Chippendale's dance act. (SHOUT OUT to: Charles Johnson, Blake Anderson, & Kanavis McGhee)

It was quite a scene, and we stayed there all night, partying with drunken players, coaches, fans, and donors - CU buffalos claiming every inch of the hotel, pool, patio and beach in both directions.

***

A few years later, I ended up back in Miami, dating a hot rich guy named Charles, visiting his home on Key Biscayne.

We'd taken his Harley Fat Boy to dinner at: The News Cafe,for the absolute best tomato soup and hot baguette ever served, and then walked up Ocean Drive to The Colony Hotel for drinks and dessert on the neon patio.

On the walk back, Charles offhandedly asked,

"You wanna' drive?"

I couldn't comprehend that he was talking to me, but finally understod ... he was suggesting I drive the motorcyle home.

Not wanting to ruin the cool girl/try anything image he must’ve thought I possessed, I shrugged and said,

"Sure, but you're going to have to put your feet down to hold us up when we stop."

I'd never driven a motorcyle before, and certainly not one as big and beautiful as a Harley Fat Boy, but Charles showed me how to click through the gears on the foot pedal, and give it gas and make it brake with knobs and levers on the handlebars.

The engine's ridiculously loud roar caused people to hoot and holler from an outdoor bar, and they cheered me on getting my first lesson.

Pulling away from the curb, the bike rumbled and vibrated between my legs, and I nervously merged into traffic, onto the causeway back to Key Biscayne.

Picking up speed, wind whipping my face, Charles holding tight to my waist, we flew over an abyss of black water; and never in my life had I felt SO FUCKING COOL as I did in that moment. (Thank you Charles.)

Whether it’s ‘Little Havana’ for black beans and plantains, or red velvet ropes and celebrities on South Beach; floating mangroves alongside manatee families, or cruising golf courses with gators... it’s Miami, a city like no other.

Back in the day in Boulder,

I hung out with Bimbos and rock stars, and threw epic parties.

Transferring junior year from ASU (Arizona State University) to CU Boulder, I was welcomed into a big raucous group of girls who called themselves: The Bimbos.

Known for caravans to CU football games, and throwing fancy formal Christmas parties, they'd become friends freshman year in Hallett Hall, and included my best childhood friend: Julie (a.k.a. Ma Browne, DTJB, or as I like to call her: The Wind (beneath my wings).

The official BIMBO roster:

• Jules from Lakewood (extremely hard-working, owns multiple rental properties)

• Beth from Massachusetts (natural beauty, became a lawyer)

• Sue from Michigan (hiker, skier, now an HR professional)

• Mess from Mass (super chill, became a vet)

• Slaw from Cali (very funny, now a teacher)

• Tara from New York (strong opinions, true New Yorker)

• Hammer from Minnesota (super-smart, never had to study)

• Sometimes Alex from Denver (country-club girl)

• And Sasha, my friend from high school who stayed in the little closet room you had to go through mine to get to.

Half of us lived on the corner of 11th & Euclid in a huge house on The Hill, which is the neighborhood just west of campus, full of smoke shops, bars, restaurants, and college kids.

Nothing beat a spring afternoon in Boulder, sitting on the rooftop deck of Taylor's, taking in the mountain sunshine and three-dollar pitchers of beer, listening to Craig Maierhoffer play the acoustic classics, followed by a night at The Tul, jumping around to House of Pain, and flirting with frat boys.

But everything changed when The Fox Theater opened in 1992, and Boulder's Hill became forever cooler and better, bringing the best live bookings to town, and some of the most advanced sound and stage equipment west of the Mississippi.

The Funky Meters kicked off opening weekend, and I was there all three nights, jivin' and groovin' to the sweet songs of the bayou; weed pipes passed from one railing to the other, all of my friends smiling and nodding in agreement... that this place was the fucking bomb.

When we graduated I wasn't ready to leave Boulder yet, so I stayed to get my Master's degree in Journalism, subleasing rooms in The Big House to a whole new set of housemates, but keeping the suite with fireplace and roof access for myself.

The second set of housemates included:

• Jana (pretty redheaded model from Denver)

• Meredith (hippie skier from Aspen)

• Erica (transfer student from Boston)

• Steve (crane operator from Boston)

• Matt (head of CU program council from Denver)

  • Other people always over:

    • Funny Bunny Alice (from Maine)

    • Sonya the Lounge Act (origin unknown)

    • and Tom C. from New York

Every Thursday we'd dress in bell bottoms, skin tight jumpsuits, and platform shoes, to line up for 'Disco Inferno' at The Fox, which was by far the best night of the week. The place was always fever-packed, everyone doing The Hustle, and performance singing: "I Will Survive" or"Last Dance", celebrating the 70s under a gigantic silver disco ball... awesome.

Needless to say, my housemates and I were at The Fox a lot, and my (part-time) boyfriend, Keenan, (a model from Cape Cod who also worked as a Fox bartender) would come by after mid-day soundcheck to let us know if the band was worth seeing that night.

He'd sit on his bike in the street and yell his favorite nickname for me:

"Yo, Mudslingah! You and yah girls bettah check out the band tonight! They'ah pretty good!"

And that's how we first heard about: Dave Matthews Band, Maceo Parker, Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Eek-A-Mouse, The Radiators, and Gallactic .

Of course we never missed a show by our favorite local rock stars, Big Head Todd and the Monsters, and would be glued to the front of the stage, mesmerized by the most incredible guitar riffs, ridiculous harmonica skills, and heart-wrenching lyrics, because as Todd would tell you...

"It's bittersweet, more sweet than bitter...driving far from home on a midnight radio... but "It's alright... rise and fall, and turn the wheel, 'cuz all life is, is really just a circle."

***Side Note:

Todd and I sort of hooked up once (what?!) when my old boss, the legendary Tra-Ling, founder of Tra-Ling's Oriental Cafe, bought too many rounds of 'mind erasers' at Disco Inferno, and he acted out of character, coming home with us at closing. Somehow we ended up alone in my room, and things were heating up nicely, when I totally misunderstood vocabulary homophones, and must've looked completely stupid.

On my bed kissing and touching, he said,

"I'm usually so chaste."

But I thought he meant the other version of the word, and had said,

"I'm usually so chased."

So my dumb-ass responded defensively with,

Trust me - I'm not chasing you!"

(Which of course made things awkward.)

We still spent the night together, talking and kissing, but in the morning he decided to pass on breakfast, and I told my housemates the humiliating story over biscuits and hash browns at Dot's Diner.

Keenan sometimes brought his coworkers over after hours, (Dallas with the long dreads, Harvey from Houston, and Big Gully the Bouncer) and there'd usually be piles of people gathered in my room; drinking, smoking weed, eating Abbo's Pizza, and playing marathon sessions of Sega Sonic Hedgehog 'til 3 or 4am.

One late night, Gully attempted to demonstrate the 'Roger Rabbit', and stiff-leg danced his massive foot right through the floor of my bedroom. You could see the couch in the living room below, but we just taped a piece of cardboard over the hole and called it good.

The Big House was known for epic parties, and we'd pay Gully to keep out the riffraff, and make sure no bottles or keg taps were stolen.

• A few of the more memorable events include:

  
  

  • Christmas Formal - When we hired legendary street musician Eugene 'Lucky' Hudson to walk the room blowing his saxophone, and everyone ended up outside with Lucky playing a strip tease, and a tall skinny guy got naked and log-rolled through the snow.

    
    

  • Halloween Bash - When Jana, Erica, Matt & I dressed up like 'The Wiches of Eastwick & Jack Nicholson Devil' but I had to wear the Cher wig, and nobody - not even my best friends - could tell it was me. There was dry-ice smoke rolling down the stairs, cobwebs strung across the doors, fake bodies hanging in the trees; and a mob of people waiting to get in.

    
    

  • Bimbo Graduation - When we hired 'Bruce & George' a musical duo from Vail, and had six BBQ grills and seven kegs set up in the backyard. A massive rainstorm drove everyone indoors, the power went out through the entire house except where the band had plugged in, and we continued dancing in the dark, covered in mud.

    
    

  • Une Paille Bleue Pour Boire - When packaging on a random bag of straws printed in French, translated to: A Blue Straw for Drinking, and we immediately decided to have a "Blue Straw for Drinking" party. There were fancy blue drinks, blue jello shots, blue food-colored cupcakes, and a blue lightbulb on the porch. (Many weeks later, blue straws were still floating in gutters, stuck in shrubs, and lying in the road all over the Hill - remnants of a great party.)

    
    

But Boulder has too many stories, so I'll stop there, and give a SHOUT OUT to all the boiiiiizzze!

Love you The Dude - Dano - Hulky (RIP) - Ginger - The Butt - Sin-Jon - Kiri - LC - Gebby - Strappy Doo - The Giesel (RIP)- Spence - Charlie Lew - Crazy Allen - Smack Boyee - The Marpleator - Ted Shred - Blake - O.D.- E-Bar - Phiiiilll - Z'Ank - DK Broiler - Dave - Jace (RIP) - Joe - Loftin - Russ - Beck - (and even Ted Radd)

(Go CU)