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, taking the suite with fireplace and roof access for myself.

My second set of housemates included:

• Jana (pretty redhead 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, by far the best night of the week. The place would be fever-packed, everyone doing The Hustle, or performance singing: "I Will Survive" and"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 and Fox bartender) would come by after the mid-day soundcheck to let us know if the band was worth seeing that night.

He'd sit on his bike 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 I 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 getting naked and log-rolling 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, we immediately decided we must 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 - and we knew we'd thrown 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)

Back in the day in Chicago,

I sat courtside for Jordan's revenge game, and stole wine from Oprah.

Every time in Chicago is a good time, but one of my best was in the early 90s with a hot rich guy named Charles S. who surprised me with tenth row tickets to: Game Three of the 1993 Knicks vs. Bulls, Eastern Conference Semi-Finals, at the Old Chicago Stadium.

He and I had recently hooked up in Vegas, and I was super-excited when he called to invite me for a surprise weekend getaway.

A ticket had been issued in my name at the United counter inside Denver's original Stapleton Airport, and like a straight up Jackie Collins heroine, I settled into first class, ready for a scintillating time in the Windy City.

A driver waited at O'Hare to take me to the Fairmont Hotel, where Charles and I spent the next two days having sex in the hotel's completely white Penthouse Suite, whenever we weren't out exploring.

• Dinner at the original 'Rosebud' Italian steakhouse, where (just for fun) we sent a round of drinks to strange third-party candidate Ross Perot, who happened to be seated in the next alcove over.
  

• Walking the streets very late, past incredible public art by Picasso, Miro, and Chagall; and then making out beneath Calder's giant metal 'Flamingo' sculpture.
  

• Pressed together inside a tight crowd at legendary blues club Kingston Mines, feeling young, beautiful, and invincible, transported to another time and dimension by the soulful power of music.

Of course, the absolute highlight of the trip was on the walk back from breakfast, when Charles pulled out a set of shiny silver tickets from his breast pocket, and announced he had another surprise for me.

I still can't believe I got to see His actual Airness live on the court, inside the old crumbling Chicago Stadium, let alone in an Eastern Conference Semi-Final playoff game against the Knicks (what?!) but there I was, seated not far from the 'Kid' half of Kid-n-Play, as Jordan came out with a huge chip on his shoulder, and immediately hit a long three-pointer from nearly halfcourt.

He was pissed because the Knicks were up in the series 2-0, and Game Two in New York had not gone well. The media blamed his all-night gambling in Atlantic City for the loss, and had been highlighting John Starks dunking on him ever since.

*** SIDE NOTE: There really is no tougher, finer athlete than a Professional Basketball Player, considering the specific skills they access on a dime: dribbling, shooting, blocking, passing, stealing, reading defense, setting screens. Besides the ridiculous ball-handling, there's the gravity-defying, superhuman windmill slam dunks, and cross-court no-look passes. In the best physical shape compared to any other pro athlete; basketballers run up and down the court in multiple games per week, on and off the road from October to at least April, matched up against opponents like Lebron and Yanis, unafraid to take the charge. They switch from offense to defense in a step, and must be constantly tracking the shot clock before hitting buzzer-beating threes.

Oh, and did I mention, they don't wear any pads or helmets?

(Way tougher than football... just sayin')

***

In the end, the Bulls beat the Knicks, 103-83, and I gratefully witnessed one of the most historic matchups of the sport, played (arguably) by the greatest player of all time.

***

Back in the day in Chicago, in the early 2000s, I found myself partying on Division & Rush with a very good friend from college, Matt Holcomb, (a.k.a. Hulky) and a guy he'd gone to high school with named Amon.

Supposedly, Amon had briefly hooked up with Sandra Bullock, when he'd been a production assistant on a movie she was in, (which seemed plausible considering his Michael Franti/Lenny Kravitz good looks) but now he was flipping properties for a private financial group.

Standing around waiting for drinks at the bar, Amon nonchalantly asked if we wanted to check out a nearby restaurant that had recently closed, and was in the process of being flipped.

Stepping inside Biggs Steakhouse and Wine Cellar, (located inside Biggs Mansion) felt like the place had just suddenly been abandon, with dried up food and dirty dishes in bus tubs, and unused tables still elegantly set. Signed black and white photographs of celebrities who'd once eaten there lined the walls, and at the top of the grand stairway in an office, random papers and stuff was scattered all over the floor, including a few gold records from the band, (Hard to Say I'm Sorry) Chicago.

The weirdly empty, creepy old mansion was unsettling, until Amon explained that the entire contents of the wine cellar had been purchased by Oprah Winfrey, sight unseen, and was scheduled to be picked up and delivered to her farm in Indiana the following Tuesday.

Since no inventory would ever be counted, Amon said we could:

Drink anything we wanted without consequence!

Flipping directly to the last page of the extensive wine book, we chose the most expensive bottles of Jouet, and Dom Perignon, but then had to go find them in the scary dark basement.

For hours we sat in a booth over the back kitchen stairs, playing blackjack, listening for haunted footsteps, and getting drunk on Oprah's private reserve without her even knowing.

Eventually we'd go to The Weiners Circle on the North side for late night greasy deliciousness, and Amon would show how to give and take abuse from the hilarious mama-jamas behind the counter.

The scene was always crazy packed, fronted at all times by over fifty drunks clamoring to catch the attention of the women, who would usually scoff and mock whatever the drunks wanted.

Amon liked to wave his arms and yell:

"Gimme' a chocolate shake!!!"

And if he was lucky the counter girl would pull up her shirt and give him a good boob shake before taking his order.

***

I love Chicago... the Gold Coast, Magnificent Mile, Greek Town, South Side .... all of it, with it's edgy criminal history and spectacular architecture, nestled right up against the clear blue expanse of Lake Michigan. The people are always down for a good time, the food is extra delicious, and there's a general coolness and toughness about the place.

Therefore, I propose a new nickname for the Windy City, a.k.a. Chi-Town, I suggest:

The Cog

(In recognition of Chicago being such an important city in the center of the country, like a cog in the wheel of America)

I'm sure it's gonna' catch on... .Right?

.