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.