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.)