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The Road to Shambala

3/31/2018

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Just off I10 near Palm Springs and pretty much in the middle of nowhere, there lies an oasis of sun, fun and unregulated joy. A place where the puritanical rules and regulations of the early American naturist movement need not apply. The name of this place is Sea Mountain Resort, but I just call it Shambala.
Throughout my nearly thirty some odd years in and around the business of social nudism, it seems that I had formed some pretty naïve opinions concerning the so-called lifestyle scene. All of my pre-conceived notions were about to be forever rewritten when I was struck with an epiphany that this just might be the most honest and pure form of nudism I had ever experienced.  
After convincing a courageous non-nudist friend of mine (couples only) to accompany me, we headed out “On the Road to Shambala” which was just a ten minute journey from where I currently live. When we arrived, we were greeted by two beautiful sarong clad twins, both named Jessica (It must have been very confusing for their parents). Since this was our first visit, one of the Jessicas (don’t ask me which one) offered to take us on a brief tour of the grounds. The tour started off in the refreshment room that was filled with complimentary munchies, fruits, teas, juices and sodas. They also serve complimentary Killer Margaritas, wine, breakfast and lunch. On top of that, you are welcome to bring in your own favorite libations and snacks. As we walked past the main mineral spring pool, Jessica announced to the crowd, “I’d like to introduce you to your new friends”, which was followed by a resounding “Welcome!” from the other sunbathers. 
Next stop was the Taboo Gardens Lounge, a cool little spot between the pool and the hot tub that consisted of a DJ booth, dance floor, stripper pole and in the middle of all that, a round bed. As we passed by the mineral spring hot tub and through the barbeque area, I noticed a sign that proclaimed “Keep Calm and Smoke Pot”. That’s when I knew for sure that I had come to the right place.
The grounds have a magical Zen garden feel and we spent the rest of the day soaking up the sun, occasionally dipping in the pool to cool off and listening to the awesome poolside sound system. The best part is that we met some of the most warm and wonderful people who have shed many of the common social morays to live a more genuine and honest life where only they determine what is right or wrong for them. I realize that this lifestyle is not for everyone, but if you believe that consenting adults should be allowed to pursue joy in all its forms as long as nobody gets hurt, then I suggest you give this place a try.
I’m not going to share everything that I experienced that day, but let’s just say that my light shined very bright in the “Halls of Shambala”. 
It’s like I always say: Do no harm, but follow your bliss dude.
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Miracurl on Ice

1/31/2018

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I don’t know about you, but I was glued to the television for this year’s Winter Olympic Games. Of course, I was expecting the snowboard halfpipe and the bobsled competition to be exciting, but nothing could have prepared me for the pure joy and pride I felt watching the United States curling team take home the gold medal for the first time in history. I love to see the underdog come out on top, even if the underdog turns out to be representing the most powerful country in the world.  That’s what got me thinking about my own brush with Olympic greatness.
It was the summer of 1984 and the Olympics were coming to Los Angeles. I was a limousine driver and had just started my own one car service. A couple weeks prior to the start of the games, I got a call from a casual acquaintance named Andy to inquire if my limo was available for the weekend of the opening ceremonies. I had no idea what Andy did for a living and he explained that he was in charge of sports medicine for the Saudi Arabian soccer team and that this would be their first year to compete in the Olympics. He went on to say that he would need transportation for himself and five of his female friends to and from Los Angeles.
We arranged for the pickup at our mutual friend Peggy’s house in Costa Mesa. When I arrived, I was surprised to see that Andy had with him five of the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Andy had requested that I stock the limo with champagne so before we headed out, I asked him if he’d like for me to open a bottle for him, but he replied, “I’ve got this handled dude.” After only a few minutes on the road, I heard the “pop” of the champagne cork immediately followed by a piercing scream. Andy had launched the cork right between the eyes of one of the ladies sitting across from him. For the rest of the night, this poor girl had a big round dot in the middle of her forehead, which must have been a little unsettling for the Saudis.
Our first stop was a private party suite at the Beverly Hill’s Hotel. When I say suite, I’m talking about a whole floor with a full service bar, massive appetizer spread and a special table with bowls full of “party favors.” After all, this was the eighties. The strange part was that besides me, Andy, the five ladies and couple of armed body guards, there was no one else in the room.
Then suddenly, Prince Sheik Yerbouti (for lack of a better name) of Saudi Arabia and his entourage entered the room. The prince and his buddies were all dressed in designer suits except for one little guy dressed in traditional Saudi garb that I nicknamed “Tip”. Every time the Prince would point at someone, Tip would peel off a hundred dollar bill and hand it to them. Although Tip and I didn’t speak the same language, we became fast friends.  After all the introductions were finished, we loaded everyone, including the two armed guards into the prince’s private Mercedes and the limo and headed to an unmarked nightclub located somewhere in the underground parking lot at the Beverly Center.
As we headed towards our destination, I kept playing a scene from a movie over and over in my head in which a foreign dignitary is kidnapped while riding in a limo. The first person to be eliminated is the armed guard, but you can guess who they take out next. That’s right, yours truly, but as it turned out the night went off without a hitch and I made sure that everyone except for the girl with the red dot on her forehead made it home safely.
It’s like I always say,“Keep your friends close and the dude with the roll of hundreds even closer”.
 
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Bad Instant Karma

11/30/2017

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A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, an epic battle took place in a town called LA. Two behemoth rock stations existed and it was clear that there wasn’t enough room in tinsel town for the both of them. It was decided that there would be a showdown and that the loser would have to change its format forever, never to again play Rock N Roll. The combatants were KMET 94.7 and KLOS 95.5 and they competed for rock FM radio dominance throughout the 1970s, but by the 80’s, both stations had begun to see their listenership dwindle due to the emergence of the punk rock and new wave scenes with new stations emerging that appealed more to younger listeners. When the battle for listeners reached a fevered pitch during the summer of ’86, I was working as a limo driver. I mostly worked nights so my days basically consisted of waking up late, getting high and listening to FM radio. The fight was for listeners and the best way to draw listeners was to give away a bunch of cool shit. 
The game was that you had to listen in the morning when the station announced the song of the day and then keep listening all day until you heard that song being played. As soon as the song began, you’d run to the nearest phone and try to be the specified caller number. If you were lucky enough to get through, you would hear some intern’s voice on the other end of the phone exclaiming, “You’re Today’s Winner!”  If you weren’t so lucky, you’d hear, “You’re caller number 25, try again.” followed by a click. 
As the summer heated up, the promotions got bigger and bigger. What started out as albums and concert tickets quickly progressed into European vacations and thousands of dollars in cash. Eventually, the insanity peaked with the mother of all giveaways when KLOS announced that they would be giving away a classic car every week for a month. The deal was that they would give away one key every weekday to the 95th caller and on Saturday, the winners would gather at the station to see whose key would actually unlock the door. That’s when I decided to get serious and from then on, I made it my sole mission in life to win one of those cars. I made sure that every morning, hung over or not, I listened to the radio at 9 am to hear the song of the day and made every effort to listen until I heard that song being played. I would then rush to the nearest phone and start calling.  It takes quite a while for an intern to answer 95 calls.
On the final week, they had saved the best for last; a cherry red 1959 Corvette convertible with a big white stripe down the side. My quest intensified and I pulled out all the stops by making sure that I didn’t miss a single opportunity that week. Strangely enough, as my focus sharpened so did my confidence. Now that may have had more to do with the fact that I had successfully gotten through a couple of weeks earlier and won a pair of tickets to a Julian Lennon concert than it did with some sort of premonition, but I just had a good feeling this time.
On Friday, when I heard the song of the day, I began my calling ritual only to hear fast busy after fast busy and then after what seemed to be an hour of trying (probably more like ten minutes), the line started ringing. Eventually someone picked up the line and said “Congratulations, you’re the 95th caller!” I was absolutely speechless until the intern said “I just have one question for you, have you won anything from this station in the last 90 days?” to which I quickly replied “just a pair of Julian Lennon tickets” and before I could get the words out of my mouth, the intern said “Sorry, you’re disqualified.” and hung up the phone. I’ll never know whether my key would have unlocked that car door, but I’m pretty sure it was that Bad Instant Karma that put an end to Julian Lennon’s music career.

It’s like I said that time I ran for Governor of the Great State of Alabama,
​“When in doubt; deny, deny, deny, Dude.”
 
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Heart & Soul

10/31/2017

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Have you ever have one of those days that starts great and ends perfectly? Yeah, me neither, but there was a beautiful summer day in 1985 that was the closest I ever got and it all started with breakfast at Marie Callendar’s. If you didn’t grow up in California, you probably think Marie Callendar is just some woman that makes frozen pies for Walmart, but to me, Marie will always be the Queen of the Fresh Olallieberry Pie. The incredibly sweet-tart olallieberry is a cross between a youngberry, a loganberry and a raspberry. My buddy, Kramer, and I grabbed a whole pie to go and hit the road for the Playboy Jazz Festival at the Hollywood Bowl.
The Hollywood Bowl is a venue that is absolutely in a class of its own with world class acoustics. It is steeped in tradition and a dress code that is quite a bit more restrictive than the usual Hollywood dives we would frequent. Plus, they allow you to bring in your own picnic basket filled with wine and snacks. Luckily, we had both worn our very best pair of shorts that day and although we were not big wine drinkers, we had managed to find an empty wine bottle, fill it with Jack Daniels and bring in what was left of the olallieberry pie to snack on. What followed was a wonderful day of jazz music that started around noon and ended the evening with an awe inspiring set by The Yellowjackets.
After the show, Kramer and I decided to stop by the bar at the Sheraton Universal for a quick nightcap before the long drive back to Orange County. When we walked in, the place was pretty much deserted except for a table of dudes drinking, laughing and talking. Kramer turned to me and pointed out a tall dude sitting at the end of the table and I realized that it was Stephen “Doc” Kupka, the baritone sax player and founding member of Tower of Power. Although Kramer and I were big jazz fans, we were absolute funk freaks and Tower of Power is the Greatest Funk/Soul Band of All Time.
We tried to stay cool as we headed over to the table, but by the time we got there, we were just a couple of blubbering idiots who proceeded to tell The Funky Doctor what gigantic fans we were and attempted to recount each and every time we had seen them perform. I guess Doc took pity on us because he invited us to take a seat at the table. He introduced us to the other TOP band members and explained that they were touring as the horn section for Huey Lewis and the News.  Right then, Huey Lewis walked in with his entourage and the place got crazy. By the time we got around to ordering our first drink, the bartender had announced last call so Huey, probably thinking we were friends of the band, invited everyone at the table to his suite to continue the party.
Once we got up to the room, I pulled out my trusty blow bullet filled with twenty five dollars worth of the finest Peruvian marching powder money could buy and in true Tony Montana style, said, “Who wants a bump?”. That poor little anemic bullet barely made it around the room, but after that, we were everyone’s best pals. I spent most of the night watching Huey roll a joint, light it up and pass it on. He repeated that process at least ten times throughout the night and by the end, Huey and I were drunk harmonizing to the TOP classic “You’re Still a Young Man”. Eventually, we said our goodbyes to our newfound friends and headed downstairs, but I still remember how Kramer and I turned to one another in the parking lot and said simultaneously, “Did that just happen?”
It’s just like I always say: Timing is everything, but it never hurts to have a little blow on you, Dude.
 
 
 
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Bolo Bros Forever

9/30/2017

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When I recently attended my 40th high school reunion, many classmates that I had hoped to see were not in attendance, but I was surprised to see several of the members of our made up high school fraternity. We called ourselves the Bolo Bros which was short for The Royal Order of Bolo Brothers. We were a likeminded group of adventurous young lads who were interested in girls, parties, skiing, rock climbing, backpacking, rock music and anything else we could find to get high upon (Oh yeah, did I mention girls?).
We were lucky to have an awesome outdoor education program at our high school and up until this trip, most of our ski trips together had been school-sponsored events. This time, however, we decided to set off on our own. The crew consisted of Boz, Gronson, Whiteamus, Ernie, Kramer and of course, myself. Kramer was kind of an honorary member of the Bolo Bros because he didn’t really get into the sporting side of the group, but what he lacked in physical prowess, he more than made up for by having an totally awesome connect for Humboldt Sinsimilla (Spanish for “seedless”) and the fact that he owned a Ford Courier with a camper shell.
That morning, we loaded up my GMC pickup with all of our ski gear, jumped into the two trucks and headed down the road towards the jewel of the High Sierras, Mammoth Mountain. We hadn’t even made it out of Riverside County before my truck overheated and blew up. Undaunted, we transferred all the ski equipment, stuffed all six of us into the Courier and abandoned my truck by the side of the road. The rest of the ride up went off without a hitch and we spent the next couple of days skiing some of the best snow conditions any of us had ever experienced. Even Kramer took a shot at the slopes, but every time I’d get him strapped into his skis, he’d immediately turn his edges into the snow. It seems he was a natural at the snowplow, but not much of a downhill racer.
Everything went smoothly on the ride down from the mountain until we reached a little town named Bishop. I guess that old Courier had taken all it could take of six guys and a ton of equipment because it broke down also. So there we were, stuck on the side of the road pretty much in the middle of nowhere. After much discussion, we came to the conclusion that our best bet would be to split up into two groups and attempt to hitchhike the rest of the way home. We pulled all of our ski gear out of the truck, decided who was going to go with who and positioned our two groups about a hundred feet from one another on the road pointing south.
Eventually, an old 60’s style Ford Econoline van pulled up in front of the first group. The driver stepped out and motioned to the second group to come on over. He asked where we were headed and we all said “Orange County” to which he replied, “That will work, I’m going all the way to San Diego”. We proceeded to throw all our crap in and then piled ourselves into the van. A few miles down the road, the driver pulled over at a convenience store to fill up with gas and asked if we’d like some beer. I’m guessing he had already figured out we were too young to buy beer for ourselves and of course we all replied, “Hell Yeah!” Soon we were back on the road, drinking beers and listening to rock n roll music on the van’s old eight-track tape player. The van was pretty crowded and old Boz had decided to sit backwards on the engine cover that in those old style vans extended back beyond the front seats. I noticed that Boz was starting to sweat profusely, but before I could say anything, he turned to the driver and puked all over his shirt.
The driver immediately pulled the van over to the side of the road and jumped out, screaming obscenities all the way. I thought he was going to beat the living crap out of Boz (I think we all would have been willing to hold him for him) or at the very least, leave all of us right there. Instead, the driver took a few minutes to gather his composure, changed his shirt and although it was a very quiet drive from then on out, drove us all the way home.
It’s like I always say; No good deed ever goes unpunished Dude.
 
 

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Surfs Up, Joker's Under

6/27/2017

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I am rapidly approaching that age when the invitations to weddings are significantly outnumbered by the announcements of memorial services and that is why I was surprised that the news of the passing of Adam West, the actor who portrayed Batman in the 60’s, hit me much harder than I had expected. Just before my sixth birthday, the Batman series premiered on ABC and the way I looked at the world changed forever.  For me, I think Batman not only defined my understanding of the differences between right and wrong, but also soon gave me my first glimpse behind the curtain into the crazy world of Hollywood.
We lived directly across the street from the Redondo Beach State Park and that morning started off just like any other morning, with a bowl of oatmeal before I set off on my short walk to school. As I headed out the front door, I noticed that the beach parking lot was filled with large trucks and long white trailers and as I got closer, I was able to recognize the 20th Century Fox Television logo emblazoned on them. I decided at that point that school could wait and went in for a closer look. I walked through the parking lot with all kinds of strange looking people and equipment bustling around me until I got to the edge of the cliff and looked down to the beach. Parked down at the bottom of the beach ramp was the Batmobile. That was the first time I made the conscious decision to ditch school.
As I walked down to the beach, I was amazed to find that the production company had transformed the beach into someplace they were calling “Gotham Point” and they added a façade to the old snack bar proclaiming it to be some beachside nightclub named “Hang Five”. There was even a green haired Hollywood version of a surf band pretending to play instruments. The beach was scattered with film cameras, power cables and lighting equipment. I just roamed around the entire set and none of the actors or crew seemed to be too concerned that an eight year old boy in a polka dot shirt was hanging out listening to every word of their conversations.
I spent most of the day sitting in the sand behind a director’s chair with the name Cesar Romero printed on the back support canvas. Mr. Romero portrayed one of my favorite villains in the series, “The Joker”. He had been a movie romantic lead back in the thirties and forties and he seemed to take great delight in telling war stories from the golden age of Hollywood and I hung on every word. After a while, Yvonne Craig emerged from her dressing room, wearing a one piece bathing suit with a see-through mesh across her more than ample cleavage and took her seat with script in hand. She was preparing for her next scene as Batgirl’s alter ego, Barbara Gordon. Just as Cesar was finishing up a story about what a bitch Joan Crawford could be, he glanced over and noticed the provocative suit that Ms. Craig was wearing. Without missing a beat, he said something I’ll never forget, “Good God Woman! This is a kid’s show, cover those damn things up”. Everyone burst into laughter, but if you ever get a chance to see the actual episode, you will notice that there is a black bat-shaped bow covering the aforementioned area.
Rest in peace Mr. West. Although I was absolutely terrified the first time we met on the beach, I will always remember the down to earth grace you showed to me some forty years later, when I introduced you to my son at the Austin Comic-Con. You will always be The One True Batdude to me.
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What I Did on My Summer Vacation

5/23/2017

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Pop always had a way of finding a business angle to justify social events, religious affiliation and family vacations. One summer, he was speculating on some land just east of Porterville, California with a private section of the Kern River running right through the center of it. He convinced the landowner that he needed to perform an onsite survey in order to determine the viability of building a resort development on the land, although I believe that his actual intent was to locate a free private campsite on the river. Pop rented a motor home, loaded the motorcycles into the company pickup truck and the whole damn family headed north for a holiday weekend adventure.
When we finally arrived at the property, we were met by the caretaker, who unlocked the gate and led us to a clearing next to a calm section of the river. We quickly setup camp and then convinced Pop to drive my brother Jimmy, cousin Danny and myself upriver a couple of miles in the pickup and drop us off so we could take a leisurely float in our inner tubes back down to the campsite. Eventually, we came upon a nice sandy spot to launch our tubes, so we waived goodbye to Pop and proceeded down river. At first, the river was calm and slow moving, so we popped open the beers we had secretly snatched from Pop’s cooler and gently floated along. Little by little, the speed of the current began to increase and eventually we ran into some light rapids. Although this was a little uncomfortable, it was still a lot of fun. That was until we tumbled over our first waterfall.
Although it was only about five foot tall and had a pretty deep pool at the bottom of it, all three of us lost our tubes in the fall. At that point, I think everyone decided that it was a good idea to start heading for shore, but that was easier said than done because the current had ramped up to a fever pace. It wasn’t until we saw our tubes disappear out of sight just a few hundred yards ahead of us that this effort took on a whole new sense of urgency. Danny was the first one to make it to shore and he quickly grabbed my hand to pull me in, but when I grabbed for Jimmy’s hand, his fingers slipped right through mine and in a few seconds he was gone. Both sides of the river were covered in very dense vegetation so we were forced to crawl on our hands and knees through shallow waterways as if we were in a scene from Swiss Family Robinson. At one point, we came across a small pool and floating in the center, we saw a large sombrero. Now I’m not sure if there was anything actually attached to that sombrero, but I can tell you that it sat completely stationary in the center of that pond and never moved.
Eventually, we made it back to the dirt road and started heading barefoot back to camp. Luckily, Pop, who had started to become concerned when after several hours we hadn’t shown back up at camp, pulled up in the pickup truck. After we explained what had happened, he dropped us off at the motor home to get on our motorcycles and search for Jimmy, while he drove to the nearest payphone to alert the authorities. After hours of searching, Danny decided to get off his bike, walk out onto a small rock jetty and that’s where he spotted Jimmy, sitting on a rock in the middle of the river, just ten feet away from a fifty foot waterfall. The crazy part is that later on that day, one of the rescue workers told us that the jetty that Danny had found was the only point on either side of the river where it was possible to see Jimmy’s position. He also informed us that we were camping on the most dangerous part of the river and that so far that year over fifty people had drowned there. The fire/rescue team was able to fire a line from one side of the river to the other in order to bring Jimmy back to safety, with little more than a very nasty sunburn.
It’s like I always say Dude, “Don’t go chasing waterfalls. Please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to.”
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Dancin' in the Rain

4/18/2017

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Imagine yourself at your favorite local watering hole at 1:30am. The band is finishing up its last set and there’s no possible way your drunk ass is getting laid tonight. As the band starts playing one of your favorite dance tunes, you can’t seem to stop yourself from flailing about the dance floor doing something that resembles a cross between the funky chicken and an epileptic seizure. Soon, you begin to feel that your mind is no longer in charge and it’s as if the dance itself has taken control. The beauty is that you just don’t care because all your inhibitions have melted away and you feel as if you are one with each beat of the music. That constant chatter in your head is almost non-existent and you find yourself, if only for a short time, living absolutely in the present moment.
One of the first times I can remember experiencing this feeling was back in ’87. That was the summer just before I headed to Paradise. There was a two-day Dead show at Laguna Seca raceway (located just a little east of Monterey, CA) that consisted of three sets. It was during the infamous “Sunrise Set” with the sun just peaking over the top of the stage, a light drizzle coming down and The Dead playing “Box of Rain”.  At that moment, while dancing barefoot in the mud, I realized for the first time in my life that it is my responsibility and mine alone to make the most of every day this life affords me, no matter what the circumstances might be.
It wasn’t until many years later that I was led (some might say kicking and screaming) to a practice that would finally allow me to experience this feeling time and time again. It is sometimes referred to as Ecstatic Dance or Movement Meditation and although it comes in many flavors, the one I prefer is called 5Rhythms. 5Rhythms is a movement meditation practice devised by Gabrielle Roth in the late 1970s. It draws from indigenous and world traditions using tenets of shamanistic, ecstatic, mystical and eastern philosophy. It also draws from Gestalt therapy, the human potential movement and transpersonal psychology. Fundamental to the practice is the idea that everything is energy, and moves in waves, patterns and rhythms.
Roth described the practice as a soul journey and said that by moving the body, releasing the heart, and freeing the mind, one can connect to the essence of the soul, the source of inspiration in which an individual has unlimited possibility and potential. The practice of the five rhythms is said to put the body in motion in order to still the mind. The five rhythms (in order) are flowing, staccato, chaos, lyrical, and stillness. The five rhythms, when danced in sequence, are known as a "Wave”. While the practice is transformative and can be therapeutic, Gabrielle Roth did not describe 5Rhythms as a form of dance therapy. However, many therapists have used the 5Rhythms to support their therapeutic practice.
I have tried many different forms of meditation in my life, but I always felt like I just couldn’t get there from here. I guess the movement factor is what seems to force me to get out of my head much more effectively than just closing my eyes and thinking about it.
Keep Dancin’ in the Rain, Dude!

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Night Bouldering

3/9/2017

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My high school offered only a very limited sports program, basically parking lot volleyball and ping pong, but I was fortunate to attend this school because it had one of the most comprehensive outdoor education programs any California school system had ever attempted. The program was created by a teacher named Carl Zeek, a former National Park Ranger, who made it his life’s goal to share his love of the natural world with as many young people as possible. The program consisted of four basic disciplines. In the summer, we would concentrate on backpacking and mountaineering in places like San Gorgonio, San Jacinto and the High Sierras. In the late fall and early winter, our focus would turn to cross-country skiing in the Mammoth Lakes area and in the springtime, we went rock climbing in Yosemite National Park or in my personal favorite, Joshua Tree National Monument.
Joshua Tree is a large expanse of desert land located just outside of Palm Springs. At first glance, the landscape appears to be desolate and barren, consisting of large piles of boulders and littered with its namesake Joshua trees. Upon closer examination, you begin to realize that you are in the middle of an extremely diverse ecosystem teeming with life at every turn. The piled boulders appear to be out of place. It’s as if some prehistoric race of giants gently stacked them one upon the other in order to create some sort of massive Zen garden.
After a long day of rock climbing on one of these weekend field trips, without telling anyone, I and a couple buddies of mine decided that it would be a good idea to boulder to the top of a huge pile of rocks, smoke a joint, drink a beer and watch the sunset. Bouldering is basically free climbing without the aid of ropes or any equipment other than your hands and a good pair of climbing shoes. Most people don’t realize that this is actually the most dangerous style of rock climbing due to the simple fact that if you slip, there is nothing to break your fall.
On the way up, we realized that the route we had chosen was much more difficult than we had anticipated, but we didn’t let that deter us as we shimmied up thirty plus foot chimneys and jumped across five-foot crevasses between boulders. Eventually, we made it to the summit where we all sat down, cracked open our beers and passed around a joint. The California sunset over Mount San Jacinto was absolutely awe inspiring and after we finished up our beers, we decided it was time to head back to camp. As we got up to start our descent, all three of us simultaneously realized that we had neglected to consider one very important variable in planning our expedition. This was a no moon night and Joshua Tree has virtually no light pollution so after the sunset, the desert was pitch black. The visibility was almost nil and the only light came from the stars and the distant flicker of our campsite fire. The temperature was starting to drop and we had no other alternative than to descend into the darkness.
Imagine jumping from one boulder to another without being able to accurately judge the distance between the two or attempting to make your way down a chimney without being able to see the bottom. We were all absolutely terrified, but by slowly negotiating each horrific turn and working to assist one another through each step, we were able to make it back to the desert floor safely, without much more than a couple of scrapes and bruises. What started out as a thirty to forty-five minute ascension would eventually turn out to be a three to four-hour descent.
It’s like I always say, “Don’t go up there Dude, if you’re not sure how your gonna get back down”.
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Hot Tub Bubble Bath Party

2/15/2017

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Back in the late eighties, when I first arrived at Paradise Lakes, it was a much different club than the one you know and love today. Phase III didn’t exist and all of the club’s activities were located down by the lake. At that time, the amenities included three tennis courts, two sand volleyball courts, clubhouse, lakeside tiki bar, swimming pool, a covered hot tub and a steam room. Someone had posted a peculiar sign at the entrance to the steam room that listed all of Florida’s “Blue Laws” that concerned sexuality. I guess it was intended to strike fear into the hearts of fornicators, but on more than one occasion, I opened that door only to witness many unsavory criminal types involved in various forms of illegal activity.

By day, the clubhouse was a full service restaurant serving breakfast through dinner seven days a week and at night,it was transformed into a full blown nightclub with a DJ and disco lighted dance floor.  The three bars were the main clubhouse bar, the patio bar and the infamous tiki bar that was ruled with an iron fist by bartenders Dee and Kathy. They always poured a mean drink, but were quick to cut you off if you started to act the fool. 

One of the most popular activities at the old club was the Sunday night hot tub bubble bath party. Legend has it that this strange bubble phenomenon was discovered completely by accident. The story goes that after a long night of partying, an adventurous couple snuck back into the club area long after the nightclub had closed with the intent of taking a king sized bubble bath. After dumping a box of Mister Bubble into the hot tub, they quickly realized that this was no ordinary bubble bath.  

 What made the old hot tub special was that it was surrounded by a wooden bench and topped off by a twenty-foot high gazebo. That design created an interesting effect and the bubbles formed in a cylindrical shape and rose all the way to the top of the gazebo. The next morning, the breakfast crew arrived to find the entire pool area inundated with bubbles. As for the couple, they were nowhere to be found and rumor has it they were never heard from again.

Through meticulous experimentation, we eventually discovered the perfect Mister Bubble to hot water recipe and the Sunday night hot tub bubble bath party was born.  The bubbles would perfectly fill the gazebo all the way to its pointed peak and remain like that all night long. From the outside, all you could see in the wooden gazebo were bubbles. Guests would have to dig their way into the hot tub and then they would disappear. In fact, once you were in, you couldn’t even see the person seated next to you. I’ll never forget the time I heard a man’s voice call out, “Honey?  Is that you?”, followed by another male voice emphatically answering, “No”. Every Sunday night I would hear all kinds of crazy sounds coming from that hot tub and I’m sure plenty of folks have their own stories of what actually went on inside there, but I never heard anyone complain that it was anything but good clean fun.

It’s like I always say: If you find yourself in a hot tub, covered in bubbles and you don’t know exactly where your girlfriend is,
​“Keep Your Hands to Yourself Dude”
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    About Wali,
    The Grateful Dude

    In my formative years, I was lucky enough to attend an amazing high school modeled after the freedom school from the Billie Jack films. The curriculum included outdoor education, pottery and organic farming and emphasized values like creativity, self awareness and a strong sense of community. I spent several summers traveling from show to show with The Grateful Dead and found that not only could I beat the crap out of a plastic bucket in a drum circle, I was also quite the imported beer salesman. My early career started off in the eighties driving limousine for posers, drug dealers and wannabe rock stars in Los Angeles. In the late eighties, I was introduced to the former owner of Paradise Lakes Nudist Resort who had just seduced and proposed to my roommate while she was on vacation in Florida. Fred took me aside one afternoon  and told me, “I like you, kid and since I’m taking your roommate and I’m pretty sure you can’t afford this beach rental on your own, why not come on out to Florida? I’ll find you a place to stay, give you a job and you’ll be surrounded by naked women”. So I loaded up my truck and moved to Paradise. Lakes, that is. Swimmin’ pools. Porno stars. (insert banjo solo here).

    I wake up every morning (well almost every morning) knowing that today is a wonderful gift to be unwrapped and explored. I believe that every day is filled with limitless possibilities and endless abundance. I’m convinced that our true purpose in life is to interact with our fellow beings and give witness to this amazing universe that surrounds us.

    If you are searching for miracles in life, you need go no farther than your backyard to realize that we are living in the midst of the greatest miracle of all.

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