Madison, WI – One recent afternoon at the Brass Ring – a billiards bar on Madison’s east side – “Buddy,” a Wisconsin-based marijuana trafficker, talked the pros and cons of his business. He suggested that a rash of heroin-related high jinks across Dane County over the last year has stifled its growth as authorities step-up their interdiction efforts.

“Anytime you get into a period like this – and I’ve noticed waves of it happening in the past – people become a little more insular about who they work with,” he said, nursing a Bloody Mary. “There’s no new faces and you don’t strike up business conversations with people.”

In a trade where people and their freedom tend to have short shelf lives, Buddy has been in business, without interruption, for a remarkable 10 years, making him something of an old-timer. And a lucky one at that. Unlike most who draw a living from black market commerce, his criminal record is squeaky clean.

But he’s had some close calls. Once, he said, he and a friend were pulled over with two-and-a-half pounds of weed and $2,500 in cash.

“We were pissing ourselves, saying ‘We’re so fucked! We’re so fucked!” he recalled.

At the station, his friend – the driver – was issued a ticket for driving without a license. Then, something unexpected happened.

“We get released,” he said, as if still in shock. “And we’re walking out wondering, ‘What the fuck is going on?’”

Their car was still parked where they left it on the side of the road, but the money and product were gone.  “There’s nothing quite like getting robbed by a police officer,” he said. Then, as if weighing the alternative, he grinned. “It’s my favorite dirty trick.”

Buddy began selling pot in college, and was soon couriering pounds of marijuana to Madison from California, where he had a hand in establishing a medicinal marijuana farm.

Over the years he’s occasionally pushed harder stuff, like cocaine and opiate painkillers – the kind local authorities blame for the recent spike in heroin use. Buddy agreed with this theory, explaining that, for dedicated pill poppers, heroin inevitably becomes a cheaper, more accessible alternative. But over time he developed serious moral qualms about enabling his customers’ journey down that road.

“[The] pharmaceutical stuff is destroying everything,” he lamented. “That stuff involves so much more crime and deviousness.”

Still, the nature of his trade brings him in regular proximity to the hard stuff. “It’s like if you go to a whorehouse looking for a blowjob, there’ll be a guy next to you getting laid,” he explained. “You’re always running into it.”

Surely there’s more money in the hard stuff, especially heroin. But he can’t reconcile making money by pushing a product that causes death. “I saw a close family member destroy his life with it. And I’ve had three or four customers kill themselves with it,” he said. “I care about quality of life.”

Buddy wouldn’t disclose his age, but said he becomes more risk averse the older he gets. Marriage hasn’t helped, either. He admitted that he and his bride “have had some conversations.”

Looking back on colleagues who’ve died or been imprisoned, Buddy reflected on his own anxieties. “It’s a constant nagging thing,” he explained, referring to the day-to-day pressures of dealing drugs. “I’m sure it’s a lot like what stuntmen feel when they go to work every day – it’s part of the job.”

Most nerve-racking, he said, are the drives from California with marijuana loads large enough that, under federal sentencing guidelines, would land him in prison for five years or more. “For three or five days all you do is hope your vehicle doesn’t break down and they bring in the dogs.”

Chasing his Bloody Mary with a beer, Buddy continued, “The sheen disappears quite quickly… When I started out in college it was breaking up an ounce; then I found myself doing the trafficking, or unpacking and guarding it somewhere here in town and dealing with many different people. It’s a helluva lot less fun as you go on.”

But in the calculus of risk-benefit analysis, Buddy, who earned $60,000 last summer, said the money is an obvious draw. He estimated his earnings over the last decade have approached $1 million, most of which he’s spent.

“You can make a lot of money just hanging out with your friends – until things go bad,” he said.

Things went bad last fall when armed gunmen raided his California farm ahead of the harvest and stole his crop, which he valued at around $170,000. “[We] didn’t realize at that point that [we] could’ve been insured,” he said, regretfully. “There are insurance companies out there that will insure your product.”

But this wasn’t the only misfortunate to visit him in 2011. The precariousness of his trade has put strain on his marriage. And apart from losing a ton of money, he also lost his business partner to a heroin overdose.

In response he’s scaled back operations, opting to work with people on the medicinal, rather than the recreational, side of the trade. “I’m no longer dealing with smokables, either,” he explained. “I’ve moved to the edibles and oils, and that makes the shipping easier.”

He sees his business as a community service, helping those afflicted or those who just need to means to unwind. He believes public opinion is shifting in favor of marijuana’s legalization, even among some within law enforcement.

“I’ve run into so many cops, especially around Madison, that understand certain things are not a problem,” he said. “We have really great cops in Madison.”

He envisions one day there being a consortium of sorts between drug dealers, addiction specialists, authorities and other stakeholders to discuss strategies on preventing death and criminality.

“I’d love to give them suggestions,” he said, finishing off his drink. “But people like me are not going to step forward and offer suggestions on how to improve this for fear of the retribution.”

On Dec. 4, The Green Bay Press Gazette posted a story on its Facebook page about Wisconsin’s Department of Justice plan to slash funding for its Sexual Assault Victim Services program by 42.5 percent. The program, established in 1995, provides grants to agencies that provide assistance to sexual assault victims.

Beneath the posting on the Press Gazette page, a woman named Nancy Butzlaff, took aim at Gov. Scott Walker with the following unedited comment:

“Another thing Walker has destroyed . . . well just more people that will sign for recall walker now . . . is he really that ignorant to even attack victims at their lowest . . . what a real prize, maybe someone should rape and victimize his wife and daughter if he has any . . . or even sons, then he will wish he supported this service a lot more.”

Sikma, who writes at MediaTrackers.org, a self-avowed purveyor of conservative news, quickly sniffed out a story and, with haste, began gathering facts, many of which were studiously culled from the Facebook profiles of Butzlaff and her husband, Robert. Early in his investigation Sikma made the foreboding discovery that Robert is a state employee.

Whoa!

His discerning eye then uncovered – through an online state court database – that a woman who “appears” to be Butzlaff was convicted in 2007 of misdemeanor contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

Ouch!

Even more, using a different statewide database he learned that Robert, a corrections officer, “made over $63,000 – including overtime pay – in 2010.”

No way!

From Robert’s Facebook photo album Sikma pulled a snapshot of the smiling couple taken as they sat together on a patio swing so readers would know just what people who want other people to be raped look like.

Lastly, Sikma crafted a rousing headline for his hard-hitting story.

“Wife of State Employee Suggests Walker’s Wife, Sons be Raped?” it blared.

Zing!

As with most extraordinary journalism, others soon took note. Chief among them was Vicki McKenna, a talk radio host on WIBA 1310-AM in Madison. McKenna loves her some Scott Walker, so her outrage over Butzlaff’s comment was palpable.

Recognizing the gravity of this very important story, she posted Sikma’s screed on her Facebook fan page so that she and her 9,136 fans could bemoan what a horrible person Nancy Butzlaff was and how dangerous liberals in general are.

As breaking news often does, Sikma’s story grew legs. On McKenna’s fan page alone twenty-nine people liked it. Thirty shared it. And 144 robust opinions have been typed up about Butzlaff, her unfortunate rhetorical flourish, and even her very humanity. McKenna had given her droogs a whiff of blood.

Marcy Roozen (left)

Marcy Roozen, a Milwaukee Public School teacher, wrote, “this woman has no right to be called “a human being!” she is nothing more than the lowest form on this earth! how can someone be so awful ? i’m going to pray for her, she needs divine interventions in her life……obviously she’s been hanging out with the devil!”

Peter Weghorn, a specialist in back hair mitigation, says, “That woman is obviously very unsuccessful, bitter and unhappy in her life–and she richly deserves to be all three. If you brought as little merit into the meritocracy as she does, you’d be terrified and angry too.”

Peter Weghorn

Ryan Aubin took issue with Butzlaff’s husband claiming to be a Republican. “Strange that the husband says his political views are the Republican Party, yet he proudly displays the blue fist,” he lamented.

Emily Peterson

Emily Petersen, who studied corrections at Mankato University, really wanted Butzlaff to pay for her words. “Everyone should forward a screen shot of this to all of the local news stations…,” she wrote.

Barbara Ball, who calls Muslims “sickos” on her Facebook page, imparted this wisdom, “These are the true criminals. These are the people who cause rape and violent crimes by giving the criminals the ideas. This women is lower then trash… This is the difference between liberals and conservatives, liberals believe in violence on the innocent. God please protect our wonderful Gov. and his wife and family.”

At some point Butzlaff’s daughter, Terri, attempted to clarify that her mother did not wish for Walker’s family to be raped. As a victim of sexual assault and the mother of a daughter who’d been raped, Terri explained that her mother was trying to convey that the fund wouldn’t be there for Walker’s family should something unimaginable happen to them.

But the rabid droogs weren’t going to let a reasonable explanation diminish their outrage.

Jeffery Johnson responded, “Kind of sounds like your whole family is pretty disfunctional (sic) Terri. Crawl back under the rock you and yours came from, and I am guessing by the looks of your mother it is a pretty BIG rock!”

Fred Hack, owner of Fred M. Hack General Contracting, suggested they fight back by lynching the Butzlaffs. “This is truly sick!” he wrote. “Time to find a strong rope and a solid tree!”

Fred Hack and girlfriend

The Queen Bee herself had the last word before banishing Terri from her fan page forever. “honey, if this gal is your mom, she shouldn’t have posted these comments publicly. you got a problem with her getting the attention she sought? talk to HER. now, go away. your continued madness is not welcome here,” McKenna wrote.

By now, Sikma must’ve been very proud of himself. Not only had a local media star referenced his work, but it had sparked a lively discussion, too. His journalism was having an impact on the lives of many, including Nancy Butzlaff.

But Sikma, in his eagerness to rile up folks like McKenna and her droogs, forgot to do a basic journalism-y thing: He never offered Butzlaff, a private citizen, the chance to comment on his charge. Fairness be damned. Maybe his story wasn’t so great after all.

Had he called her he would’ve learned that Nancy Butzlaff, 49, lives in Green Bay with her husband, Robert, and their four daughters, one of whom is developmentally disabled and was raped at gunpoint several years ago, she says.

Butzlaff stresses that she doesn’t wish for anyone to get raped, but was angered to learn the governor she voted for wants to slash funding for a program that has been helpful to her family. She saw the Press Gazette post and rattled off something stupid.

“My daughter and I were victims of brutal rapes and we used the sexual assault center,” she tells The Feral Scribe. “We both wouldn’t be here without those programs. We both tried committing suicide. And without this program, a lot of women are going to take their lives. You can’t deal with this alone.”

In 2007, Butzlaff says she was charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor after authorities learned she had purchased condoms for her 16-year-old daughter (not the one who was assaulted). Though her daughter could have legally purchased the rubbers herself, the district attorney argued that the purchase encouraged the illegal sex her daughter was having with an 18-year-old man. She pleaded no contest and was sentenced to a year of probation.

Butzlaff, who suffers from emphysema and a degenerative bone disease, says she was mortified after a friend told her about the things being said about her on McKenna’s fan page. “It was like eighth-grade bullying,” she says.

Upon learning that McKenna planned to discuss the comment during her three-hour radio talk show, Butzlaff says she called WIBA and begged them not to do it. She says the woman who answered the phone called her a “lard-ass bitch” and hung up.

On Tuesday, a Capitol Police detective drove to Green Bay from Madison to inquire about Butzlaff’s comment. She explained to him, just like her daughter tried explaining to McKenna’s droogs, what she really meant. She agreed, as the detective pointed out, that her comment could be interpreted in one of two ways.

Butzlaff assured him it was an unfortunate rhetorical flourish and promised she’d be more careful with her words in the future. Fortunately, the officer gave Butzlaff the benefit of the doubt, finding no reason to charge her with a crime.

That night, on her Facebook page, Nancy wrote, “Good night all, even my enemies, I forgive you, but I will not forget what you have done or said. Karma is an evil event that will bite you twice as hard than what i got hit with today. At least my name was cleared, more than what can be said about yours.”

UW-Madison Arboretum in southwest Madison, WI.

Going into 2011 I expected to at least double last year’s number of posts. At that point I was eying an extended summer road trip followed by an autumn overseas. Neither happened. Now, as 2012 approaches, I end 2011 with considerably fewer posts than in 2010.

So much for goals.

I was never good at them anyhow.

Did everyone have good Thanksgiving? Mine was good, aside from the carbon monoxide thing, and then the turkey catching fire thing. In the end, they added up to a whole lot of nothing and we ate heartily.

December is here, which means the holiday season is again upon us. So I bought myself a Christmas present today a video game called Call of Duty: Black Ops. I haven’t played video games since the eighth grade, but for some reason I’ve had in recent weeks a hankering for good, first-person shoot’em up-type game. On Thanksgiving, as the turkey burned, my friend’s twin boys hooked me on the game. So far today I’ve spent two hours killing Cold War-era Russians.

My goal is to complete all the levels by Christmas.

Between shooting Russians and churning out freelance assignments, I’ve been also writing a book that I started researching in October 2007. It’s a true story about friendship, greed and betrayal set in the context of America’s drug war. The story centers around a marijuana dealer named Amos Mortier who went missing from a Madison suburb in 2004. His disappearance sparked a major federal drug investigation reaching across five states and into Canada. Mortier has never been found none among a pool of suspects has ever been charged with his presumed murder.

My goal is to have a manuscript by April.

And, if all goes well, I’ll be back on the road by May.

Wisconsin residents are working overtime to derail their governor.

Madison, WI – Recall fever has struck Wisconsin, where a monumental effort is underway to oust Gov. Scott Walker less than a year after the radical conservative took office. After months of planning, the campaign began in earnest early last week when thousands of volunteers hit the streets to gather the 540,000 signatures necessary to force a recall election.

Remarkably, in less than a week, more than 105,000 people have signed the petitions. That’s more than one-fifth of the total signatures needed, with more than 50 days to go before the statutory petition deadline.

Though Walker is the main course, residents are also targeting Lt. Gov. Rebecca Kleefisch. A former television news anchor, Kleefisch once expressed concern that same-sex marriage might lead to people marrying inanimate objects such as clocks, prompting her openly gay uncle to vote for her opponent.

Recall organizers expect many signatures to be challenged, so they’re aiming to collect double the total required under law. Not only are one million signatures insurance against failure, but they will drive home the point that this insurgency is more than a pipe dream of disenchanted liberals, a difficult claim to make with a straight face when more than one-third of the state’s voting population wants you gone. Yet somehow Walker manages to do just this.

Naturally, he and his minions in the Legislature are accusing out-of-state agitators of fomenting what is actually homegrown dissent. Clear to progressives, independents and centrist Republicans alike is that that Walker’s interests are not aligned with those he took an oath to serve. In ten months he has taken it upon himself to scrap, roll back or preëmpt hundreds of laws, ordinances and policies, with the full backing of his lackeys in the GOP-controlled Legislature. As you may have guessed, the majority of these revisions benefit a monied few while sticking it those who can least afford it.

Consider a pair of bills that would prohibit municipalities from imposing certain restrictions on landlords. Sounds innocent enough, but what it does here in Madison is wipe out more than thirty years of ordinances passed by the Common Council that, after considerable debate, worked to level the playing field between landlords and tenants. Now, landlords have numerous channels with which to deny a person tenancy and to defraud tenants through the use of bogus fees.

Other things off the top of my head that he’s done: Walker has stripped most public employees of their collective bargaining rights. Through policy rollbacks he’s collapsed the infrastructure for Wisconsin’s green economy. At the behest of the state grocer’s association he’s scaled back child labor laws. The Department of Natural Resources has been staffed with pro-development business interests who have zero conservation experience. To solve the nonexistent problem of voter fraud, he signed into law a voter ID bill that will make it harder for seniors, students, minorities and the disabled to vote. He slashed public education funding, but paid millions to a law firm tasked with drawing up electoral redistricting boundaries that favor Republicans. And he recently signed a law that effectively emasculates the Government Accountability Board by giving the governor veto power over rules set by what is supposed to be an independent watchdog agency.

These assaults don’t even begin to tell of all that’s been lost to Walker’s war on everything wonderful about Wisconsin.

On Friday, one of three recall groups held its formal launch party at the Barrymore Theater in Madison. More than 200 people poured in to hear union reps, lawmakers and activists reiterate the damage so far inflicted by the conservative scourge that infects all three branches of state government.

As if anyone needed reminding.

You’d be hard pressed to find an ordinary person who hasn’t in some way been adversely touched by the policies of this administration or the laws passed by this rubber stamp Legislature. Some stories are so heart wrenching that you might say the Walker Way is actually sadistic greed masquerading as progress.

On Saturday, tens of thousands of people from around the state descended once again on the Capitol Square to make some noise on a gray November afternoon. All day long these unhappy citizens chanted, sang songs and beat their drums – the unmistakable rhapsody of an uprising. The people are speaking, and soon they will have spoken.

This is what democracy looks like.

Badlands, SD – Cruising along the meandering scenic bypass through Badlands National Park in southwestern South Dakota it’s difficult to ignore the supernatural inklings they evoke. Teddy Roosevelt, awed by the dark beauty of this region, aptly described the Badlands as “hell without the fire.”

Indeed, this vast, jagged landscape is composed of eroded buttes and spires spread across nearly 244,000 acres that formed as a giant sea receded some 69 million years ago. Prehistoric animals likes mammoths, rhinos and saber-toothed cats once flourished here, making it one of the most fossil-rich areas in the nation, with some fossils dating back 33 million years. The erosion that formed the Badlands we see today began approximately 500,000 years ago. It’s expected to take just as many years before it’s completely eroded away.

Paleo-Indian tribes lived here prior to the arrival of the Lakota. In 1890, Chief Big Foot passed through here in the run-up to the Massacre at Wounded Knee, in which 300 Sioux Indians were felled by U.S. Army guns, Big Foot among them. During World War II, the military used a southern portion of the badlands as a practice aerial bombing range.

There are many hiking trails graded to varying degrees of difficulty, but don’t get to close to the edges. Even after millions of years the land is soft and crumbly. And beware of rattlesnakes, which tend to hide in crevices and near rocks. Because of the park’s size, help isn’t immediately available. Camping in designated areas is also permitted.

The face of a maniac.

The problem with maniacs is that you can’t reason with them. They lack perspective and all sense of proportion. They dwell so hard on the small things that the bigger picture gets obscured. I know, because all summer I’ve been menaced by a lunatic who’s gone to extraordinary lengths to rain misery on everyone around him.

Meet Joe, a developmentally disabled alcoholic who’s spent much of his adult life in and out of prison for crimes ranging from multiple drunk drivings to burglary. Joe and my sister were dating and living at my father’s house when I returned from Philly in May. I planned on staying for only a week or two, but when a temporary opportunity opened up at a local paper my stay was extended. Consequently, I became Joe’s housemate.

Things were okay for a minute. Though Joe and I had attended the same high school we didn’t know each other personally. We’re close in age, but he’d been held back several years on account of his developmental problems. I felt kind of bad for the guy. I gave him rides, bought him drinks and smokes, and indulged him as he spoke of his endless marathon of problems.

But the honeymoon was short lived. Within weeks Joe was back to drinking heavily. His friends who owned painting businesses refused to let him work because he’d show up so high on Xanax that he couldn’t hold a paint brush. He and my sister began fighting incessantly. He must’ve been manic because he hardly slept. In the mornings he’d come up from the basement upon hearing me come down from my room and before I even had a chance to wipe the sleep from my eyes he was in my space, inundating me with his many troubles. My patience soon wore thin so I explained that I no longer wanted to hear about his problems, that I make a point to avoid those kinds of problems and was tired of beginning my day with negative news that didn’t pertain to me.

To my surprise, Joe got angry and argued that by virtue of living together I was obligated to indulge him, especially when it came to his concerns about my sister. The more my father and I conveyed to him we just weren’t interested in his problems, namely because they were of his own making, the more Joe burdened us with them.

One day I mentioned seeing an old friend from high school who Joe apparently didn’t like. He thought I mentioned this person to taunt him. (I still don’t know what his beef is.) Then he got it in his head that this person was coming after him. Later that day, while I was at the kitchen table working, Joe became confrontational about this and threatened to “rip out [my] fucking throat.”

His eyes were glassy and lifeless, as though anything human about him had long ago died. There we were, standing in my father’s living room about to come to blows over the mere mention of someone’s name. My sister, in her own drug-induced confusion, basically got angry with everyone for picking on poor Joe and they moved out.

Once they were gone we found more than fifty empty vodka bottles in the basement that Joe had guzzled during his brief stay.

Though we worried about her, Joe’s departure came as a major relief, like finally killing the mosquito buzzing around your ear. But our peace was her nightmare. His drinking increased exponentially as did his paranoia. He became abusive toward her, dragging her from motel to motel convinced that people were after him. He ditched her in Milwaukee late one night, an event that led to his fifth drunk driving and to her being committed to a psych hospital.

The lovebirds reunited a week later. But soon Joe was drinking again and they were kicked out of his mother’s house. After making my sister drive throughout the night so he could sleep without fear of people finding him, they ended up in St. Paul, where she eventually fled into a hospital to escape him. He was taken to detox. Upon learning that I was on my way to pick her up, he threatened to murder her family if she left with me. For the next week my father and I were inundated with calls from Joe, who warned he was going to kill us for interfering with his relationship.

To our surprise, my sister was back with Joe a short time later, popping pills, drinking and shooting heroin. After getting kicked out of a bar one night, he returned with a knife and my sister again came home. Her descriptions of these latest episodes sound like some kind of nightmarish affront to humanity. While he showered Joe made her sit where he could keep an eye on her. When she wanted to call my father he threatened to call the cops on her. And he did, claiming she was threatening to slit her own throat. She came home terrified, having realized this person she cared about was in fact the monster everyone said he was.

The next day I took her to the motel to get her things. Joe was gone, out panhandling for booze money. But within hours I received a text from an old friend saying Joe was looking for a ride to Madison so he could kill me. In Joe’s version reality, he’s protecting my sister from her family. Over the next two nights the cops arrived at our house after Joe called to say my sister was being abused. When that plan failed, he showed up in a taxi expecting us to pay for it. My dad shut the door and called the cops.

The taxi driver told police that Joe said he was coming here to kill us. It was dark and he was dressed in camouflage. Police seized from him a knife and implored us to get a restraining order. The officer said that after speaking with him for five minutes it was clear to her that Joe is deranged. He told the officers he was there to protect my sister from us. Everyone, even his closest friends, have warned her she’s in danger by running with him.

My sister, whose drug addiction has left her unable to see not only her children but any hope of leading a meaningful life, landed in another psychiatric hospital a few days later. Her doctor had rescinded her prescriptions for the pills she abused which only aggravated her opiate withdrawal. But she seemed determined to pull it together, having narrowly escaped the dreadful outcomes of running with a mad man.

To help her stave off the institutional boredom, I brought her last night a book of puzzles that she enjoys doing. The nurse buzzed me in and paged my sister. I told her the nurse had her clothes and gave her the puzzles. When we turned the corner onto her hall there he was sitting in a chair at the end of the hallway.

As he grinned and waved at me I recalled what Albert told Bruce Wayne about the Joker in The Dark Night: Some men just want to see the world burn. Some men like Joe just want to see people suffer.

My heart sank.

It’s her funeral, I thought as I walked out, astounded that someone can so completely abandon her children yet care so much for parasitic loser like Joe. Perhaps she’s a masochist and relishes the abuse. Truth is she’s a vulnerable, lonely addict who’s being manipulated by a vindictive con man and career alcoholic.

It’s only a matter of time before he again terrifies her with threats and abuse. She’ll come running home and again my father and I will become the targets of his deranged thinking. She’s said so herself, “Joe doesn’t want me to have a family.”

She’ll pretend to feel bad about everything and offer empty apologies. And, because she’s family, we’ll play along knowing full well this is how it’ll be until one of them is dead or in jail or until the next loser comes along.

Lost Springs, WY – If you’re looking for a drive to get away from it all, I-25 north from Denver to US-HWY 20 east in Wyoming is about as remote as it gets. Two-hundred-and-fifty miles of beautiful nothing. You won’t see utility lines strung along as there are no towns along the way. It’s beautiful country, with large, rocky hills covered with prairie short grass. Wyoming is the nation’s least populous state and Lost Springs is its least populous town.

Lost Springs sits on US-HWY 20 east. It’s a town that never really was. It’s population peaked during the mining boom of the 1920s, but has been in decline since. The town has one mayor and a councilman. In 2000, census workers wrongly calculated the population at 1, to the chagrin of the other 3. Lost Springs may have only four residents, but there’s room for at least one more, as five mobile homes sit within its .1 miles. That’s right, .1 miles.

The guy in the white plaid shirt in the background was one of four people I caught pissing on my van.

Commerce City, CO – On our first day on the lot at Dick’s Sporting Good’s Park, a tall dready I’d met prior to the lot opening pulls me aside to ask if I want to do a bunch of coke. “Not really,” I reply. He seems a little surprised, a little disappointed. “Mind if I duck inside your van for a minute?” he asks, like he really needs a bump. “Ah,” I say, “I’d rather you didn’t.” No luck here, he darts off to find someone else with a van who wants to snort coke. Me? Well, I had beer to sell.

Owning a van is great, except for when it isn’t. It’s so large that I can’t get to parts of the windshield when squeegeeing off the evidence of an insect holocaust. Keeping the petro flowing in a big gas-guzzling V8 is an obvious money suck and environmental hazard. Negotiating tight places is a bitch and its weight and size do a number on my brakes. Coming down a very steep mountain in Maryland they began to smoke.

These are small aggravations compared to those aroused on the Phish lot. Over three nights at least six men pissed on my van as its size provided them perfect cover. This in itself ain’t all that surprising, but considering vendors set up behind their vehicles it seemed awfully brazen of them to pee on a vehicle whose owner is just feet away. But people are high and drunk and lazy and do dumb things. Understandable. But what irritated me most were their cavalier reactions when called out on it.

The vendor next to me chased off two people on the second night. The guy in the plaid shirt in the picture above was the first one I caught. “Hey!” I yelled, walking toward him. “Are you really pissing on my van?”

“Just on the tire,” he says, looking over his shoulder.

“Seriously!?!” I shot back, expecting him to dam the stream, but it kept on flowing. He must’ve though I was going to clock him because I was closing in on him with the hope he’d just zip up and go away, but he didn’t. He just stood their and kept pissing. “You wouldn’t fight a guy with his penis out, would you?” he asks.

His girlfriend, who had been twisting a joint this entire time in the car next to us, yells out to him, “Just piss by my car… not on it, next to it.”

He grumbled and cursed, but obeyed the woman.

Others, too, used the “just-on-the-tire” defense and seemed just as shocked that I didn’t appreciate their thoughtfulness. Is it just me or are people generally okay with others pissing on their wheels? What makes tires fair game and not bumpers? Does bitching about it really give off “bad vibes,” as one accused?

Some were more considerate than others. One guy was actually on his knees pissing under the van. I still called him out for the puddle he was making right where I’d step to get inside the vehicle. Not to mention I had to wait for him to finish before I could open the door. Security was trying to clear the lot and I needed to load the coolers. Like the first guy, he seemed to piss forever.  “Will you hurry up already?” I scolded, to which he replied, “Hey man, you don’t need to be rude about it.”

Anyone who has tended bar understands the role includes playing counselor to those sad souls who try to wash away their troubles with booze. This held true at The Shakedown Tavern where many came seeking sympathy in the form of free shots. On our last night in Chicago we were visited by several who’d been sold bogus tickets to the show. I poured a round of whiskey shots – on the house.

But as a bar owner you can’t help everyone forget their troubles for free. With me, the quality of my charity corresponds directly with the quality of their approach. In Commerce City, I kicked down a few free shots to a guy who’d just gotten out of jail. Arrested the day before for selling drugs, he was released just before the next night’s show. But then an officer who recognized him wouldn’t allow him into the show. The story was worth a few shots.

But those who come expecting a handout likely won’t get one. One gem vendor wanted a free drink because his sales were slow. Sorry, bud. Another wanted to pay $2 for two drinks because he’d been following Phish since 1996. Maybe it’s time to get a job. Sometimes the pitch was as trite as, “Can I get a free shot?” Um, no.

On the second night during the show, when the lot becomes a virtual ghost town, we were visited by an older black guy who mumbled something fierce. He pulled a Stella tallboy from the cooler. “Hmchdisiz?” he asked. Four-dollars I told him, but his buddy, a wispy dude with a cracked out countenance, only had two dollars that he didn’t want to part with. I pointed him to the cooler with $2 beers. “Gmetodlrsz,” the mumbler demanded. They quibbled a bit until the mumbler got his way. He throws $2 on the table and walks off with the Stella. “I need two more dollars for that,” I said. But he just smiled and walked off.

The next day I saw the guy at a nearby gas station. He comes up to the van and asks, “Yallsllnlqur?”

“Not here,” I said.

I couldn’t decipher what he said next. I didn’t really care as I was still stewing about him shorting me on the Stella the night before. But I ask him to repeat himself anyhow. With remarkable clarity he screams at me,  “I didn’t stutter muthafucka!” and storms off.

By the end of the last night of Phish’s 2011 tour things were getting a little crazy. A steady breeze whipped up a storm of red Colorado soil that coated everything and stuffed up your sinuses. A Gallagher impersonator smashed melons, while vendors gave away what they hadn’t sold. After selling our last beer I noticed a pair of sketchy dudes leaning against the back of my van. their backpack tucked behind the rear wheel. Not only do I dislike people pissing on my tires, but am not too found of people stashing drugs behind them, either. A similar thing happened in Chicago when some knucklehead cracked open a nitrous tank using my van for cover.

But it the lot was closing down and the tow truck drivers were shouting through their megaphones that vendors had 10 minutes before they began towing vehicles. The sketch pads left without any encouragement from me. With Purple Thunder loaded up we rolled toward the exit but were obstructed by a fistfight that erupted in front of us. To the rear, a vendor was screaming at a car full of people that they were “going to get theirs.” Trash was everywhere and people were stumbling all around. Event staff and police were losing patience with the stragglers.

It was clear that the party was over.

Commerce City, CO – When hashing out the logistics of big projects I can always count on one thing: forgetting something important. Halfway to Denver I realized I’d forgotten several important things. First was a jar full of silver change that I save to pay meters, tolls and other small expenses. Next it occurred to me that I’d forgotten the folding table, which necessitated us having to purchase one in Colorado. I also left behind our drink cups and shot glasses as well as our extra cooler. In all, my forgetfulness set us back $100.

D’oh!

These were small things in the grander scheme, but these missteps compel the worry that the stage is set for disasters to come. The only way to mitigate potential pitfalls and make known the unknowns is to diligently gather intel beforehand, something only the most enterprising of the Shakedown vendors do.

The day before Phish’s first show we drove out to Dick’s Sporting Goods Park in Commerce City, about seven minutes from Denver, to peep the lay of the land. Driving the grounds we observed there were multiple parking lots with just as many entrances and no way of knowing which one would be used. This made it impossible to determine where the vendors would gather prior to the lot opening at 3 p.m. sharp. In Chicago we staged on a street opposite the lot entrance, but being so close was no guarantee against becoming trapped in the gridlock and losing a spot on Shakedown. With nearly $500 tied up in beer and booze in addition to the expenses of travel, landing that spot was imperative.

But no amount of planning can minimize the biggest risk of all: the possibility that event staff or police will put the kabash on your operation. Unfettered vending is typically permitted because the band, as a courtesy to its fans, leases the lot on their behalf. This arrangement helps the venue recoup revenues siphoned from their concessions, while giving fans the freedom to do mostly as they please. Still, rules vary and are often enforced unevenly. Some venues crackdown on bootleg t-shirt merchants. Others hassle those selling alcohol. Sometimes the local health department will inspect the food vendors and require them to purchase a health permit. The Verizon Wireless Center charges a $150 vending fee. At Red Rocks, because it’s technically a city park, no vending at all is permitted.

Because Phish had never played this venue no one knew what the situation would be. Naturally, with so much cash tied up in this affair, the uncertainty spurred considerable anxiety.  In the hour leading up to the lot opening the vendors gathered on a street leading straight into the venue. During this time we double-checked that we had everything we needed, namely enough ice for drinks. My sidekick wrote up The Shakedown Tavern’s menu, while I tallied our inventory, counted out our change and calculated what we need to bring in to cover expenses. As three o’clock drew near, the vendors fired up their engines and at precisely 2:59 p.m., the caravan, with much fanfare, snaked toward the lot.

That first night was nearly a disaster. The parking staff directed us to a gravel lot instead of the grass lot the band had leased. In the absence of clearly designated stalls and staff to ensure vehicles were parked in an organized, symmetrical fashion, people abdicated their common sense and parked wherever and however they saw fit, claiming as much space as they could. By the time event staff realized they’d made a mistake Shakedown was already open for business. With lots of hootin’ and hollerin’ they tried unfucking the clusterfuck, but with people pouring onto the lot it just wasn’t going to happen. An egregious few were made to straighten their vehicles, but staff quickly gave up trying to tighten up the space. Instead the greedy bastards saw in the mess an opportunity to milk more money by charging each vendor an additional $15 for the space wasted on account of their mistake.

As event staff made the rounds extorting vendors the sky grew ominous and gray. The temperature dropped rapidly and the wind whooshed in formidable gusts that sent EZ-Ups and merchandise a-flyin’. Above us was the very edge of a large slow-moving storm that, from the ground, appeared to abut clear blue skies. Shakedown, up and running not even an hour, was a ghost town as people took refuge in their vehicles or camp sites on the other side of the venue, even though no rain was forecast for the area. Vendors nonetheless secured their EZ-Ups against the wind and began draping tarps over their merchandise in case of rain. I didn’t bring our EZ-Up so we loaded our stock in the van.

When the sky finally opened up it dumped on us a heavy rain that blew sideways for a solid 30-minutes. Then just as abruptly as it began, the rain stopped and the sky cleared. In the blink of an eye Shakedown went from ghost town to a bustling hub of commercial activity. A line that never seemed to shorten had formed at our tavern before completing our post-storm set up. A few other vendors peddled beers and mixed drinks, but our variety and prices were not only unrivaled, but unbeatable.

To supplement our standard beer selection I brought along a few select cases of beer from Wisconsin’s New Glarus Brewery, which produces some of the best beers known to man. Because New Glarus Brewery only distributes inside Wisconsin, I was quite shocked by how many people were familiar with the brewery and its flagship beer, Spotted Cow. Along with a case of Cow, I also had on hand several cases of the brewery’s latest concoction, an utterly fantastic black IPA that garnered high praise from those lucky enough to score a bottle.

If business was brisk from the start it picked up in earnest once event staff began enforcing a strict no-glass rule. Beer vendors were told that unless they had plastic cups to pour bottled beer into, which none but us did, they had to shut down. Had the others done a little pre-show research they’d have seen this policy spelled out in big bold Arial type on the venue’s website. Anticipating this crackdown, I limited my bottles to the New Glarus beers. Everything else I had was in cans.

For three hours we moved beers and mixed drinks at a furious clip, our tip jar so stuffed with bills that people simply walked away without their change. In Chicago, no matter how much beer we stocked we never seemed to have enough. I made a point this time to double-down on inventory but before the show even started we were down to less than a dozen beers. And the no-glass policy caused us to burn through more cups than usual, leaving us without anything to serve drinks in. With nowhere nearby to re-up, The Shakedown Tavern packed up for the night to the disappointment of many, including us.

Just fifteen minutes from downtown Denver you’ll find Red Rocks Park, famous for its world-class outdoor amphitheater and its gigantic red sandstone outcroppings. Many of the rocks are sedimentary and formed the bed of giant river more than 245 million years ago. Then, beginning some 170 million years later, the rivers dried and the Rocky Mountains began to form, causing the uplift which positioned the rocks at their current angles. Many fossils, including dinosaur bones, have been discovered here over the years.

The Ute Indians used the area as a camp before the whites drove them out. In 1964, The Beatles became the first rock band to play Red Rocks. When it’s not playing host to events, Red Rocks is a favorite destination for hikers, joggers, nature enthusiasts and anyone seeking a clean break from the hustle of city life. There is no admission fee which makes it all the more sweeter. Anyone traveling I-76 West through Colorado is strongly encouraged to visit the park as well as nearby Morrison, home to a variety of western-themed taverns, restaurants and boutiques.