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I do love to recount my tales, but never has sex ever been part of my backstage experience. See, there are two simple facts about myself that bears repeating: I am not a groupie nor do I desire to sleep with my favorite band mates or interviewees. I love going backstage so that I may share my expressive opinions of awe and appreciation of great music. I want to thank my music mentors for their originality, touching lyrics, and if possible, ask them questions to further my understanding and love of their music. The way I see it, it is about the music. Therefore, it really chaps my hide when sex is thrown into the equation and I am not taken seriously as a music lover. I will tell you this much; if I were a man in the same position, sex would not be an issue. I would be seen as a music lover and journalist. Nothing more, nothing less.

I gracefully and expertly baited the Mouses brash remarks with quips of my own that stunned the rodent and his entourage. See, rats and mice are no match for the feline power of a woman on a mission. I had an interview to complete and so I went to work. I set up an 8 AM breakfast interview with the Mouse and his stage manager Ben before show time. I thanked them for their time and went to the front of the stage to photograph and review the show. Thanks to the rabid energy of some of the fans at the show, I was unable to do either.

When I gave a homeless woman $10 outside the venue, the group behind me in line offered to buy me drinks since I gave away my beer money. Once inside, one of these men reneged on his offer. Okey-dokey, no problem- I'm working anyways. Then, this cheapskate liar attempted to take over the front area of the floor. Over 6 feet tall with flailing arms and heavy foot stomps, this man proceeded to shut out all the other fans around him with his fanatic possession of the coveted first row viewing. A group of tough cookies surrounded him and eventually we were able to move his rude butt a few feet towards center so we could see the show. I am happy to report that this loutish giant got himself kicked out by the middle of his show. It does not pay to be an uncool, aggressive, and selfish fanatic at any concert, my friends. I dont care how much you love a band; please, if you are over six feet tall, dont try to stand in the very front row.

The Mouse and The Eekanomics band regaled the hot swaying crowd with tights beats, killer bass lines, two keyboard players and seriously uplifting guitar riffs. Eek-a-Mouse has over 20 years experience performing to earnest and party-hearty crowds. His fan base spans the musical spectrum, from the hippie reggae fans to the fratboy rock scene. Lyrics to songs such as "Assassinator", "Operation Eradication", "Do You Remember", and "Ganja Smuggling", speak of social ills such as slavery, racism, and murder.

His most popular songs at the Friday night show in Seattle and the Saturday night show in Portland were those in which he unleashed his maniac and incomprehensible skatting in rapid pace, driving the crowds wild. The band and the Mouse played 2-hour (or longer) sets each night. I was bombarded with stony fans trying to bestow ganja joints upon the Mouse every time his baritone voice egged them with the falling crescendo question, "Wat are You Smoookin' Tonight?"

A combination of the inevitable "contact high," free drink tickets, and complimentary Heinekens in the dressing room left this journalist too bloody sloshed for driving Friday night. Thanks to the lovely kindness of two cool women I had danced with that night, I was able to sober up at a friends house. Ben, the tour manager, asked if I would like to join the band for some more partying at their hotel, which I nattily declined, knowing well enough, drunk or stone cold sober, that a single woman alone hanging with a roomful of touring bandmates is not a good idea.

Our party posse crossed Lake Washington to Bellevue, a world away from the sweaty night we endured. We hung out with members of the band Three Degrees West, sweet and fun local boys who tickled my heart by singing nostalgic Sublime songs. As the night wore on and the buzz wore off, I inquired about a ride back to the other side of the lake to make my 8 AM interview breakfast appointment. Belatedly, I learned that no one in my new posse would be returning to the city any time that day. Left with an expensive taxi option or the dreaded bus, I was giving up hope of any journalistic recognition. Then the most satirical thing happened.

At 4:20 AM, my cell phone rings. Strange, I think, but I did pass my business cards out all night. I answer the phone and its the Mouse. He asks me if we can do the interview- he is ready to talk now. He asks me to meet him in Room 420, his hotel room for the night. For those of you who do not understand the outrageous coincidence of this reference, 420 is a code word amongst the more irie people in the world for a good time.

I just cannot shake the giggles from the synchronicity of madness and mayhem I am feeling now. Of course, I decline but after ten more minutes of pleading for a ride and getting nowhere, I decide to take a chance and take a free taxi ride into the city. I knew it was risky business; I had two new girlfriends warning me of possibly unpleasant, but not to be confused as unexpected, encounters that might be attached to the offered ride, but my intuition told me to go forward into the unknown.

Eek-a-Mouse surprised me with his restraint and kindness. He spent the next three hours sharing his personal woes- ones that I will not repeat in this article or anywhere else. He, of course, shared his confession of attraction, but kept repeating that he found a woman like me intriguing. Fearless, a bit insecure but strong, he flattered me with these complimentary observations. They dont call me Valeria Valiente for nothing! I sat there listening and more often, trying to decipher the meaning hidden behind his thick Jamaican patois and biddy-benging.