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Transcript for Episode 05: The Sex on San Juan Island

The gang get a gig on San Juan island in the USA, where summer, sex, and violence blossom. Randy doubts his sexual prowess and Frank has to explain reality to a yacht owner.

Warning/NSFW: The content of this podcast is intended for a mature audience only. At times this content contains highly offensive language, sexual situations, violence, illicit drug use, criminal activity, and all around bad actors. If you have sensitive ears, this may not be a good fit for you.

Privacy: Names have been altered to protect the privacy of brands, individuals, musical acts, and establishments.

PODCAST SETTING LOCATION: Based in East Vancouver / SUBJECT: Musician with Agoraphobia


Randy Darling finds himself on the ferry deck, regretting his decision to leave the cabin, but feeling that it was necessary. He is surrounded by tourists admiring a nearby whale, and he muses on the mammal’s attention-seeking behavior. One family is overly excited and happy about seeing the whale, while others take pictures and videos of the whale. Randy admires the whale’s showmanship and the crowd’s enthusiasm.

Randy and his band were recently taken on by their new manager, Frank Delanor Archibald White. Frank was a well known player in the Vancouver music scene and had quit performing live to get off the road and manage bands. He has major connections in the USA and he booked them for a two nighter at a club in Friday Harbor for the Fourth of July weekend. Everyone was excited for the gig, even Frank himself, who was coming along as his wife was away on business. This is how Randy found himself clinging to a fairy deck railing, surrounded by a gaggle of people.

The band comes to help get Randy out of his predicament, and Angie suggested that Randy come inside and play some backgammon with the band in order to help him calm down. Everyone else in the band was relaxed which bothers Randy. He takes some benzodiazepines in an attempt to help himself relax. When the ferry finally arrives at its destination, the band drove to the club, which was only a few minutes away from the ferry. The building was well kept and had a cream-colored exterior, white trim, and red awnings. Despite being anxious, Randy was ultimately able to find comfort in the company of his friends.

The group arrived at Herbs Tavern for the gig, where they found a well-maintained room. They set up their equipment and sound checked with the help of the in-house sound technician. Then, they went to set up camp at a nearby campground. After eating fish cooked over the fire, they discussed the songs, the plan and the gig. Then Randy retires to start his pre-gig ritual of taking benzos and smoking indica for courage. 

Then the comedy of events unfolds in strange ways.


Randy enters the coffee shop located in East Vancouver…

June: Good morning, Darling. The usual?

Randy: Yes, please. I like the new sign out front June.

June: Really? Seems a little small to me. We need a sign that really sticks out.

Randy: I think sticking out is overrated, June.

June: Oh, Darling, you really are an Eeyore.

Randy: What’s an Eeyore?

June: The donkey from Winnie the…oh you’re being a brat. The back room is ready for you.

Randy: Thank you.


Randy walks to the back of the coffee shop, opens the back room door, and starts introducing his story…

Hello, my name is Randy darling, I hope you are having a fearless day. Today’s adventure starts off on a ferry deck railing somewhere off the coast of Washington State and ends on a sidewalk watching the July 4 parade in Friday Harbor. What happens in between answers two big questions I had at the time. One, about happy people, and two about sex. See you on the other side.

Randy begins the story…

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – 



I was white-knuckling the railing of the ferry deck. Deeply regretting my decision to leave the cabin for fresh air. But I had to do something before losing my mind being trapped in the cabin with the crowd. And it’s not like I didn’t put some thought into my decision. After carefully weighing the fear of being inside a vessel crammed with human beings against the fear of falling to a watery grave, I chose the latter.

Of course.

But now I was surrounded by tourists ooing and awing over a nearby whale sighting. I could feel them closing in on me, taking pictures and shooting video to capture the moment.

This particular whale was making quite a spectacle of himself, blowing his hole for the crowd. What a show off, I thought. A typical mammal of modern times, craving attention and validation just for breathing. But I gotta hand it to him. He was over the top, pleasing the crowd. One family was spinning dangerously around the axis of giddy.

The little boy was up on his father’s shoulders, thrilled to be a prop in the world’s best cliche. His sister cheered every time the whale surfaced, and the mother fawned over the entire charade.

It really begs the question, is there anything more disingenuous than happy people?

Now, you may be wondering how I ended up in this unfortunate predicament. A lot had changed since the Pickerton’s opening act debacle. Mark, Evan and Dan had fully recovered from the accident and my pride had recovered from the shame.

And there was a new development. Our struggling band was under management for the first time. For a low commission rate of 12% we no longer had to book our own gigs. Our new manager was a high profile player in the Vancouver music scene. He quit the performing life to get off the road and try his hand in the band management game. Now, I don’t need to give him a big introduction because you’ve already met him.

He’s a man of many riddles and many hats and, and as it turns out, many names. His business card read,

Frank Delanor Archibald White — At your service.

So far. Frank was doing a bang up job. He was tough with the club owners and kept them in line. He made sure we always got paid, and because of his wife’s extensive band management experience, he had connections below the border in the state of Washington.

Frank booked us for a two nighter at a club in Friday Harbor for the July 4 long weekend on San Juan Island. There is no way Angie and the boys would turn that gig down. Everyone was keen for it. Even Frank was coming along as his wife was away on business. And that, my dear listener, is how your humble narrator found himself clinging to a fairy deck railing, surrounded by a gaggle of fuck.

But then help arrived.

Frank: You don’t look so good, bro. You seasick? Who let Randy out here by himself?

Randy: By this time, the whole band was well aware of my precious phobias.

Evan: I was just talking to him inside. I had to go to the bathroom.

Randy: Evan said in defense.

Randy: Jesus, you guys, he’s probably looking for a place to jump.

Randy: I’m standing right here, you know, I said, embarrassed as the crowd listened in.

Angie: Why don’t you come inside with me and the guys and play some backgammons? That might help calm you down.


Not likely, but as usual, I took Angie’s advice and followed them inside to our seats at the bow of the ferry. Dan and Mark were nearing the end of a Backgammon match. Angie put her headphones back on, Frank opened his book and Evan cracked open a latest edition of Mad Magazine, which he had procured in the gift shop.

How do they do it? I thought. How could they be so relaxed? Don’t they know that at any second we could be tossed into the abyss?

I popped another Benzo, hoping to escape my crippling fear, then walked up to the window of the bow. As our ferry closed in on a pristine harbor the sky was clear and the ocean was dead calm. A seagull flew in and rested for a moment only a few feet away from the glass. She gave me a glance just before lifting off, as if to say everything and nothing at all. We mercifully came to a stop on the ferry slip and my nightmare was over.



We drove Angie’s Subaru and Mark’s Rusty van into Friday Harbor. The club was only a three minute drive from the ferry terminal. The outside of the building was well kept with cream colored exterior paint, white trim and red awnings. The sign on the side of the building read Herbs Tavern. When we walked in the front door it was apparent this was no debilitated dive. Even under the harsh light of day, you could tell it was a well cared for room.

This gig was beginning to show promise.

Mark and Frank went up to the bar to announce our arrival, and soon after we were hauling in the drums, keyboards, amps and guitars. The tavern had an in-house PA system, which made for an easy sound check. Mark got some help from the in-house sound tech guy. They dialed in the front end PA and the monitors in short order.

Then it was time to go pitch our tents.

You see, Angie and Evan came up with the idea of tenting in a nearby campground to save money and groove on the great outdoors.

When we arrived at the campground, Mark pitched his tent first. Frank was kind enough to share his tent with me, and we pitched it beside Mark’s, only inches away as we were tight for space. Dan and Evan shared a tent, and Angie had her own. She was the most experienced camper of the group.

Soon we were settled in, and Frank and Angie cooked fish over the fire. I was grateful for the food as I was starving.

We talked about the gig, the songs, the sets and the plan, and then I went to lie down. In an hour and a half, I will be starting my pre-gig ritual of swallowing Benzos and smoking indica for courage.

At the gig, it was a typical first nighter. The first set, the amp tubes and band were just warming up, and the second set, Mark and the in-house sound tech guy had dialed in the mix. By the third set, the crowd was alcohol primed and the dance floor was full.

One of the dancers was a very pretty young woman who yelled the same thing almost every time a song ended.

Mitch: All right, it’s party time for Mitch.

Randy: Strange, I thought, who is this Mitch? She had a distinct of almost grating tone of voice that didn’t match her look at all.

Mitch: All right, it’s party time for Mitch. All right, it’s party time for Mitch.


Now, before I describe her, I was told once by a reliable source, a bar room sleeze to be exact, that to properly and fully objectify a woman, you need to start at the bottom. Far be it for me to snub the long tradition of douchebag rule. She had to be in her late 20s to early 30s, tall, about five foot ten. She wore white pumps at the end of her very long, shapely legs, and even her knees were divine.

She had a devastating backside and a thin, sculpted waist with a flat tummy for good measure, just to piss off the competition. She had medium sized, full natural breasts that cleaved modestly in a perfectly fit yellow dress. And to top it all off, she had high Nordic cheekbones, giving away her European descent. Hardly a dab of makeup required. When she smiled, it revealed deep, dimples, bright white teeth and flashing blue eyes.

She had long, straight, dirty blonde hair that tumbled well below her shoulders. Any art lover in the room who claimed not to notice her would be a bold faced liar.

As we played, I noticed she was admiring Frank as he sipped his coffee alone stage left. Frank was also gifted with a bone structure and body envied by the average hopeful. On a purely physical playing field, he was surely in her league.

But this young woman was barking up the wrong tree, as Frank was fiercely loyal to his wife and nobody’s tramp. He had sowed his wild oats long ago as the lead singer of the East Van Wailers.

We finished up our final set of the night, did the cheesy encore routine, flipped the amps into standby, and headed back to the campsite.


We woke up the next morning on a perfect afternoon, and Evan woke up with a plan.

Evan: Let’s go to Roche Harbor and check out the yachts and the scene. It’s a must and we’ve got the time.


Roche Harbor is on the northern tip of San Juan Island, and it’s sheltered from the ocean’s extremes, a perfect place for the rich to show off their toys. And July 4 long weekend is the perfect time to do it. Within 15 minutes, we had arrived and started walking the wharf in awe. The wealthy were there, preening themselves on their luxurious decks. It was the first time I ever saw how the 1% lived.

Evan was losing it. He was so excited. I had no idea he was a boat person at heart.

Evan: Check out this monster, guys. He’s got a helicopter and a two man submarine.

Randy: Then, as we walked up beside the decadent boat, we heard a distinctive voice shout down to us.

Mitch: Hey, guys, did you bring your guitars?

Randy: When we looked up, there she was, the beautiful woman from the gig last night. She had her man on one arm and the other was waving at us.

Mitch: Come aboard for a drink. We have plenty of room. We’d be honored if you joined us.

Randy: We all looked at each other as if we had struck gold. Angie said…

Angie: Come on, boys, let’s do it. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Mitch: I’m sending the captain down to bring you on board.

Randy: (she yelled down again) Seconds later, her man in white shorts and a blue windbreaker met us on the slip. He was much older up close. He stood about five foot six, had short, stubbly gray hair, a gray beard and a sizable belly.

Captain Buster: My name is Buster, and you’ve already met Mitch. She’s been raving about you guys since last night. Make yourselves at home. The drinks are on us. Just follow me.


Very generous. I thought Evan was vibrating by now. He and Angie followed Captain Buster on board, and we all fell in line. When we got up to the lounge deck, Mitch greeted us all with a big hug. She was wearing a bright pink bikini, a wide sun hat, high heels and sunglasses. As she spoke, her eyes frequently paused on Frank. It was clear she was smitten and well invested in a liquid lunch.

Mitch: So glad you’re here. My name is Michelle, but you can call me Mitch. You were so amazing last night.

Randy: Then Mitch took us on a tour of the yacht. I thought Evan was going to pass out when he saw the submarine and the helicopter pad up close, he blurted out…

Evan: I feel like someone died and I went to heaven.

Angie: Yeah, I don’t think that’s how the saying goes, Evan.

Randy: When we got settled back on the lounge deck, two crew members and Captain Buster showed up with champagne.

Captain Buster: Here you go, music makers. Enjoy. Just let the crew know when you need a refill.


We stayed for over an hour and a half at least. The band was having a great time, but I thought there was a weird vibe going down. Mitch was taking Frank’s clothes off with her eyes and Captain Buster was inspecting Angie from stern to bow. I had a feeling we were in the presence of libertines.

Frank and I stuck to ourselves mostly. He didn’t appear to be impressed with any of it. At one point, it got awkward when Mitch made a joke about Frank putting her over his knee for a spanking. I can’t remember the context, but the look on Captain Buster’s face was not one of approval.

As we were leaving, Mitch said…

Mitch: My friends and I are going to Herb’s Tavern tonight to party. Can’t wait to see you guys play again!

Evan: Cool Mitch,  looking forward.

Randy: We thanked Mitch and Captain Buster for the drinks and started on our way back to the campsite to rest up before the show.

[sound of the night club and then rock music playing]


The gig that night was even better than the night before. Herb’s Tavern was packed and so was the dance floor. The band was gelling nicely. Evans lead vocals were great, and my anxiety levels were uncommonly low, thanks to some black hash courtesy of the in-house sound tech guy. It was a bona fide stone groove.

Mitch showed up with her crew in tow, and once again, she was checking out Frank. At one point, when we were on stage, she managed to coax him up for a dance.

After the show, we tore down our gear, packed it into the vehicles and went our separate ways. Frank and Angie went back to the campsite. Frank didn’t drink and Angie never liked the after gig lunacy. Dan, Mark and the in-house sound tech guy went to a private house party.

Evan and I just hung out at the bar for a while. Around 230, we walked back to the campsite and I quietly and carefully crawled into the tent so as not to wake up Frank. I woke up a while later to whispers and giggling and then moaning coming from Mark’s tent. He was obviously entertaining a guest. And because the tents were almost touching, my ears were literally just a few feet from their coitus.

Not good.

If I listen in, I’m a creep. If I leave, they’ll hear me and I might ruin their moment. And getting back to sleep wasn’t happening.

[sounds of people having sex]

And it was going on and on and on for so long, I was beginning to feel quite inadequate. I’ve never gone that long before, I thought, is it possible I’m a bad lover? Just another droopy punter with no follow through. So many questions.

I decided to give them their privacy by going into stealth mode for a trip to the campground washrooms. Frank’s snoring was giving me some cover, so I timed my exit moves with each one of his rattling exhales.

When I finally got out of the tent and stood up, I found myself face to face with Mark. He was sitting on the picnic table in just his underwear, drinking orange juice from the carton. What a pig. At least use  cup or a glass.

He had a big sweaty smile on his face, showing his pride of conquest. He confidently nodded and I nodded back as if it was situation normal. When I returned from the washrooms, the scene had drastically changed.

Now it was the in house soundtech guy sitting on the picnic table in his underwear, drinking orange juice from a same carton. This was getting gross.

I pretended I didn’t see him and slipped back inside the tent. Now everything was crystal clear. I was so relieved, my feelings of inadequacy were replaced with feelings of cringe and curiosity. Who was the female in this orange juice three way?

My question was soon answered.

Mitch: Oh yeah. Oh yeah. It’s party time for Mitch! It’s party time for Mitch!


The wife of Captain Buster. Off her a yacht and getting serviced by the boys in the tent.

I did notice when we were on stage that night, Mark was impressed with her impossibly tight jeans, deep plunging neckline, pink pushup bra and knee high fuck me boots.

When I finally fell off to sleep, I remember feeling disappointed in myself, as my curiosity had now morphed into jealousy.



When I awoke, Frank and Evan were cooking breakfast on the fire and Angie was making coffee. Dan was sitting at the picnic table, badly hung over, and Mark was still sleeping it off. Mitch and the in-house sound tech guy were long gone.

Just as I sat down beside Dan on the picnic table, a car came speeding in our direction and skidded to a stop, throwing dust and gravel all over the campsite. It was Captain Buster. He jumped out of the car, ran into our campsite and shoved Frank hard in the chest, knocking him back on his heels.

Captain Buster: I knew I shouldn’t have let you on my boat, you black bastard!. You made a big fucking mistake messing with my woman!


Then he took a punch at Frank, slightly connecting. Then he tried another swing and missed. Frank grabbed one of Buster’s arms and twisted it behind his back. Then he put him in a headlock and sat him down on the picnic table. Captain Buster was completely neutralized at this point. His face turning from red to blue.

Then Frank started…


It’s okay Captain, just try and relax. I’m going to let you go unharmed. But first you’re going to hear me out. I’ll try to put this in terms you can understand. First of all, show a little quality. It wasn’t me mounting your Mitch, and the color of my skin has nothing to do with it. The problem you have isn’t with me or any of these boys. The problem you have is with your own dignity. If your girl wants to go tent fucking with strangers, there’s nothing you can do about it, brother. That ship has sailed.


Then Frank let him go. Buster got up, jumped in his car, gave us the finger and sped off. We were all standing there in shock, and all the nearby campers were looking at us like we were some kind of Canadian vermin. We all went about our business, and tried to pretend it never happened.

Except for Angie.

Angie: Wow, that guy sure turned out to be a racist asshole. What’s all this talk about tent sex anyhow?

Randy: Apparently, Angie was a sound sleeper. Evan updated her…

Evan: Oh, my God, Angie, you slept through all that? Mark and the sound tech dude from the tavern were tag teaming the yacht lady last night. Fucking roadies.

Angie: Well, that figures. Only a pseudo-Christian would be stupid enough to have a threesome in the middle of a church gathering.

Randy: Evan’s eyes widened.

Evan: What do you mean, church gathering?

Angie: Come on, Evan. You cannot be that slow on the uptake. Didn’t you notice all the fishes and the Jesus stickers on the bumpers around here? Not to mention all the kids with Jesus T shirts and the Christian rock coming out of the boom boxes.

Randy: All of us started looking around at the other campers. She was right. We were surrounded by the saved.

Frank: Whatever. They don’t bite. Now, let’s get back to doing what we were doing before we were so rudely interrupted.


Frank, Angie and Evan finished making breakfast. After we ate, Dan and I started cleanup duty. Mark was still passed out in this tent.

About a half an hour later, park security drove up and two friendly officers got out and walked into our campsite. We were being evicted. We were asked to pack up our stuff and leave immediately. Something about being a family campground. We started packing up. Evan pulled Mark’s tent pegs out and threw some dishwater on him.

Evan: Hey, asshole, wake up. Pack up your shit. We’re leaving thanks to you.


We quickly tore down everything, loaded up Mark’s rusty van and Angie’s subaru.

Due to the circumstances, we weren’t really in the festive mood required for a parade. But we had nowhere else to go while we waited for the ferry. We parked the vehicles and joined the July 4 revelers along the side of the street.

We looked so out of place. A disheveled flock of unwashed and unshaved Canucks standing long-faced amongst the bright eyed all-American families enjoying the warm weather parade.

Full marching bands, exquisite floats, three generations of Uncle Sam’s finest in perfectly crisp military uniforms, their medals shining in the sun, smiling Mums and Dads and their children waving American flags, eating cotton candy, ice cream and hot dogs.

I saw the ghost of Norman Rockwell. He was setting up his easel. And in that very moment, my question was answered…

There’s nothing more disingenuous than happy people.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

You can hear open the backroom door, then Randy’s footsteps as he walks to the front of the coffee shop approaching June at the front counter…

Randy: Thank you so much, June. You really are the best.

June: Of course, Darling. You have a fantastic day.

The bell rings on the entrance door as Randy leaves. You can hear street noises of East Vancouver. Cars, buses, people talking, and Randy’s footsteps as he walks away…

Sound fades away to silence.

Ending notice from young women with a strong Australian accent: You’ve been listening to the Randy Darling podcast. To get the backstory on young and old Randy,June, the coffee shop, locations and answers to frequently asked questions, visit


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