Rule No. 46 of being a townie: Never fall for someone who’s paid to be nice to you.
That being said, I have a crush on the bartender at Silver City. The girl with the peace pipe necklace.
Yes, I know her name, but saying it would be embarrassing because every other barfly in Aspen likes her, too, and I wouldn’t wanna out myself. Good thing I write under a pseudonym.
I realized our connection when we both hoisted condoms found on the ground, like the children summoning Captain Planet, and started singing in Hallelujah Chorus voices.
Later that night, while treading the basement bar’s stairs for the umpteenth time in the wee hours of the morning, four guys with South American accents approached me as I strode onto Galena Street.
“Still in the boots!” they laughed, gesturing toward my poor tootsies that haven’t been freed since before embarking on a Snowmass snowboarding sojourn 15 hours ago. “This guy knows Aspen! Where do we party next?”
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The current iteration of Bootsy Bellows was along my route home, so I offered to be their party sherpa.
And then, well, why not stop inside?
“I can’t let you in with snow gear,” the bouncer said to me.
“But I just came from the beach,” I pleaded. He shook his head.
My new friends thanked me for escorting them, said goodbye and then descended into the realm I can only imagine is filled with beautiful people, delectable nourishments and $17 cocktails.
I took the rejection personally.
Along the alleys toward home I ran, waddling in my anorak like Danny Devito fleeing a strange man dressed like a winged nocturnal creature.
The only jeans I could immediately find at 1 a.m. were the ones with the zipper that randomly undoes itself. My apartment keys also were missing, so I had to leave my door cracked and hope the neighbors were trustworthy enough not to randomly burst through like Cosmo Kramer. Back through the alleys I darted.
Once I got inside the venue, I immediately headed for the dance floor. Sufficiently lubricated at this juncture, I started performing the sage grouse dance: bobbing my arms up and down while shaking my pelvis vehemently in rhythm with the terrible mid-’00s pop hits that rich baby boomers think are still en vogue.
Eventually my performance attracted a woman in a black crop top, who lamented the lack of plumage exhibited by my fellow grouses (or maybe “grouse” is still the correct plural). I continued to oscillate my derriere, and offered a brief condolence. She laughed and placed her arm on my shoulder.
But then came a yell: “There’s the guy!” Who the …
Across the room my new South American friends from outside rushed to embrace me.
“You motherf—-er, did you sneak in?”
“I only had to change pants,” I replied, trying to discretely pull up my zipper.
One of them started grinding on me. The crop-topper left. The lights came on. I walked back to my condo and found my door slightly ajar, just as I had left it.
That’s when I discovered the keys in my pocket, along with a roll of unopened bar-floor prophylactics.