Rule No. 46 of being a townie: Never fall for someone who’s paid to be nice to you.<\/p>\n
That being said, I have a crush on the bartender at Silver City. The girl with the peace pipe necklace.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
“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?”<\/p>\n
The current iteration of Bootsy Bellows was along my route home, so I offered to be their party sherpa.<\/p>\n
And then, well, why not stop inside?<\/p>\n
“I can’t let you in with snow gear,” the bouncer said to me.<\/p>\n
“But I just came from the beach,” I pleaded. He shook his head.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
I took the rejection personally.<\/p>\n
Along the alleys toward home I ran, waddling in my anorak like Danny Devito fleeing a strange man dressed like a winged nocturnal creature.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
But then came a yell: “There’s the guy!” Who the \u2026<\/p>\n
Across the room my new South American friends from outside rushed to embrace me.<\/p>\n
“You motherf\u2014-er, did you sneak in?”<\/p>\n
“I only had to change pants,” I replied, trying to discretely pull up my zipper.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
That’s when I discovered the keys in my pocket, along with a roll of unopened bar-floor prophylactics.<\/p>\n