Lo-Fidelity: From ‘Mr. Aspen’ to ‘Mr. Has-been’ overnight

For me, Dec. 5 was an exercise in humility. As the reigning 2025 “Mr. Aspen,” the time came to stand down and pass the bejeweled crown. The peaceful transfer of power was to take place that evening at the Best Of Aspen party at Campo di Fiori. Who was the new “Mr. Aspen?” How would I react? Overnight, I’d just morphed from “Mr. Aspen” to “Mr. Has-been.”

A simple click of the mouse revealed that the people’s choice award for this year’s “Mr. Aspen” was none other than the beloved Brit Miller. Brit’s “Mr. Aspen” bio showed a smiling, mustached, athletic, long blonde-haired man dressed in black wearing a cowboy hat, sitting on a raft, in Glenwood. Hmmm. We’d never met, but I felt like I’d seen him running up Smuggler shirtless before. My bio shows me wearing a Def Leppard tour jacket, posing underneath a Herbert Bayer sculpture over in the West End. 

For a brief moment, I understood how disgraced politicians, sports stars, CEO’s, and celebrities do and say anything to cling onto whatever remaining vestiges of power they hold, as they sink into the embarrassing quicksand of their very own public death-spiral. Maybe this explains my nasty little drinking problem and unaccountable taste for low company?

I prepared for The Aspen Times’ Best Of Aspen party like I usually do for these soirées: by ironing my lucky Aspen-casual “Untuckit” shirt and picking a tie. Within moments of arrival, I came face-to-face with the new “Mr. Aspen.” I congratulated him as we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. He was happy, jovial, and seemed honored to be this year’s ad-hoc king. When I asked Britt about skiing, he immediately paddled the conversation towards rafting. 

I offered to give him my phone number to call me as the year progressed if he ever felt compelled to share any amusing observations about being “Mr. Aspen.” 

“Here,” Britt said and handed me his phone. I was uncharacteristically taken aback as I couldn’t recall a stranger handing me their phone to enter my personal information, but whatever. I’d had a couple beers, and frankly, Brit’s lucky I didn’t take his phone into the bathroom and snap a “bio” picture for the contact. I entered my phone number and name: “Mr. Aspen.” Do I sound bitter? Damn right I am!

The party was a gas, yet I left alone and dejected. Once home, I put on some loud music, rooted through the pantry, found an old bottle of cheap Champagne covered with dust, popped the cork, and drank the whole thing straight from the bottle. The sheets seemed cold and lonely as a remorseless wind howled me to sleep. 

The fall from grace was immediate. Saturday morning, I awoke feeling washed up like a beached whale — and smelling like one, too. My email inbox was empty. No one would take my phone calls, let alone return my texts. I bet Brit wasn’t having my same “Mr. Has-been” problems! I felt like a sore loser and a real jerk for being so petty and judgmental.

The mantle of “Mr. Aspen” comes not without scrutiny. I know because I was both praised and ridiculed for the moniker — sometimes simultaneously. Luckily, I somehow avoided my face ending up on a sticker that said “F&%$ You, Mr. Aspen” plastered all over town.

Aspen has a cruel underbelly and a penchant for rewriting history to people’s individual liking. The public personal teardown process here can be senselessly brutal. We have a tendency to castigate the villain du jour based on what we read in our two cherished newspapers. All it takes is one pointed headline — truth be damned — and we’re off to the races. 

Was my being elected “Mr. Aspen” a rigged conspiracy all along? I started to question the entire “Mr. Aspen” voting procedure. How could I possibly have beaten all the well-dressed local realtors to the top of the “Mr. Aspen” heap with their European SUVs, 200-dollar haircuts, manicures, and finely brushed teeth? Couldn’t have possibly been that brown paper bag stuffed with unmarked hundred-dollar bills …

In a moment of vulnerability and confusion, I called my alter ego — a former “Mr. Aspen,” Roger Marolt, to see if he could offer any guidance and advice for me during this difficult time. We spoke confidentially for a good 20 minutes. Other than the fact I couldn’t help but get the feeling I was talking to a character from the TV show “Hee-Haw,” his words were oddly calming. 

Roger’s measured, elder, sage-like perspective was the emotional balm I needed to hear. Per his solicited advice, I’m mounting a ruthless, scorched-earth “Mr. Aspen” re-election campaign. My platform for next year laser-focuses on affordability, deep powder via cloud seeding, cheaper beer, classic rock in place of pulsating club music, less traffic, a ban on group texts, and a more favorable male/female dating ratio.

Regardless, I’d like to take this opportunity to congratulate Brit for the award and wish him the best of luck on his ambassadorial endeavors this year. My only advice? Start doing neck-strengthening exercises because the weight of the “Mr. Aspen” crown can be deceivingly heavier than you might imagine. 

Contact Lorenzo via email at suityourself@sopris.net.