On the Town: Mining for affection in all the wrong places
The Aspen Times
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.
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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?”
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.
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The coronavirus threat delayed the opening of developed campgrounds in the Roaring Fork, Fryingpan and Crystal valleys. The Forest Service will phase them back in by June 12.