Alison Berkley: A little grouchy over the tourists
I caught my dog eating puke off the sidewalk the other day and it got me thinking about tourist season in Aspen.
We were on a late morning walk since I have been forced to completely restructure my schedule in order to avoid the horrendous people who have taken over my town (I mean, come on. I have been here for almost a whole year already!).
I was right outside of Wells Fargo when this little sidewalk art exhibit caught my attention. Pink and frozen on a canvas of dirty snow (sushi, perhaps?), the spectacle reeked ? literally ? of some yahoo flat-lander who probably tried to get his Aspen groove on the night before and didn’t know his limit at altitude. Typical.
To think I had such high expectations for the glamour of Christmas in Aspen.
I imagined rubbing elbows with ultrafancy rich people and celebrities and producers from Hollywood who would chance upon my column and offer me a generous piece of their fame and fortune.
That way, I could shop at Gucci for real, quit my day job, visit the spa whenever I want, and buy a house that’s not constantly overflowing with testosterone. (Despite the mess that can make, I should note the 3BR house the five of us are sharing is currently on the market for $2.3 million. I guess I’m already living in an expensive house, so there.)
Instead of crashing their big private parties or hoping to chance upon famous people in the gondola, I chose to hide from what turned out to be a whole lot of bad taste. Such as:
One-piece ski suits and/or ski outfits with inappropriate materials. This woman got on the bus yesterday with a red plastic ski jacket. Granted, it suited her well-manicured figure and all that, but I’d like to know how she gets it off at the end of the day when all the sweat trapped in there must glue that thing to her skin like honey to a bee.
I’ve got nothing against plastic clothing for clubbing and/or some of those erotica parties we used to have down in So Cal (or maybe for a raincoat?), but the squeaking noise it made when she sat down made me wonder what the lifties must have thought. I guess you really are what you wear, which makes perfect sense when you think about it.
One-piece suits are not warmer, they’re just plain ugly, especially when the jacket is puffier than the pants and makes the person wearing it look like a marshmallow on a stick.
I imagine those ladies who wear union suits with fancy trimmings like embroidery and tassels and sparkling doo-dads must travel between Aspen and Dallas and Malibu so often that they get the rodeo and the Oscars and skiing all mixed up. And please don’t tuck your pants into your ski boots. I never understood how people could stand that. Isn’t it uncomfortable?
Wearing more than one animal skin at a time. Don’t get me wrong, I am not one of these animal-activist people. I mean, the hamburger is already in the package and the coat is on the hanger whether you decide to buy it or not.
I also don’t have anything against fur coats. I own one, of course! I was on my way to meet some friends at Mezzaluna last winter and saw a big SALE sign in the window at Boogie’s.
I found a three-quarter length Andrew Marc rabbit fur in black. The lady said it was the last one and I was lucky to fit in an extra small. All that and it was 60% off which made it look cheap so of course I had to get it.
What I do have a problem with are these people who wear fur coats and fur boots with leather pants, crocodile bags, and suede cowboys hats as if their intention was to walk around town donning a dead zoo.
Obviously these people must be from Florida or L.A. or Texas or somewhere that’s warm so they must feel the need to wear their entire wardrobe all at once.
Men in fur.
Need I say more?
Tourists who drove here. There is nothing more terrifying at a crosswalk than an oncoming Range Rover with out-of-state plates.
Usually you have just enough time to notice the guy inside is on his cell phone, smoking a cigarette, and probably wearing a fur coat.
Just as you set your big toe off the sidewalk and onto the street, Range Rover slams on his breaks since he truly believes this is the quickest way to stop his vehicle on an icy, snowy road. You hold your breath and suck in your stomach so that you are just barely brushed by the passenger-side rearview mirror while your life flashes before your eyes and you have a split second to think about how sad it would be to die this way.
You take a step back while Mr. Rover throws it into reverse to let you go by, nearly causing a six-car pileup in one of the smallest roads in the United States. Go figure.
Drunk people on the bus.
This is so not OK unless it’s me and my friends.
Little dogs in coats.
If I did decide to fight for animal rights, it would be to make sure no one tortures poor little innocent canines by dressing them in tacky wool sweaters and fleece jackets ? as if being a little dog wasn’t bad enough in the first place.
Hello, they already have fur coats. They don’t need extra stuff to keep them warm. I mean, what if the tables were turned and they made their humans get all dressed up in fur. Now that explains a lot.
[The smallest dog in the Princess’s house is 90 pounds and they all get to be naked all the time. Send e-mail to the Princess and her dog Sebastian at firstname.lastname@example.org]
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From behind the scenes, the sights and sounds of horse and cattle, and the raucous lifestyle of rodeo culture hasn’t changed all that much since the Snowmass Rodeo arena opened here in the summer of 1973.