Slipping back into debauchery |

Slipping back into debauchery

Alison Berkley

I’ve only been back for a week and already my rock-star lifestyle is in full effect.For starters, I won this award that is such a big deal that the people who awarded it to me didn’t even tell me about it.I was at the Kanye West concert on Saturday night when my friend Jim goes, “Hey, congratulations on winning the Best of Aspen award!” He held up the smashed plastic milk carton he had used to smuggle in some booze and gestured with it in my direction. “Want some whiskey?””No, no thanks. Wait, what did I win?” I asked again, not really sure I heard him right. Did he say “Best Has-been?”The following afternoon, I was at the Hickory House nursing the worst hangover I’ve had since Jamie’s bachelorette party. While waiting for my grease to arrive, I picked up a copy of the Aspen Times Weekly to see my photo splashed across the Table of Contents page next to Goldie Hawn. Nice. (I am really hoping our paths cross someday, so it’s a good start. I can just picture her hugging me like I’m her own daughter going, “I know you! You’re the gal in that photo!”)I turn to the page I’m on and read this sort of insult-wrapped-in-a-compliment writeup. It went on and on about how no one really understood how to vote for my category, but the four people who weren’t too stoned to figure it out voted for me. They basically said that since I love attention they might as well give it to me, whether I deserve it or not. Some award! I just hope they’ll remember to invite me to the Christmas party this year. At least the picture of me was good.So the big “I’ve turned over a new leaf” speech I made to all my friends is totally out the window. I ran around bragging to everyone how I’d really gotten it together in Steamboat, how I turned over a new leaf, I’m a new woman, blah-dee-blah-flipping-blah. I’m gonna keep it on the straight and narrow, I told them. I’m not gonna spend too much money, keep my life drama-free and just work, work, work. (By the way, I was totally kidding last week when I wrote about telling my Dad I was gay so he’d stop bugging me about getting married. Even the mail lady was asking me if it was true. It’s not. I’m actually just bisexual, but only because guys think it’s hot).The next thing I know I’m in a cab at 3 a.m. because I missed the last bus to the ABC and I’m wearing someone else’s underwear and my Frye boots because I spilled beer all over my skirt. (They were oversized boxers, but still. It was cold outside). When I told my friend Sarah, who has known me for like 20 years, that I was parading around downtown Aspen in men’s panties, she said, “You really shouldn’t smoke pot. You’ve never been able to handle it.”You would think by this point in my life I might have grown out of the whole get-wasted-at-a-concert thing, but nooooo. It was so not my fault! I headed over to the beer tent only to find out my choices were Miller or Miller. “No Heineken?” I asked in dismay. “Where’s the Heineken?” (Cue beads of sweat running down forehead, panic-stricken look on face.)After being convinced that these watery, crappy beers didn’t have enough alcohol in them to give me that cool concert buzz I was after, I slammed like ten just to be sure. You should have seen me and the security guy doing shotguns – after not being able to do them, like ever, I finally found someone who succeeded in teaching me how to open my throat. That’s all I’m going to say about that.Then some random guy comes up to us and says, “I need some people to smoke pot with me, man.” The stuff is so sticky that it doesn’t draw very well, so I make that other mistake I learned about back in high school and suck so hard I end up taking a much bigger hit than I’d intended. Oops.Kayne comes on but I really can’t even focus on the music because I’m so taken with the crowd. Was I just high, or did everyone look as freaked out as parents on prom night? I’m a total hip-hop girl, but the rapper in the white suit and gold chains somehow didn’t seem to fit the whole straw cowboy hat and skinny jeans crowd.The other trap I fell into, which I really tried to avoid, was not eating dinner. The time of the concerts is always such that if you haven’t figured out a way to sneak into the VIP tent for some tuna Tartar and Caesar salad, you’re screwed. The next thing I know, I’ve missed my bus stop at the ABC and am back in town with my guy friends. When I ask them where they want to go to grab a bite to eat they all look at me and say, “Bentley’s” in unison. True that it’s the only place we can afford, but I also knew this meant our so-called dinner would be served to us in pint glasses.The next day, the thought of eating the organic soybeans that sat alone in my empty fridge made me nauseated, so I rolled into the Hick House for some good old-fashioned grease. That’s when I saw my little shout-out in the Weekly, which brings me back to the beginning of my story. (I’m all about cycles, man. Never been a linear type of gal).My friends were mad at me because I didn’t show up at the concert on Monday, but I told them to relax – I was at home, turning over a new leaf.The Princess is getting sort of sick of herself. Send your reassuring email to

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