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Spring fever hits princess hard

Alison Berkley

I have spring fever – like, literally.It hit me sometime on Sunday afternoon at Highlands when the afternoon sun sank just low enough to smack me right between the eyes. I pressed a cold beer against my face to cool off and could hear my skin sizzle, like when you put a hot frying pan in the sink. I think my temperature must have been 600 degrees. I mean, how much fun and sun can one person take in the course of a weekend?The party kicked off on Saturday afternoon poolside at 39 Degrees which could have easily been mistaken for the Playboy mansion, except the chicks weren’t quite that hot. Still, that didn’t stop them from parading around in bathing suits or whatever items of underclothing they used in lieu of one. Let’s just say I was overdressed in snowboard pants and a T-shirt (I did get as far as stripping down to my jog bra, but trust me when I tell you my outfit was tasteful by comparison).The place was crawling with half-naked drunk people, who oozed all over those outdoor couches like foam on an over poured draft beer. There were string bikinis and cotton panties, black nylon Speedos and tightie whities, boxers and board shorts. The only indication that it wasn’t the middle of August was the pink, loose winter flesh that hung from the throngs of too-tight bathing suit bottoms and pudgy middles that obviously had not seen the light of day since, well, last August.Apparently, there was some sort of swinger’s convention going on at The Sky Hotel (they sure do seem to host some unusual events over there). From what I could gather from the scene, swingers are middle-aged horny people from god-knows-where who like to swap partners and whatnot. Oh, please. I’m not that naive. Helllooo, I lived in Southern California for seven years, remember? It’s just that all my swinger friends were good looking, tan and fit. I’m not sure if they’re still up to the same old tricks or not (so to speak), but come on. Besides, we were in our twenties back then, definitely not married, and going through one of those “experimental phases” which gives you license to do whatever you want without feeling guilty about it.Looking at this crew, however, it was difficult to force disgusting thoughts from my mind. Like the older lady in a string bikini small enough for a 10-year-old with black ankle-length stiletto boots is probably someone’s mom. The pool was literally overflowing with similar types as they splashed about like potatoes in a pot of boiling water.My friend Denise’s dad, who was in town from Savannah, seemed able to tolerate the “heat” in ski pants, turtleneck sweater, and old school suspenders. He rocked back on his heels with a beer in his hand and a goofy look on his face. He seemed pretty down with the whole scene until some girl in a full-on G-string walked by and he got his first glimpse of a full moon in the middle of broad daylight. His eyes popped right out of his head like they were attached by little springs, bouncing around in front of his face. His jaw dropped so far you could have stepped on his lower lip.That was a nice little warm up for closing day at Highlands on Sunday, which was just as out-of-hand, just with more locals and more clothing – as in full-on costumes. These are people who must be going through Halloween withdrawal syndrome and will jump at the opportunity to throw on a superman suit like they are still 10 years old, going to every door in the neighborhood for candy. I thought I was being all cool and rad by wearing my red and white hibiscus print pants. It didn’t even occur to me to dress up as gorilla, or even a guerrilla (like the guy in head-to-toe camouflage and gas mask with a long hose that hung down like an elephant’s trunk). I didn’t think, “Oh, I really should bust out my purple sparkled wig today,” or “Maybe I should pull my alligator suit out of storage.” People went all out with last day regalia and partied their asses off on the deck at Iguana’s as if it were the end of the world, not the end of the season. I have to admit, I got into the spirit of things when the cute little scraggly ski patrol dudes set off those bombs and skied down to the base of the mountain for the last time this year and everyone went nuts, cheering and whistling like it was Bono or Sting, not Bruno or Monkey Boy or Pork Chop. It totally gave me goose bumps.At least après-ski is sort of a reasonable excuse for tabletop dancing and freaky outfits and drinking at three in the afternoon. But what are you supposed to do now that it’s just another day of the week and you’ve still got spring fever? I’m talking about that feeling you get when the sun in your face makes you want to go run around and copulate or maybe smoke a joint in a lounge chair or do something really crazy like have a beer on the deck at Cooper Street. You’re excited because you know it won’t be long until the hills turn green and the flowers start to bloom and you can feel life pulsing under your feet just waiting to explode up from underground like mozzarella cheese on a fresh piece of pizza (Duh, I know it’s probably going to snow again, but I don’t want to kill this buzz I’ve got going – so shut it.)I might be feeling a little hot, but I still hope my temperature never goes down.The Princess was wondering if the owner of Krabloonik wouldn’t mind shooting her crazy dog. Oops, I meant to say shooing. Send e-mail to alison@berkleymedia.com


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