My dog, Maestra, is flying from Nicaragua to Wyoming in nine days. A friend I'll be forever indebted to is bringing her back when he returns. Thanks, Mr. Gimme.
Maestra would have flown back with me in December but en route to the airport we got hung up by an appointment with the Nicaraguan legal system: a public apology following an attempted rape. No, I wasn't the defendant. In fact, I was present to play the role of shit-kicker Gringo in hopes of deterring the would-be-rapist from trying again. I wore a camo shirt and tried to come off harder than I am.
The public apology arose when the victim chose to be merciful because her attacker, the head of a poor young rural family, was looking at seven to ten. She couldn't bear the thought of those kiddies growing up with their dad in the clink so she worked aggressively to have the charges dropped. Hats off to ladies for that sort of thing.
As is to be expected in Latin America, sitting in the hot little courtroom became an all day ordeal, and we couldn't make it to the appropriate puppy exportation office before it's ridiculous 3:30 pm closing time. As such, Maestra couldn't fly.
Ironically, thoughout the all day courtroom ordeal, the would-be-rapist never actually apologized. Stacks of paper were wasted, the dozen people involved slipped one day closer to death, and blah blah blah but dickface never actually had to look his victim in the eye and utter: LO SIENTO.
C'est la vie encima de la systema. Which is why I spend as much of my life outside of it as possible. Right?
I've decided to stay in Jackson for at least a summer of monkeying around in the mountains with my dog. We got to climb a few little peaks in Mexico and Nicaragua, and I know she'll dig the Tetons. First order of business is stoking her out on skiing.
I think she'll be one hell of a ski buddy, even though she isn't allowed in the National Parks. Hopefully we can nab Gannett Peak together before this ridiculously early spring devours the rest of the snowpack. It's already almost bare on the valley floor.
Last time I set my sights on Gannett Peak, I ventured out alone into the Wind River Range and had a damn good time. With my dog, a bit more planning, and a leisurely mentality it'll be ridiculously fun.
See what I mean? Throw some skis, fishing tackle, a smiling dog, and maybe a ladyfriend into the mix and it'd be sensory overload... the kind of experience you don't really return from so much as continue onward despues.
What else is there but trying to tap into that?
No, you're not better off pumping out some kids.
We've got plenty of humans already.
Learn to truly enjoy being one before thrusting another one into existence.
Looking at the above picture from four years back, I'm reminded my current philosophy on employment is a long time in the making. What philosophy? Well, we as a species and as a planet would be better off if 9 of 10 current jobs didn't exist, 9 of 10 products were never produced, 9 of 10 bullshit proclamations were never made, and 9 of 10 people worldwide didn't have to bust their asses to stay alive.
It certainly doesn't help that the richest 1% of folks control 40+% of global wealth. Really, all those seemingly-godlike bastards (and most of the rest of us) are mere cells in corporate organs within the uncontrollable Goliath of worldwide consumeristic capitalism.
Feel free to wake up at any time.
I'm not too hung up on that though. Those sorts of stats are skewed. That thinking is skewed. Because it's all based on a fucked up definition of wealth. Take it from me, one of the richest guys in one of the "wealthiest" towns in the world. You know what I mean: Quality of Life.
I've rubbed elbows with the rich, powerful, and famous. French Pop Stars. Professional Athletes. Wealthy Cougars. Über-Trustafarians. Dickface Cheney. Self-Made Billionaires. Old Money Mavens. And a whole slew of folks struggling to one up their neighbors in a seemingly productive but actually mindless and destructive game.
My conclusion: Mo' money, Mo' problems. I don't even want to be a part of it. The whole legacy literally sickens me. Any time I find myself miserable, I realize it's because I'm focusing on getting rich when my purpose is obviously to get wise.
If I keep spouting like this, I can kiss any inheritance goodbye. My loving parents would write me out with my own best interests in mind. They'd never write me off out of spite. I think they realize I'm trying to live out the more modernly pertinent aspects of a progressive upbringing rooted in Small Town Minnesota Catholic Schools.
That said, all the crusty fucks who drop more coin on a shitty day than the typical ski bum needs to execute a perfect month... well... they could use a wizening up. Tranquilize em' and plop em' in a mountainous high desert nowhere with just enough food and a canteen of psychedelic Kool-Aid. Hopefully after getting up close and personal with Mother Nature they'd come bouncing back like so...
And before we knew it, the modern equivalent to this would go down..
Let's get back on track...
Life really needn't be hard, especially with all the technology we've developed throughout the industrial and information revolutions. Instead of focusing on creating more jobs, we should focus on eliminating the need for jobs. Put the computer and robot to work. Why not sleep in, have some sex, play with your dog, go out for brunch with a crew of friends at the neighborhood robo-cafeteria, and settle into a leisurely afternoon of doing whatever the fuck you want? I can't think of a good reason not to!
Or you can wake to an alarm and spend the bulk of your short life dealing with and fretting about the unnecessary hassle called WORK. Personally, I'd rather be dead...
Maybe this philosophy itself is a bullshit proclamation, but I know if we want to make it into the 22nd century smiling, humanity needs to replace WORK/SPEND/WASTE with a new set of hobbies.
All that said, and well aware that in order to be worth a damn you must...
...now is the best time of year to find a decent job in Jackson Hole.
Noone's living off of Rainbow Stew yet. Plus, I'll soon have a dog to take care of. Good thing Maestra's a three year old DOG and not a three year old HUMAN.
I've got all the right connections, plenty of experience, and can bullshit my way into and (inevitably) out of just about any gig. I mean, seriously, check out my resumé summarizing high school through the present:
*Photographer, Winona Agency
*Camp Counselor, Camp Olson YMCA
*Resident Assistant, St. John's University
*Life Guard, St. John's University
*Activities Director, Camp Olson YMCA
*Nurse's Assistant, St. John's Abbey Retirement Center
*Disabled Adult Life Coach, Community Entry Services
*Cocktail Waiter and Host, Sweetwater Restaurant
*Cross Country Ski Coach, Jackson Hole Ski Club
*Mountain Bike Guide, Teton Mountain Bike Tours
*Troubled Youth Supervisor, C-V Ranch (not your typical ranch)
*Banquet Captain, Wort Hotel
*Waiter, Cadillac Grill
*Overnight Security, Teton Pines Gated Community
*Bartender, Wort Hotel/Silver Dollar Bar and Grill
*Lumberjack, Good Wood
*Night Auditor, Jackson Hole Resort Lodging
*Kiteboard Instructor, Big Winds Kite School
*Director of Fun, El Cardon Tequila Bar and Grill/Bahia De Los Suenos Development
*Gringo Loco, La Paz, Mexico
*Rey REY's Personal Assistant, Chacahua, Mexico
*Boat Bum/Pleasure Captain/Surf Guide/Kiteboard Instructor, Throughout Central America
*Surf Guide, Dale Dagger Surf Tours
*Freelance Writer, Good Luck
*Local Representative, www.skiingthebackcountry.com
*Doorman/Substitute Bartender, Wort Hotel/Silver Dollar Bar and Grill
That, my friends, is a twelve year string of predominantly short and inconsequential employment opportunities harnessed and subsequently cast off... evidence of a life on the run either to or from an ever changing something.
I've got no bills and can camp out for the summer if Chateau Le Shed falls through, so I'm not exceptionally concerned about getting a gig. Maestra hates being inside and our dear friend Jesus was homeless, right? FYI, a damn solid dude despite delusions of grandeur and all that's been done in his name since. But I digress... and have no desire to rock the WWJD too hard.
A few new opportunities post in the JH News and Guide every day. I've got my resume in order, have filled out a few apps, and had my first interview... this morning, in fact.
On the outskirts of town they converted a character-laden dive bar into a lobby, threw a few hundred prefab cabins onto a sea of asphalt, and started charging $400 a night for a "rustic" experience. I interviewed to be a bellman there.
I can conjure many closer approximations to HELL but would rather not. Portering bags, running errands, kissing asses, feigning acceptance, and smiling miserably is close enough. That said, the dog and I are gonna need some money, so I'm hoping to get the job... depending on tips, $80 to $300 a shift.
I know I can do a good job at it.
After leaving my interview I headed to the Wort to pick up my paycheck. $145.93, the spoils of two shifts manning the door. I immediately biked to my bank to cash that shit.
I used to be a customer of the locally-owned Jackson State Bank but they sold out to Wells Fargo about a year ago. I discovered this the hard way, when my debit and credit cards stopped working in Nicaragua. This forced me to live without them for the next eight months... an educational experience... a blessing in disguise.
When Wells Fargo took over they threw a few wrenches but respected certain minor aspects of the small town character of my bank. I now need two forms of ID to cash a check, a change, but dogs are still welcome in the bank, and the tellers even feed them biscuits.
It seems every dog in town knows there are treats to be got at Wells Fargo. Standing in line today, I watched three different dogs stroll through the door, tails wagging, their owners in tow. One dog was rather polite and sat nicely awaiting a biscuit but the other two rudely put their paws on the counter and demanded service.
As I waited, I found myself worrying that Maestra would learn of these bank biscuits and would develop a similarly rude dependency on them. The thought didn't last long, however: my turn arose.
I only had my Passport and no requisite second form of ID. After convincing them of my identity through a lengthy question and answer session, I collected $140 cash and deposited the remaining $5.93 in my checking account. I grabbed a ??? flavored DUM-DUM pop from the cup on the counter, another quaint remnant from the days of Jackson State Bank.
I spent a bit of it on a half price lunch at the Wort, $1.06 on a sweet pair of sunglasses at the Browse and Buy Thrift Store, and $115 on a half price Petzl Ice Tool at Skinny Thieves.
Down the street at Teton Profiteering the same tool would have cost me $230. I needed a new one because my old ax is untrustworthy after two years of double duty as a gaff hook. Many a fish met their maker at the end of my old ax and it's not only corroded but cursed.
Nevertheless, despite the screaming deal and the blah blah blah, I can't help but feel like a DUMDUM for a variety of strange reasons I could hardly convey above.
The feeling will pass as soon as I put the tool to use. I've got a date with the Grand again tomorrow.
Max
I can conjure many closer approximations to HELL but would rather not. Portering bags, running errands, kissing asses, feigning acceptance, and smiling miserably is close enough. That said, the dog and I are gonna need some money, so I'm hoping to get the job... depending on tips, $80 to $300 a shift.
I know I can do a good job at it.
After leaving my interview I headed to the Wort to pick up my paycheck. $145.93, the spoils of two shifts manning the door. I immediately biked to my bank to cash that shit.
I used to be a customer of the locally-owned Jackson State Bank but they sold out to Wells Fargo about a year ago. I discovered this the hard way, when my debit and credit cards stopped working in Nicaragua. This forced me to live without them for the next eight months... an educational experience... a blessing in disguise.
When Wells Fargo took over they threw a few wrenches but respected certain minor aspects of the small town character of my bank. I now need two forms of ID to cash a check, a change, but dogs are still welcome in the bank, and the tellers even feed them biscuits.
It seems every dog in town knows there are treats to be got at Wells Fargo. Standing in line today, I watched three different dogs stroll through the door, tails wagging, their owners in tow. One dog was rather polite and sat nicely awaiting a biscuit but the other two rudely put their paws on the counter and demanded service.
As I waited, I found myself worrying that Maestra would learn of these bank biscuits and would develop a similarly rude dependency on them. The thought didn't last long, however: my turn arose.
I only had my Passport and no requisite second form of ID. After convincing them of my identity through a lengthy question and answer session, I collected $140 cash and deposited the remaining $5.93 in my checking account. I grabbed a ??? flavored DUM-DUM pop from the cup on the counter, another quaint remnant from the days of Jackson State Bank.
I spent a bit of it on a half price lunch at the Wort, $1.06 on a sweet pair of sunglasses at the Browse and Buy Thrift Store, and $115 on a half price Petzl Ice Tool at Skinny Thieves.
Down the street at Teton Profiteering the same tool would have cost me $230. I needed a new one because my old ax is untrustworthy after two years of double duty as a gaff hook. Many a fish met their maker at the end of my old ax and it's not only corroded but cursed.
Nevertheless, despite the screaming deal and the blah blah blah, I can't help but feel like a DUMDUM for a variety of strange reasons I could hardly convey above.
The feeling will pass as soon as I put the tool to use. I've got a date with the Grand again tomorrow.
Max