The Unscrewing of Steamboat, Covid Update:
The Yampa Valley is doomed. The decades-long downhill slide has finally
come to a sad, grievous end, bottoming out in the form of a Hellish Resort. The
Good Ship Lollypop has crashed and shrewd scavengers have stripped it and
reconstituted it into a series of glass fortresses, now manned on all sides by
overeager Marketers, militant Realtors and plump Developers. The Steamboat Idea, that
Realtor Triad now pimped by BMW at the top of Christie lift, is a long-gone fantasy for most former
Mind, Body, and Spiriters, replaced by the New Ethos, the Saslovian threesome of
Ego, Vanity, Gall. All that remains for the working class is a shallow existence
consisting of all manner of noodles, domestic beer, stress, plastic, paranoia, fumes,
overpopulation, covid, stepped-on drugs, blown radiators, natural gas wells, bills,
belittlement, and the occasional high-end trinket, like dinner at Sunpies.
or a night out in Hayden.
Now that the real estate boom has us strangled in its scaly coils, a once vibrant
valley of ski bums, intellectuals, outdoorsmen (and, most importantly,
outdoorswomen), drifters, artists, and entrepreneurs has become virtually
unlivable, except in the rare case of those old-timers who got in before the wagons
circled. Even then, why would any of us want to live in any place bootlicking for a
group of wealthy part-timers or entitled jackasses that are covid relocates that considers its co-inhabitants to be stoned out,
uncaring, inconsequential robots and zombies? What time or energy is left, post-servitude,
to enjoy life to its fullest? To suck the marrow, dance on the edge as was
commonplace for the average Yamper? What time to play in or with the
hills, the streams, and the sunset, the wildlife (including the wild and scarcely seen
outdoorswoman), our neighbors, pets, arts, hobbies and vices? What is the point of
running around trying to catch our own tails each and every day?
What is killing this valley is no secret. It is the most quantum unsaid horror foisted
upon the West since we stole the land from the natives. Overvaluation. Overhyping.
Overbuilding. Overstuffing. Greed. Arrogance. Pride. Audacity. Excess. Gluttony.
When the movie is made, some witty producer will dream up the title -- "Manifest
Destiny 2: The Build Out." The cat got out of the bag about the allure of the
Yampa Valley some years back, and now the human and material flood is
total. Billionaires are kicking millionaires out of South Routt. Orgies of dump trucks
are occurring at all times of the day, on every road, in every town. Local Realtor
Michelle Avery (egad!) was quoted we think in the paper as saying "The $5 million home in
Steamboat is quickly becoming a thing of the past." This is acceptable, apparently.
Pardon me for asking, but just what is the commission on a $6 million pad? Who's in
charge here?
As an endangered local -- hanging on, contributing, trying to play the game, losing,
and wondering what for -- I can see only three decent albeit desperate options for
the citizens of the Yampa Valley:
Option 1: Leave. Stop yer bitching and take off. Vamoose. Hit the dusty trail, Slim.
Find a new place that doesn't suck. Shake it off. Regroup. Order a plate of
normalcy. Pick up and beat feet for the nearest hacienda that has sun, snow,
mountains, deserts, clean water, breathable air, space, sanity. There are places
like that, with nice, normal folks, a living wage, and a sustainable economy, I am
sure. A place to really lay it out there and kick back, again. This was once such a
place, and surely there must be others, one reasons. And I'm not talking.
Option 2: Riot. Take the battle to the hills, to the riverside retreats, to the alleys
and streets of Steamboat, Milner, Hayden, Craig,Kremtucky, Phippstucky and Oak Creek, and so
on. Scare the bejesus out of the elitists who have, until this Last Resort, this
heinous intervention, thrown a shutout at the once-proud, hearty Yampers.
Comrades will steal the SUVS and sports cars and drive them into a large pile in
Little Toots Park, igniting the whole mess with biodiesel made from the McDonald's
grease pits. Young snowboarders will storm the high-end retail stores and throw the
clowns tending shop out into the streets naked, with only codpieces made from the
leather, fur, jewels, and dirt that they hawk. You know the game: essential,
cleansing revolution. Not entirely tolerable for extended periods of time. Taking on
the Man directly is never clean. Troops will descend, and not even the fine Sheriff
will be able to hold them off. Many fine skiers would be lost to jail, death and
forced marches to Grand Junction National Penitentiary Work Camp.
Option 3: A soft revolution. The thinking man's war. A war of attrition. An
insurgency of wit. A YeeeeeeHaaaaaaad! Get inside and turn 'em. Humiliate the
IKON bastards off, back to Texas, Denver, New York, California, and Chicago, Rome,
Geneva, Riyadh. A Campaign of Rudeness. The Unscrewing of Steamboat. This will
require total sacrifice, concentration, and skill to achieve the goal, which is to
remove the Resort title from the place without the irreversible damage associated
with Outright Violence and Hellfire. To return this valley to the common man. Each
and every landscaper, digger, TV reporter, cab driver, baseball coach, convenience
store clerk, politician and waiter will be required to do his or her part: to piss off
the World Class Trash that you come in contact with so much that they have no
option but to leave and slime up some other place, like Vail or Martha's Vineyard.
We should collectively craft out the absolutely worst reputation possible as snobs,
rebels, druggies, insolent boobs, ungrateful hyenas, dangerous criminals, crass and
arrogant class of worker citizens that has ever disgraced this green earth. Like the
French, only a hundred times worse. To survive, we will need to avoid things that
we take for granted, such as personal hygiene, common sense, decency, dignity,
and the occasional sharp retort. There will be friendly fire, so be prepared to take
one for the team. We will all be living on edge until this is over, which could be
years. Have patience comrades, the Rude Attacks will eat through gold and
diamond. The acid wash will be complete. No one will want to live here, let alone
the CEO class. When the Rude War is over, and we are the victors, a signal will be
given, most likely involving a gigantic Epic flag, woven with fine silks and other
linens claimed as spoils of war, and as a community, we will rally at the T-Bar and take down the Timber and Torch
board by board and build a village of ski chalets and cabins. One of the first
acts as a community will be the mass skinny-dipping at Strawberry Park, where we
will swim. The land will be worth nothing, nobody who's anybody will want to live here. Ullr willing. Sanity will rule.
The $5 million house will soon become a thing of the past.
The Yampa Valley is doomed. The decades-long downhill slide has finally
come to a sad, grievous end, bottoming out in the form of a Hellish Resort. The
Good Ship Lollypop has crashed and shrewd scavengers have stripped it and
reconstituted it into a series of glass fortresses, now manned on all sides by
overeager Marketers, militant Realtors and plump Developers. The Steamboat Idea, that
Realtor Triad now pimped by BMW at the top of Christie lift, is a long-gone fantasy for most former
Mind, Body, and Spiriters, replaced by the New Ethos, the Saslovian threesome of
Ego, Vanity, Gall. All that remains for the working class is a shallow existence
consisting of all manner of noodles, domestic beer, stress, plastic, paranoia, fumes,
overpopulation, covid, stepped-on drugs, blown radiators, natural gas wells, bills,
belittlement, and the occasional high-end trinket, like dinner at Sunpies.
or a night out in Hayden.
Now that the real estate boom has us strangled in its scaly coils, a once vibrant
valley of ski bums, intellectuals, outdoorsmen (and, most importantly,
outdoorswomen), drifters, artists, and entrepreneurs has become virtually
unlivable, except in the rare case of those old-timers who got in before the wagons
circled. Even then, why would any of us want to live in any place bootlicking for a
group of wealthy part-timers or entitled jackasses that are covid relocates that considers its co-inhabitants to be stoned out,
uncaring, inconsequential robots and zombies? What time or energy is left, post-servitude,
to enjoy life to its fullest? To suck the marrow, dance on the edge as was
commonplace for the average Yamper? What time to play in or with the
hills, the streams, and the sunset, the wildlife (including the wild and scarcely seen
outdoorswoman), our neighbors, pets, arts, hobbies and vices? What is the point of
running around trying to catch our own tails each and every day?
What is killing this valley is no secret. It is the most quantum unsaid horror foisted
upon the West since we stole the land from the natives. Overvaluation. Overhyping.
Overbuilding. Overstuffing. Greed. Arrogance. Pride. Audacity. Excess. Gluttony.
When the movie is made, some witty producer will dream up the title -- "Manifest
Destiny 2: The Build Out." The cat got out of the bag about the allure of the
Yampa Valley some years back, and now the human and material flood is
total. Billionaires are kicking millionaires out of South Routt. Orgies of dump trucks
are occurring at all times of the day, on every road, in every town. Local Realtor
Michelle Avery (egad!) was quoted we think in the paper as saying "The $5 million home in
Steamboat is quickly becoming a thing of the past." This is acceptable, apparently.
Pardon me for asking, but just what is the commission on a $6 million pad? Who's in
charge here?
As an endangered local -- hanging on, contributing, trying to play the game, losing,
and wondering what for -- I can see only three decent albeit desperate options for
the citizens of the Yampa Valley:
Option 1: Leave. Stop yer bitching and take off. Vamoose. Hit the dusty trail, Slim.
Find a new place that doesn't suck. Shake it off. Regroup. Order a plate of
normalcy. Pick up and beat feet for the nearest hacienda that has sun, snow,
mountains, deserts, clean water, breathable air, space, sanity. There are places
like that, with nice, normal folks, a living wage, and a sustainable economy, I am
sure. A place to really lay it out there and kick back, again. This was once such a
place, and surely there must be others, one reasons. And I'm not talking.
Option 2: Riot. Take the battle to the hills, to the riverside retreats, to the alleys
and streets of Steamboat, Milner, Hayden, Craig,Kremtucky, Phippstucky and Oak Creek, and so
on. Scare the bejesus out of the elitists who have, until this Last Resort, this
heinous intervention, thrown a shutout at the once-proud, hearty Yampers.
Comrades will steal the SUVS and sports cars and drive them into a large pile in
Little Toots Park, igniting the whole mess with biodiesel made from the McDonald's
grease pits. Young snowboarders will storm the high-end retail stores and throw the
clowns tending shop out into the streets naked, with only codpieces made from the
leather, fur, jewels, and dirt that they hawk. You know the game: essential,
cleansing revolution. Not entirely tolerable for extended periods of time. Taking on
the Man directly is never clean. Troops will descend, and not even the fine Sheriff
will be able to hold them off. Many fine skiers would be lost to jail, death and
forced marches to Grand Junction National Penitentiary Work Camp.
Option 3: A soft revolution. The thinking man's war. A war of attrition. An
insurgency of wit. A YeeeeeeHaaaaaaad! Get inside and turn 'em. Humiliate the
IKON bastards off, back to Texas, Denver, New York, California, and Chicago, Rome,
Geneva, Riyadh. A Campaign of Rudeness. The Unscrewing of Steamboat. This will
require total sacrifice, concentration, and skill to achieve the goal, which is to
remove the Resort title from the place without the irreversible damage associated
with Outright Violence and Hellfire. To return this valley to the common man. Each
and every landscaper, digger, TV reporter, cab driver, baseball coach, convenience
store clerk, politician and waiter will be required to do his or her part: to piss off
the World Class Trash that you come in contact with so much that they have no
option but to leave and slime up some other place, like Vail or Martha's Vineyard.
We should collectively craft out the absolutely worst reputation possible as snobs,
rebels, druggies, insolent boobs, ungrateful hyenas, dangerous criminals, crass and
arrogant class of worker citizens that has ever disgraced this green earth. Like the
French, only a hundred times worse. To survive, we will need to avoid things that
we take for granted, such as personal hygiene, common sense, decency, dignity,
and the occasional sharp retort. There will be friendly fire, so be prepared to take
one for the team. We will all be living on edge until this is over, which could be
years. Have patience comrades, the Rude Attacks will eat through gold and
diamond. The acid wash will be complete. No one will want to live here, let alone
the CEO class. When the Rude War is over, and we are the victors, a signal will be
given, most likely involving a gigantic Epic flag, woven with fine silks and other
linens claimed as spoils of war, and as a community, we will rally at the T-Bar and take down the Timber and Torch
board by board and build a village of ski chalets and cabins. One of the first
acts as a community will be the mass skinny-dipping at Strawberry Park, where we
will swim. The land will be worth nothing, nobody who's anybody will want to live here. Ullr willing. Sanity will rule.
The $5 million house will soon become a thing of the past.
