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Seven reasons you should not say F*ck It and move to a mountain town


Seven reasons you should not say F*ck It and move to a mountain town | Death of the Press Box

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A mountain town specifically?

Any one will do, probably leans toward a resort one.

Because resort ones have interesting jobs and attract interesting visitors?

And more amenities, not to exciting to move to a mountain town with a small population, nothing to do, and no services.

1) You will not find a job: There are no jobs in mountain towns. No jobs. None. There are no jobs. And the jobs that are there are either jobs you can’t do: Ever attempted to groom in a blizzard at 3 a.m. when you’re still half buzzed from the night before — the night before = 20 minutes prior to getting behind the wheel? It’s a skill set that would make Chuck Yeager wet his flight suit; or jobs you don’t want to do: Ever get up at 4 a.m. to make the lowest possible salary the state will allow to pick up the dog shit of dogs who belong to the same person you once used to be? It’s a kind of excremental existentialism.

There’s this sort of pervasive common knowledge from folks who DO NOT live in a mountain town that the steps to moving to a mountain town and making it work are as such:

a) Quitting your job in a flurry of emails and snarky texts. b) Selling your car and giving away most of everything else you accumulated from Etsy/eBay/Amazon/O.co over the last half decade as workimpulsebuys on Craigslist. c) Buying a used Tacoma for $2,500 over KBB. d) Finding a sick chalet, like the one your co-worker had on ski lease three seasons ago when it didn’t really snow but was fun to go party at and play late-night drinking strip Jenga with a 24-year-old marketing girl and go get in the hot tub even though for some reason it never got above, like, 80. And e) Just get a job as a bartender.

This is where the record needle scratches.

“Just get a job as a bartender” in a mountain town is the idea equivalent of moving to New York and “just becoming a VP at Goldman Sachs” or renting a studio in Silver Lake and “just getting your sitcom picked up by Netflix” or crossing over to Hawaii and “just surfing Pipeline.”

Bartending jobs are the Skull and Keys secret societies of mountain communities, often passed down through generations upon generations of bro inbreeding.

Even a shitty barbacking gig can take eight to 10 years to come by and usually only happens if the current barback happens to freeze like Jack in the final frame of The Shining trying to dig out his ‘93 Supra to get to work and you, luckily, are just then walking by with your mini Aussie who was supposed to be herding urban ewes en route to your actual job which is working the gas station Subway counter for families whose kids “couldn’t wait to get to the cabin to eat because the mountains make them hungry” off the 80.

In other words, you will not find a job.

I don't know about the bartender job being such a rare commodity, at least not in my mountain town.

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