The Mountains Are Alive With the Sound of Music

Vail is a very musical place in the summer. The concerts range from classy philharmonic orchestras, where the summer-home owners dress in “Colorado formal” (good walking shoes and khakis) and enjoy their picnic baskets of wine and cheese to the free modern music concerts that serve as a venue for the entire town of Vail to get drunk in the same place. I have experienced both ends of the spectrum and each has its good qualities. However, my favorite music experiences in Vail have nothing to do with the typical performances going on in the Valley.

Ethan, one of the other interns, and I were scheduled to get some interviews from attendants at the free concert that’s held every Tuesday at the For Amphitheater. We grabbed a tripod and camera and headed out to our shoot, but were stopped at the door leading out of the studio by Jack Sparrow dressed as an 80s rocker. The lanky man had big black hair tied back with a bandana, skinny jeans with a leopard scarf and handcuffs on the belt loop, a tight white muscle t-shirt, and enough eyeliner to put Good Charlotte to shame. He was beautiful. He met us at the door, saying in a thick British accent, “Are you here to take my picture? Is this the interview? You have to meet my band. Come now, you’re going to take our picture.” Before Ethan and I could protest, this rock god had his arms around our shoulders and led us to where four more of him were standing in front of a van. I quickly set up the camera and handed them the mic and let the magic happen. Looking back, I should have asked better questions instead of just letting them babble into the mic for 8 minutes, but the result was still glorious. The band’s name is Gypsy Pistoleros (and if you check out their myspace, you will find their great cover of Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca”). Vail was simply a pit stop on their way to the Whiskey A-Go-Go in L.A. as part of their U.S. tour. I hope they made it there, because they kept going on about how much they loved being in Vegas until I reminded them that they were in Vail, not Vegas. They quickly changed their tune to how much they loved the mountains. At the end of the “interview” Ethan asked them to give a shout-out to the TV station. One of the lanky, big-haired rockers took this to mean holding the microphone to his crotch and giving the “rock-on” symbol with his other hand. It’ll be tough convincing my boss to let me use that shot.

As the rockers got back in their van to find Vegas or L.A. or Ricky Martin cover fame, the man who originally wrangled us into the interview kissed my hand and said, “My, you’re cute. Are you sure you don’t want to hop in the van and come to California?” It was tough to say no, but I had a shoot to get to and no desire to become a groupie.

My week transferred from U.K. rock to Swedish disco. I’ve seen Mamma Mia onstage several times, I saw the movie version on its opening night, and now my ABBA trifecta is complete with the ABBA cover-band “Arrival’s” concert. When I heard that Arrival was coming to Beaver Creek, I was worried that no one would want to go with me. But Shauna, always up for the off-beat and potentially un-cool, brought up the concert before I had a chance to ask her. We dressed up in our most disco-gear and headed to the Vilar Center to be dancing queens. We were the youngest people there, but not the only ones dressed up. Though most were in Colorado formal, some donned boas and big hats and white pants. Our enthusiasm for the concert did not match our seating. The tickets were free, so I guess we should have expected the absolute last row in the balcony. Once the show started, however, someone was kind enough to give us tickets on the floor, dead center, about 8 rows back from the stage. Mamma mia, these were great seats! We didn’t stay in them for long, however, since the dance floor that had been cleared out directly below the stage was calling our names. We joined the plastic soccer moms and geriatric gay men for some fun disco at the base of the stage. The band itself was great, especially the costumes. The women in the group did not seem to be big fans of wearing pants, and the men were rockin’ their white platform shoes. All were incredibly Scandinavian looking.

The concert was fantastic, even amid the drunken shouting of a particularly plastic woman on the dance floor, but that actually added to the experience. Though the philharmonic is nice, and the free Tuesday concerts have their inebriated charm, give me fake-ABBA any day.

Colorado Mountain Expressed

One of the first things I learned about Vail when I moved there is that it is best to take the Colorado Mountain Express from the Denver International Airport rather than the Greyhound bus. My boss informed me of this with of an air of disgust upon even mentioning the Greyhound. Since Vail is a resort town with a hefty price tag, I pictured the CME as a luxury vehicle that catered to the wealthy and beautiful. As it turns out, it is nothing more than a glorified taxi.

The CME is a large white van driven by a foreigner and packed to the gills with ski bums and rich housewives. As long as it gets me from point A to point B, I really have no problem with it, but the two hours of silence while being squished between a cashmere covered woman and a grizzly looking man is not ideal.

When I arrived from Orange County into Denver, I hopped on the CME and happily secured a window seat. Everyone else in the van seemed typical enough, but it seemed we were missing one passenger. Donna stumbled towards the white van, her loose fitting top falling off, her drawn-on eyebrows melting in the mile-high city heat. She had bleach-blonde hair and lips filled with collagen to the point of bursting. I could tell right away that she would be disappointed by her travel arrangements. As soon as she got to the door, she announced that she got terrible car sickness and needed to sit in the front. An elderly man named Norman was already sitting in the front seat and barely paid this woman attention. Donna proceeded to get graphic with her insistence that she would vomit on everyone in the van if she were not allowed to sit up front. The only available seat left was next to me, so it was more probable that most of her predicted projectile vomit would end up on me, so this didn’t really seem to bother the other passengers. The van full of Vail-goers stared at this frantic and drunk woman as she tried to get us on her team. “This man won’t give me his seat!” she whined, pouting her inflated lips to the point of making her look cartoonish. “I get really car sick and I will probably vomit, so I’m sorry if I puke all over you, but because of this dickhead up front, that’s just going to happen. I’ll pay for your dry cleaning bill.” I was starting to get nervous because no one seemed to care about this forecasted vomit storm and I really hate barf. No amount of free dry cleaning could make up for 2 hours of sitting next to a carsick stranger. Fortunately, when Donna saw that no one was budging (and when the van driver realized just how hammered she was), she decided to stay the night in Denver. “I have a really hot guy in Denver. He’s really hot. Look how cute he is.” Donna provided everyone a glimpse at her good man fortune by showing a cell phone picture of her Denver hottie. I guess she thought this would make us jealous that we weren’t staying in Denver with a hot guy, but it would take more than that to make Norman budge from his seat.

Before she left, a woman in the van asked her if she had a blue piece of luggage. Apparently this woman had seen Donna earlier when Donna had asked a stranger to watch her luggage and then disappeared. Tired of waiting for Donna to return from the bar, the stranger turned the piece of abandoned luggage into the Hertz counter. The woman in the van kindly informed Donna of this, and Donna explained that she “just got a divorce.” I’m not sure how that justifies leaving luggage with strangers, but then again, I have never been divorced, so who am I to judge?

After Donna’s remaining luggage was pulled of the van, the CME hit the road for an awkward 2 hours of silence, save for the Queen CD that was tepidly playing on the van’s stereo. About an hour in, I decided to make some light conversation with the woman whose liver-spotted arm was squashed against mine. This woman turned out to be the worst conversationalist in history. I happily listened to her talk about her recent trip to Dublin, her 9-month old terrier, and her second home in Vail. She failed to ask one question about me. I don’t need conversations to be all about me, but asking simple questions about the other person’s background is conversation 101. If I were this woman, I would want to know at least a little bit about the person I was describing my business trips, education, and extended family to. I gave her plenty of jumping off points. I connectedly threw in how I spent a semester in Rome, that I was from Ohio, and that I was only living in Vail for the summer. She seemed disinterested at best in these personal factoids. Even when I would respond to her stories with the occasional “That’s great!” and “How lovely!” she gave me a side glare that seemed to suggest that I best stop interrupting her with the formalities of human interaction. This conversation was all take and no give on her part. My last futile attempt to change her monologue to dialogue was when she said “This coffee is great.” I responded casually with “Yeah, I should have gotten a grande. This tall just isn’t cutting it.” She looked at me as if I had rained on her latte parade. I was quiet from then on and she found a new, less vocally responsive audience.

I arrived back in Vail, glad to get off the CME, but not so glad to be back in the valley. My vacation was officially over and in less than 12 hours, it was back to work. But I was happy to get back to the Vail Transportation Center vomit free.

Tee'd Off

Golf and me have never really gotten along, though I do have a respect for the sport and a sense of nostalgia for it. My dad is an avid golfer. Some of my earliest memories of him involve listening to the dulcet tones of a TV golf announcer mixed with the jarring sounds of his snoring on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe that’s why I’ve never been a golfer myself—I’ve always equated it with naps in reclining chairs. That, combined with my fear of golf carts and my inability to hit the ball off the tee in the first 6 swings, makes my attitude towards golf very lukewarm. However, I do like golfers. There’s something about a polo shirt and a country club membership that just gets me. I’m usually not a fan of the prepster, but I can’t resist an argyle sweater vest or two-toned shoes.

The TV station that I work for has a daily morning show that includes guests from local businesses. One morning, a golf pro came on the show to discuss the activities going on at the Vail Golf Club. He had blond, curly hair, a strong jaw line, and looked to be about 17. He had to be older, since he claimed to have graduated from both high school and golf school. I had no intention of going any further than ogling him, but the producer of the show had other plans. She eyed him up, decided he wasn’t her type, turned to me and said, “Ohmygod you should totally go for him! He’s a total cutie and golfers are really hot.” I asked this love guru how I should go about “totally going for him” and she suggested that I just casually ask for some golf lessons. I ended up not getting the chance to make my ridiculous request because golf guy dashed out of the studio after his interview as if he could sense the female plotting going on. He ran out so quickly, in fact, that he left his fleece. The producer decided that the forgotten fleece was tangible destiny—a sign that golf guy and I were meant to be together. I just saw it as some more intern tasks to get done for the day. I called golf guy’s work number and cell number and sent him an email, informing him that I had his fleece of fate.

I finally got a hold him after undoubtedly freaking him out with my fervent concern about his outerwear. He said he would pick it up the next day. Sadly, I would not be at work the next day. But not to worry! The producer had a brilliant resolution! I could just leave my number in the pocket of golf guy’s fleece! Well, the jacket had no pockets, but I had just enough confidence to scrawl “Call me sometime if you want to hang out” on a piece of notebook paper with my name and number and stuff it in the fleece. Golf guy picked up his fleece 5 weeks ago. I have not heard from him. This might have something to do with the 80 degree weather we’ve been having. In the fall, when the weather is fleece appropriate, and golf guy slips his arm into his jacket and finds my number, I hope he calls. Then at least I won’t feel really stupid.

Another experience I had with the Vail Golf Club occurred at the actual golf course. I was assigned to shoot a 30 second commercial for an upcoming golfing event. The commercial had already been written, actors had already been provided. I was basically just a rented out body with camera so that the organizers of this event could shoot their commercial. I showed up to the driving range to find my crew: Bobby would be playing Bink, a clueless 70s news anchor (audiences should be able to deduce this from his ugly sport coat and one cartoonishly delivered line). Barbie would be the deliverer of information, annoyed at Bink for his earlier mistakes. Kirk was the director and creative input for this piece of art. Kirk had brought his own cables, microphone, and headphones, and insisted on using his instead of the one’s I had brought. He also insisted on calling Barbie his “mate”—not his wife, not his girlfriend, not even his significant other—his mate, as if they were actually two penguins who had exchanged pebbles. I could tell Kirk would be trouble when he asked me what my official title was. I daftly told him I was an intern, which apparently gave him permission to check all of my shots and only allow me to hit record. Kirk has no idea what a good shot is. When I would suggest ways to improve the composition of the shot or ways to simplify later editing, he would reply that this shoot simply did not allow for such artistic moves. If what I was suggesting was art, then it was minimalism.

The commercial started out with Bink saying “There’s a tick shot clinc going on!” Barbie then interrupts him with, “No, Bink, it’s a trick shot clinic!” and then continues on with the details of the event. When I first heard the script (and then heard it repeated 700 subsequent times), I had to restrain myself from offering to rewrite it to not sound like man’s first attempt at comedy. At the end of the ad, Bink gets his comeuppance for his earlier faux-pas when he gets hit in the head by a golf ball that flies in from off screen. I realize local commercials are usually not the greatest, but this has to be one of the worst attempts.

What made it even more excruciating was Barbie’s inability to master her lines combined with Kirk’s devotion to the execution of his “vision.” Barbie did not deliver her lines with enough excitement, or enough correctness, so she had to redo each line 1200 times, each time no better than the last. A particularly difficult line for Barbie started with “the beautiful Vail golf course”, which she kept saying as, “the Vail beautiful golf course.” She made this mistake at least 30 times in a row, frustrating both Kirk and those who had spent years teaching Barbie to deal with her dyslexia.

I thought the shoot would only last a half hour, an hour tops. It took 2 and half. After finally being released, Barbie offered to buy me a drink to make up the extra time the shoot took. A drink, even with these crazy folks, sounded better than going back to the office. I wanted a refreshing Tom Collins, but everyone else ordered beer and I didn’t want to be the only one to order hard alcohol at 3 in the afternoon.

I spent the next 2 hours, sipping Stella and listening to Kirk talk about his suggestions for local TV. Kirk has a problem with advertising on television, which is strange considering he claimed to have been working in advertising “since childhood.” His hope for the station I work with is that it avoids giving into the man and selling out. “I just want to see what your manager does when some really boring company comes to that station with a ton of money,” Kirk said. “Say I’m the Nazi party and I call up your manager and I say ‘Hey I’ll pay you $300,000 to run my ad. It’s a free country!’ Those corporate people in New York will tell the manager to take the money, but if he’s a real man, he will refuse it and be true to what that station really is. So I’ll be interested to see what he does when the Nazis come.” I nodded in agreement, because I truly would be interested to see what my boss does if the Nazis ever ask to advertise on Vail local TV, though my concern doesn’t have to do so much with selling out.

The conversation switched from local TV to the growth of the Vail Valley to horseback riding. I told Kirk my death-defying horse accident. He responded with a lukewarm, “Yeah, that’ll happen.” No, that will not just happen. Falling off, yeah that’ll happen. Getting kicked in the head, now that’s a stunner. But nothing could impress Kirk. I didn’t really even have the chance to try because I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. When he finally reached a pause in the conversation/stopped to take a breath, I said I had to get back to the office. Kirk invited me to film the actual golf event next week. I said I would be happy to. I’ll do anything to spend more time with people I can’t stand.

Where the (Undesirable) Boys Are

The ratio of men to women in Vail, Colorado is four to one. These seem like favorable odds. However, this town is not the flirtation fairy tale one would imagine. Allow me to break down the men of Vail:

15%: In Relationships
25%: Ski Bums who, after college, decided that skiing and bartending would be the best use of their philosophy degrees
30%: Ski Bums who, after high school, decided that skiing and bartending would be the best way
to continue smoking pot with their friends in the 7/11 parking lot.
20%: Old people
5%: My roommates/coworkers
4.99%: Educated, steady job, fairly normal
0.01%: Educated, steady job, fairly normal, sarcastic
100%: In love with Vail


I think you can see where the problem is. I'm surrounded by men 24/7, and maybe I'm being picky, but I'm just not interested in a guy when he suggests we go white water rafting for a date. Though this is more adventurous and unique than your typical dinner or movie, I feel that rafting would be quite literally moving too fast for a first date.
Even the task of simply meeting men is difficult. At Notre Dame, it is guaranteed that there will be at least a sprinkling of eligible bachelors any given night at any given bar and, by virtue of attending the same school, you are guaranteed to have at least one thing in common with all of them. I suppose living in Vail (which isn't exactly the "real world" but is a step outside the ND bubble) is a taste of what the social world outside of college will be like. It's not so easy. Public places contain more than just my peers. Since I don't climb mountains and am not in love with Vail, it's difficult to find common ground with anyone. However, I did manage to meet a guy the other night. I was at a Johnny Cash cover band concert (that's right--and it was awesome) when this 40-something Gary Busey look-alike tried to coerce me to dance. Since the ol' "I have a wooden leg, like Heather Mills, so I can't dance" line doesn't work anymore since Ms. Mills stunt stint on Dancing with the Stars, the only defense I had was a series of "umms" and uninterested looks. Gary Busey eventually went away and then this less crazy, decent looking guy commiserated with my misfortune of attracting lunatics. At first, we didn't really say much, but casually stood next to each other while watching fake Johnny Cash walk the line. Then after some small talk, we found common ground, or rather, rival ground. He graduated from Boston College in 2006. I did the usual rattling off of every Notre Dame football player and statistic I knew to make it look like I'm a football expert. Even though it only takes about a minute to say Zibikowski, Quinn, Clauson, Weiss, and rebuilding year, we managed to chat until fake June Carter left the stage. This guy seemed alright, and given my surroundings, he seemed great. I could even get past the fact that he wants to get the Vail Valley logo tattooed on his calf. I mean, how many well-educated, Catholic, decent-looking, finance majors are there out there? (I'm talking outside Notre Dame, which is the hub of such a gentleman). Fake Johnny Cash and his crew left for the train for Folsom Prison and I left for the car back to the intern house. I told BC guy I was leaving, and he gave me a simple "Ok, bye!" then disappeared. Never was there mention of getting my number. There wasn't even so much as a handshake. Too bad for him, as I was just desperate willing enough to give him my number. I may have found him on facebook the next day, but I didn't want to be a creeper. Plus, if he didn't have the guts or smarts to ask for my number, then I've severely overestimated him.
As much as I balk about the men of Notre Dame, it seems that those are the type I'm seeking outside of the dome. Maybe Notre Dame trains us for that. The Irish ladies set their standards to a type, the only type available for four years of their relationship formative years, and then are doomed to search outside the bubble post-graduation for the kind of guy they once deemed a tool. I'm beginning to understand the "ring by spring" phenomena--I'm not subscribing to it or supporting it, but I do see how it is preventative of real word shock. As great as the Notre Dame guy sounds, it seems that prospects are not looking good in the South Bend front. Caitlin is spending her summer in South Bend and, in response to my desire to return to the campus to find "not stupid boys", she reported this
"Everyone in this town is icky or practically married (or both usually). Where are all the eligible SB bachelors i was excited about?"
It's true. It seems that all the Notre Dame fellows who aren't hopelessly nerdy or accounting majors have been snagged up by ugly girls (this sounds cruel, but I swear that the ugliest girls get the guys. However, it is a mystery as to what came first--the ugly or the boy). What I am most perplexed about is this generational penchant for long-term relationships. At what point did all the attractive, intelligent, not crazy men decide that they all wanted long term girlfriends? They are really missing out on potential pimphood.
Despite all this "woe is me" single girl talk, I'm really not desperate. I was just looking for a distraction for the summer and a reason to play "Summer Lovin'" on my iPod. I'm still holding out hope for single girls under the dome for Fall 2008. Until then, I'll just continue to be surrounded by unavailable, undesirable guys.