Wyoming Style

Recently I returned to my homeland. That homeland being Wyoming. It is that place where seldom is heard a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day. That is actually a crock of shit, cause gossip is the word and when I was there, it was windy as hell and as gray as a Gerhard Richter painting (obscure reference, I know).

Talking about painters, I have to mention that my great grandmother painted the photo above, the original bar bathroom. I have to say it looks so inviting, who wouldn't want to trudge through snow and cold just to relieve themselves? For those who have not had the pleasure of using an outhouse, it is a glorified hole in the ground and smells like a port-o-pottie in the middle of summer just after a thousand fat construction workers finished the annual baked bean cook off. And I'm not exaggerating.

This was the only bar bathroom photo I could snap while on my trip. The bars there are actually quite depressing. It is full of old men whom have not left their hometown. Old men who got married and had kids right out of high school, and resent the fact that they are stuck in the same place. They also don't like outsiders, and even though I grew up in this town, I have been gone long enough that I am a stranger from the outside and treated as such. Like shit in an outhouse. Don't worry, I am not bitter at all. I accept this, and then hop on a plane headed back to California, where everyone is an outsider.

The thing I love about California is that everyone is just too busy chasing their own dreams to care about what I am up to. Which inspires me to chase my own...