Big Sur isn’t wild—it’s a champagne brunch for cowards.
by Marshall Myerson
Once upon a time, there was blood in the cliffs of Big Sur. Real, deep-red blood. The kind that came from falling, climbing, hiding, wandering, and losing your grip—on a rock, on your mind—dealer’s choice. Big Sur was the last place you could vanish without a signal. It was beautiful, natural, unmolested, gorgeous chaos—the kind that John Muir spent his life protecting. Johnny, I’m so sorry, pal.
Muir is missing, his teachings—shamelessly forgotten. Big Sur is just a fucking Airbnb shopping cart for Silicon Valley and a milieu of assorted idiots of varying kinds…And the Post Ranch Inn? Oh man; that’s the golden-gilded guillotine that chopped the soul clean off of the coast.
You are not allowed to commune with nature from a king-sized bed and a pillow menu. You don’t get to fucking talk about “simplicity” while sipping overpriced natural wine in a robe, staff circling you with bated breath like you’re the maharaj. You’re not brave for booking it, buying your plane ticket, and renting your Volvo from Hertz. You’re trying to cosplay authenticity with shit stained teeth that bark “serve me” to champagne servers who have names you don’t address them by on purpose.
The Wild West didn’t die with Wyatt Earp and the Gunfight at the OK-Corral. It died with room service vouchers.
The Post Ranch Inn is the judge, jury, and executioner. They didn’t just kill the myth.
They skullfucked the corpse and charged 10 large a night for the privilege.
And Henry Miller? That overrated pretentious pig smeared his foul, fecal word salad all over the cliffs and called it “insight.” I call it “in-shite.” Ha…how ya like me now, Hank!? Oranges aren’t Bosch paintings, you insufferable bastard! They are citrus. Bosch has never been to Big Sur, neither has Dante. There was no medieval torment lurking in a Big Sur fruit stand, at least not when Hank Miller was there. Now…maybe. You didn’t unlock some new portal of higher consciousness—you just wouldn’t shut the fuck up…you and your fucking book have the blood of the Wild West on your hands.
Onto to Andre 3000. Yes, Outkast, but not today. Big Boi wasn't anywhere near Big Sur, at least I hope so for his sake. Mr. 3000 held a concert that I did not attend at a...certain venue, and played ATLiens, All of Aquemini, and Ms. Jakcson. SIIIIIKE! He played the FUCKING FLUTE! The fucking flute! ORIGINAL COMPOSITIONS ON THE FLUTE. Tickets were fucking expensive. No, I didn't fucking go, and everyone who did said it was "magical." Oh, fuck you. Why the hell would you learn a woodwind instrument that isn’t the Sax!
Post Ranch guests eat that shit up. Of course they do! They all want to be the maharaj of meaning while reading Hanky Miller and attending a very expensive Andre 3000 concert at…you guessed it! The...oooh, excuse me for a second, I'm feeling sick to my stomach...the...the Henry...OOF, I dont know if I can do it...THE HENRY MILLER MEMORIAL LIBRARY! BLEHHHHHH, RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! Bile rises in my throat like a rocket ship blasting off whenever I think of that infernal Temple honoring the High Priest, Lord Douche Bag, whose name I have said more than enough here. I'm just gonna say it, If you go out and read some Henry Miller (fuck, one last time) after reading this, fuck you. Just plain old fuck you. These Big Sur shmucks read Miller like the Bible and think the flute is..."high class." I guess i respect the flute...but I still think we can fix this nonsese of a problem we've got: Big Sur has been stolen from the people who deserve it the most. Come on, guys, we can still save Big Sur, right?
Or perhaps not. A cursory real estate search will knock any hope right out of your wind bag, with the chespeast listing on Zillow at the time of writing at $895,000 for a 1.6 acre lot, and the second cheapest listed at $1,850,000 for a 1 bed, 1 bath. Its about the size of a Kerouac shack I'd like to buy for the price of one night at the Post Ranch and just...be...but no. Big Sur is no longer wild. It’s a Vuori vest in Ray-Bans and On sneakers taking cliffside selfies. Careful, ya might slip! Wouldn’t that be…something.
Alas, friends, I do end on a note of good news. Big Sur isn’t completely dead…If you somehow still find yourself on the real fringe—maybe sleeping in a car, maybe just running from the beige—and you meet a guy named Victor, chilling in his van with decaying paperbacks stacked like bricks, tell him the loud guy from New York who bought him a beer and shared his fries in July says hey. I’d share my fries with a dude like Victor in a second, and, no, he did not ask. He traded me a Louis L’Amour novel after I offered both. No lie, I wish I’d gotten him to sign it. We talked about our moms, our lives, what keeps us running, what keeps us up, what rots us from the teeth. Real shit. Cabbages and kings.
Victor’s the last ember of the West.
Everything else is just overpriced shoe shines and American Express black cards.