Jackson Editor
stringer, photographer, kayaker, vegetarian fly-fisher and discriminating wino who loves getting a tough story right no matter where or what time. When not chasing news? Debating whether Pavarotti, Shakespeare, Picasso or Malle was the greater artist and whether Willie Sutton, Keyser Soze or rigid neo-conservatism is the greater con artist, eating waffles for dinner, and dreaming of the perfect novel and screenplay while wondering what the hell is the diff’.
“I don’t ski, snowboard or hunt. So, I really don’t have a clue what I’m doing out here. But I’m one break-style snowshoer weighing a bevy of endorsements before turning pro.”
After six-months of beat reporting around Jackson Hole for a local outfit, Brady began stringing for the Casper Star-Tribune in February of 2006. To this day, he has no idea what “stringer” means, but guesses it has something to due with having to carry his own luggage. His work appeared once in The Los Angeles Times and he’d like to someday figure out if that wasn’t a total fluke.
Before becoming a Wyoming scribe, Gil’s first professional writing gig was as a novel and script analyst in Beverly Hills before awakening to the fact that he had no talent for it because he wanted to make films rather than slam other people’s screenplays in a scary downtown hotel and could not afford hair gel.
Within a year, in-between writing editorials and essays for a small, off-beat southern conservative weekly, Brady went to “film school”— helping like-minded derelicts spend obscene amounts of other people’s money by first humping cable and working as a shed monkey at Screen Gems Studios, then slaving as an electrician and gaffer, and sometimes director of photography and line producer, on low-budget and infrequent Hollywood “horror shows” and indie “nightmares” around North Carolina.
“I’ve met everyone and they’ve all blown me off. And I loved every minute and a half of it.”
Years ago, Brady went to college somewhere in Richmond, Virginia, and studied philosophy, art, physics, and metaphysics. And it’s probably best for all involved that he mastered none of them and eventually left before giving God, myself and my professors a massive cerebral Holocaust.”
In 1998, while on his way to LA, Brady stopped off in Wyoming for a family shindig and spent half his time walking around in a daze and dreading the knowledge he would be leaving within days. While fly-casting into the predawn mist over a hidden cranny along the Snake River, Gil vowed to come back and not leave until he hooked a big one or finished his novel. To date, he has done neither.
As your Jackson Hole page editor, all I can say is: “If you've got the scoop, I've got the news.”
