THE JACKSON ABSTRACTION
Reflection, Rumination & Rhetoric from the Range
Most of my ideas for stories come from dreams at night.
Many months ago—probably longer, the clock’s been ticking so fast—I woke up from a dream with the idea of spending seven successive evenings in bar I’d never been before, in a town brand new to me.
The inspiration for such a concept draws from having, over the decades, experienced two vibrant bars: That special “third place” where everyone knows your name; a saloon with an allure so strong, it becomes an addiction. Not so much for the booze, but for the ritual, the camaraderie. Real people, real stories. Better than playing potato on a couch, hypnotized by a TV buzzing with mindless sop and a laugh track so you know when something’s supposed to be funny.
In Monaco, late 1980s, it was Le Texan—a cantina alive with multiple nationalities and cultures. Out of it came a chronicle (Monaco Cool) about survival in the world’s swankiest neighborhood, chock-a-block with quirky characters.
This was reality television fodder before reality TV existed. Friends would come visit me in the principality—Robert Wilson, diary columnist for the (UK) Sunday Mirror; Walt Perry, sting undercover specialist for the IRS—and after a first evening at Le Texan I’d offer a number of options for other places to go in Monaco or Menton or Eze. And they’d say, “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon go back to Le Texan.” (For Robert Wilson it was easy fodder for his gossip column: a few days later he broke the news that Ringo Starr’s ex, Maureen Starkey, planned to marry Hard Rock Cafe founder Isaac Tigrett.)
The vibe was that good, the company—choreographed by charismatic Kate, Le Texan’s owner/manager—was compelling and captivating.
Montecito, circa 2007-11: The zone was Piatti, an Italian in the Upper Village with a dedicated bar room. Every night was a party with an ever-changing illustrious crew of characters: Beach Boy Bruce Johnston, novelists T.C. Boyle and Thom Steinbeck, TV personality Dennis Miller—to name just a few. Steve Martin would stroll in, trucker cap tipped low, dark glasses, the anal antithesis of approachability. We laughed a lot, probably drank too much.
So, with my dream and The Jackson Abstraction in mind, I refined the concept of “seven nights in a bar” to one hour each evening, same hour—8-9—see what comes.
Bar of choice: An iconic Jackson Hole saloon called The Mangy Moose.
Stooled at the bar, sipping my Bardic Brew (Wind River Brewing Co. porter)…
…I couldn’t help feeling this bar is, well, kind of… mangy.
Outside, in nature, the trees are shimmering, wind talking, moose and elk strolling. Tetons peak 7,000 feet above a valley already 6,000 feet above sea level. Cool pure air. Silence. Solitude.
Better than a bare-wood barstool in a glamorized dive.
So I bagged my bar book brainwave.
Revelation: A bar was not the destination, only the invitation.
Instead: a language of stones, trees, rivers.
In place of artificial light: a darkening dusk, a near-half-moon and, later, a sky filled with sparkling stars.
Then—wouldn’t you know it—a bar full of stories manifests.
Challenge: It is not a bar open to the general public.
Intelligence 101 exercise: Finagle your way into someplace you’re not allowed.
Utilizing this skill (a tradecraft secret), I gain access to something with far more depth than a watering hole. This speakeasy is a beautifully designed school of stories.
And since it doesn’t open on Sunday & Monday, I get to start the week fresh on a Tuesday, shorten my tale to “five nights in a bar.”
As synchronicity would have it, this bar opens at eight p.m., which fits my 8-9 paradigm: the threshold hour, between the ordinary and the odd, when dinner winds down and nightlife begins to stir.
And this bonus: The first hour will be quiet enough for its master mixologist to fire up his stories and enlighten me.
