Operation Gary, IN: Reclaiming Our Mountain Towns from the Aspenification Effect
Jackson, WY
I just read an article in the Wall Street Journal on the insane cost of real estate in Jackson Hole, and it got me thinking about my college summers there in ’97 and ’99, and how to start a revolution.
For starters, not too many people were familiar with Jackson in the nineties. The usual suspects when it came to mountain towns in the West were confined to Breckenridge, Vail, and Aspen. Telluride was occasionally mentioned, but for the most part, if it wasn’t off I-70, it wasn’t in the lexicon south of the Mason-Dixon line.
Aspen, of course, had been known as a counterculture hub since the ’60s, peaking in 1970 when Hunter Thompson ran for sheriff on the Freak Power Ticket, promising to legalize drugs, turn streets into grass, and rename Aspen “Fat City” to discourage developers from exploiting the town. Unfortunately, he lost by just 31 votes, and the streets are still made of cement.
By the ’90s, Aspen had been immortalized in pop culture—thanks in no small part to an “inspirational” speech by Jim Carrey in Dumb & Dumber. “I’ll tell you where. Someplace warm. A place where the beer flows like wine. Where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. I’m talking about a little place called… Assspen.”
Today, Aspen is defined by everything it once resisted—sky-high real estate prices ($100+ million homes) and talentless “celebrities” whose idea of being a triple threat is:
A. They had sexual escapades filmed and seen all over the world.
B. They had useless television shows.
C. They have tens of millions of followers on social media.
If you noticed the use of verbs, two are in the past tense—because their entire “celebrity” is tied to followers, most of whom were bought in bulk and don’t exist.
Give me the Aspen of the ’70s, when Jimmy Buffett had a softball team that flew in a Yankee to play Glenn Frey’s team, or when Nicholson had two homes: a secluded one to live in and a West End Victorian to watch Lakers games because he couldn’t get reception at the other. Or when Buddy Hackett used a sardine can for a license plate and ran through golf tournaments in the nude.
The stories go on and on, each one more unbelievable than the last. If we’re being candid, give me Aspen before the Wall Street crowd descended upon it like locusts—back when it was inhabited by ski bums and counterculture folks trying to escape the very people who would eventually gobsmack the real estate market. The same people whose polluted jetstream over the years carried with it the idiot “celebrities” we see today.
That said, if you’ve been to Aspen, it is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful enclaves in America. It’s one of my favorite places to visit—during certain times of the year—and that has EVERYTHING to do with who’s in town. The century-old Victorian homes are to die for, downtown is charming, and the natural beauty is world-class. If they could only get rid of the people (not all, the locals are great).
Aspen, CO
When I got my first job in Jackson in ’97, most people, adults included, were a bit perplexed by why I didn’t go to Colorado. Wyoming was almost ‘too West.’ Montana was on people’s minds too, partly because of the success of A River Runs Through It, but good luck getting them to name a town outside of Missoula or Bozeman.
My memories of Jackson are of a quiet town with an old-fashioned movie theater, a drugstore, and a strip of two-story motels. Oh, there was a K-Mart where we got our photos developed.
The locals drove pickup trucks. And there were no high-end restaurants, but a few breweries had recently opened, so, in 20/20 hindsight, there were signs of what was to come: i.e. the “craft brew” crowd, which, admittedly, I was a card-carrying member, until it lost its mind.
There were no high-end clothing shops—well, there was a Polo shop, but by today’s standards, it’s rather tame. Again, Jackson shared next to nothing with Aspen. Actually, that’s not entirely true; there were a considerable number of shops that specialized in all sorts of art, but college kids in tank tops and Tevas weren’t really allowed in them—understandably so, since most of us could barely afford a pack of cigarettes.
The only shops still in town that I used to frequent are Teton Mountaineering, Jack Dennis, and the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar. It was a quiet place, with the exception of a never-ending stream of RVs and tourists en route to the national parks.
For entertainment, we went to the rodeo, saw movies at the Teton Theatre, and caught an occasional concert—like a Lynyrd Skynyrd show in an old hockey rink. Tickets were eight dollars, and beers were two—that’s the Jackson I remember.
When you walked through the residential neighborhoods, you’d see broken-down, tiny homes with vans parked next to them and a hodgepodge of colorful lawn chairs. It was a town where four guys could rent a two-bedroom house—and not have to be trust-fund babies from coastal Connecticut.
And now, 25 years later, the average home price is $8+ million, with several priced over $50 million—not quite Aspen prices, though we know the end game. I get it—Jackson is one of the most beautiful places in America. Add in its proximity to two national parks and the largest vertical ski drop in the United States: a staggering 4,139 feet, and this is what you get. Oh, yeah…forgot to mention there is no state income tax, no estate tax, and no business tax.
I long ago accepted the economics of living in, or even visiting, beautiful parts of America. What’s going on in Jackson is an age-old story—ask anyone in Nantucket, Key West, or even the suburbs of Seattle. If there’s a mountain range or ocean nearby, be prepared to shell out a fortune. And God help you if there are both (i.e., Seattle).
If we keep at this pace as a nation, every desirable enclave will be owned by a boring collection of seasonal millionaires. What happens when every mountain and beach town starts to resemble Lower Manhattan? Think about it—I know SoHo and Tribeca weren’t considered great places to live before gentrification (by some standards), but who would you rather have as neighbors: artists or bankers?
Give me the painters and poets every day over Wharton MBAs and nine-dollar cups of inverted Aeropress coffee in high-rent districts where professional baristas live in $4,000-a-month apartments. Makes me want to gag.
If we’re not careful—and I’m afraid we’re already past the point of no return—the only cities left for the Bohemian set will be in the Rust Belt, where homes are affordable and a cup of coffee costs a few bucks.
Last I checked, artists aren’t flocking to Jackson, SoHo, or Carmel (at least none under the age of 70).
Wouldn’t it be a trip if the “cool kids”—writers, dancers, poets, stage actors, and the like—somehow managed to start the gentrification process in towns like Cleveland, Detroit, or… dare I say, Gary, Indiana?
It may be an annual contender for Murder Capital of America, but it’s on Lake Michigan. The average temperature in August is 79 degrees and home prices are some of the lowest in the nation. Hell, look at this 28-bed place that’s only six miles from a sandy beach, and it’s only a million bucks. If my math is correct, that’s $35k a unit.
Miller Woods Beach & the future Beat Hotel, Gary, IN
Imagine turning this place into a 21st century version of the Beat Hotel in Paris, but with running water and electricity. Stack it with intellectuals and artists—the same kind of people who lived in SoHo lofts when it wasn’t chic. For centuries, “creatives” lived together, but these days, not so much. Imagine a world where Ginsberg, Corso, and Burroughs weren’t in close proximity. Or go back further to the Harlem Renaissance—what if Langston Hughes, W.E.B. Du Bois, and Alain Locke didn’t have access to one another?
Now, what if all the finance guys and tech bros got bored with one another in their homogeneous Elysia and started buying second or third homes in these forgotten cities? Can’t you see two guys in $600 jeans and Patagonia vests, picking at forty-dollar salads at a trendy Tribeca restaurant, having this discussion?
Conner: “You know, I’m getting a little bored with the crowd around here.”
Blake: “What’s to be bored with? Shit man, we have art galleries and wine shops and boutiques that keep our wives out of our hair.”
Conner: “Nah, I get it, but everyone is…how do I say this…so fucking boring.”
Blake: “Couldn’t agree with you more. If I have to hear Chad talk about another addition to his cheese collection, I’m gonna lose it.”
Conner: “That’s what I’m talking about, man! The fucking cheese people, and the wine people, and assholes who buy art as investments.”
Blake: “If you’re talking about Muffy’s recent acquisition, you best hold your horses, that’s my mistress you’re talking about.”
Conner: “No, that’s not what I mean, Muffy is cool. What I mean is, I’d like to be around some normal people, creatives, I think they’re called.”
Blake: “Bro, I get it. A few partners at the firm have homes in…get ready for this…Gary-Fucking-Indiana. They won’t shut up about it. It’s a 90-minute flight in a PJ. Phillip said it’s like SoHo in the 70s.”
Conner: “Interesting…but wasn’t he born in the 80s and raised in Atherton? Anyway, maybe I need to check it out.”
Blake: “Dude, you definitely need to. I’m thinking about getting a place there too. Super hip—none of the New York bullshit. In a word, it’s authentic, bro.”
And so the story goes, but what if we managed to trick all of them so that we could go back to the places whence we came—musicians in San Francisco, poets in Carmel, and painters in Lower Manhattan.
If the artists of the world could pull this off, I'll take a place in Jackson and a loft in SoHo. Just as long as there’s not a single $9 cup of coffee in sight.
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA
