“Yeah,” he said, “that is clear. But I’m from Hong Kong, and the art is good and the people to whom I’m giving these as gifts don’t know that Hunter didn’t sign them.” He said goodbye and went to his room. I gave Marci the “stink eye.” She smiled and left the hotel.
When I returned to the bar, Hunter was still scribbling on the napkin, biting his tongue as he often did while creating. He eventually slid over to me what he had written: “Hey, Rube! This is a public warning that there is an active trade in forged art in Aspen, Colorado. Beware of making any purchase of any Hunter S. Thompson for Sheriff posters from a freak-like skank with black hair and a high blood-alcohol content.” That was just for starters. It went on and got meaner. I asked him what he was going to do with it, and he said that he was going to place an ad in the Aspen Times. Fortunately for all of us, his warning never appeared in print.
Hunter’s digital weekly column, published by ESPN.com, was entitled “Hey Rube.” I always considered it an homage to that day’s rage.
Tom Benton recently retired, for the third time, from his detention deputy position. His marriage to Marcy continued, and he also continued to make beautiful art. He crafted my campaign poster for the 2006 election. (I, unlike Hunter, was victorious, by the way.)
Hunter toiling away on a “Hey, Rube” column.
A Brief History of the Sheriff’s Squeeze
Deanna Gay rolled into Aspen in the sixties. A hot, sixteen-year-old ski racer, she took one look around and instantly knew that she was home. Everyone called her DeDe. Back then in Aspen a lot of the streets were still dirt and there were few stoplights; there were no rules, all victimless “crimes” seemed legal, love was in the air, and no one’s dictionary contained the term statutory rape. In some ways, it was paradise.
Skiers have always marched to the beat of their own drummers, and the faster you skied, the less you worried about what anyone thought. DeDe skied very fast, and while others were trying to keep up with the haute ski couture of the moment, she could be seen screaming down Aspen Mountain in plaid wool Bermuda shorts and argyle knee socks. She blew away the best skiers and caught the attention of every lecher in town.
DeDe was a freshman at CU and ski-racing was the point of her being there. Her coach was ski legend Bob Beattie. His skiers and a lot of other people called him Coach; some of us called him Beats; to the world he was Mr. Skiing. He’s largely responsible for the sport being what it is in the United States today. Hunter called him neighbor. Beattie moved in across the street from Hunter, and a friendship began that was as close as it was unlikely.
Young DeDe would watch Hunter holding court at the end of the Jerome Bar. Surrounded by friends, acolytes, and awestruck tourists, he seemed oblivious to her. Was it possible that Hunter Thompson was the only straight male in Aspen who wasn’t trying to figure out how to get her into a snow cave? Or was he just playing it particularly cool? Either way, DeDe was not amused. She began to scheme.
Vodka gimlets were the popular drink of co-eds at the time, and that is exactly what she proceeded to pour down her sexy, underage gullet…in quantity. Finally emboldened, she headed for Hunter’s end of the bar, set to get an invitation to Owl Farm. Amazingly she wasn’t having much success until a mutual friend, Chris Hanson, came into the picture. Chris was handsome, tanned, and had a great Cheshire cat smile. He was a ski instructor and a cowboy. He could hold his own with Hunter drinking or doing whatever else came up. He could also hold his own roping, riding, and shooting, and was great with a bullwhip. After a whole bunch more drinks, it was decided that Chris could take a cigar out of DeDe’s mouth with a whip. This experiment could only be done at Owl Farm, a small victory for DeDe. Off they went with brains full of booze and hearts full of pure science.
DeDe stood gamely in front of the stone fireplace in Hunter’s living room with a sacrificial Cohiba clenched between her teeth. She signaled the cowboy to proceed, hoping to impress Hunter with her fearlessness. No one present was more surprised than DeDe when there was a loud crack and the cigar simply disappeared. She was also fairly surprised that her face was still exactly where it belonged. Hunter must have been a little impressed as he took things to the next level. He bellowed, “Do you shoot, whatever your name is? And if you do, would you like to step outside and fire off a few rounds?” Thrilled beyond reason, DeDe answered that of course she shot. “Grandpa had a duck club. I’ve owned a gun all my life.”
Bob and the “fair and winsome” DeDe (Deanna Gay) Brinkman.
Hunter was happy; this new one had spunk. “Let’s put a few things on top of this propane tank,” he said. “You can have the first shot. Don’t mind propane, do you, young lady?” “Of course not. My dad was a gas man; I adore propane,” DeDe gushed. Basically Hunter was hoping that the new girl would have enough sense to be scared to death by the prospect of shooting bottles off a five-hundred-gallon propane tank. In truth, DeDe’s daddy actually was in the gas business and she knew that it would take a lot more muzzle velocity than what they were shooting with to penetrate the tank. Hunter did mention that it would be great if she didn’t “point that fucking thing at me!” All the years in the duck blind hadn’t prepared her for shooting under these conditions. She was winging it.
Things went well that afternoon, everyone had a good time, but the young ski goddess didn’t become the fixture in the kitchen that she had hoped to be. This was probably for the best, as sometimes the kitchen had a bad effect on young people who hadn’t developed their calluses. Years went by, and DeDe and Hunter enjoyed a nice friendship that didn’t much involve him trying to get her into a snow cave.
In the eighties, the Aspen Art Museum started to have fundraisers in the form of art cart derbies. These were soapbox derbies for artists and pretty much anyone else with enough time on their hands to build gravity-powered racers. The course ran down Aspen Street from the bottom of Aspen Mountain’s chairlift 1A to Main Street. That means it was steep and fast. The contests were judged on more than speed, though. Artistic merit, sexiness, and a number of other categories were just as important as velocity. There were spectacular crashes and questionable behavior of every sort. Naturally the event was wildly popular, drawing huge crowds and even national TV coverage.
Part of the event’s popularity was the celebrity involvement; this was where DeDe came in. By the mid-eighties, she was close to the art crowd and the museum, and also deeply involved with Aspen’s Hollywood expatriates. DeDe convinced her old coach Bob Beattie to announce the race. She recruited celebrity judges such as Michael Douglas, George Hamilton, and Emmy-winning screenwriter Tracy Keenan Wynn. The artist Tom Benton and then-sheriff Dick Kienast were also judges. A great lineup, but people wanted Hunter; this thing was custom made for Hunter. DeDe, it seemed, was the only girl for the job. Get Hunter.
Carter and the Stoli bottle, morphed into a Bud bottle. Art carters were shameless sluts and would alter their carts to accommodate anyone with an open checkbook.
Race action.
At first Hunter was cagey. “I won’t have to go on TV with George Hamilton, will I?” Hunter would soon learn that Hamilton was a very decent and hip guy. Hunter was basing his opinion of George on an image as carefully crafted as his own. DeDe tried to explain this to him, but Hunter always had to figure things out for himself, so she finally just conceded that Hunter wouldn’t have to go on TV with anyone he didn’t want to. Ever the negotiator, Hunter then demanded a more or less unlimited supply of liquor and drugs. This surprised no one, and had already been factored in as part of the cost of doing business. Whose budget it came out of, no one tells. It would have been difficult for Doc to blow the thing off; too many of his buddies were involved: Beattie announcing, Benton and Kienast judging, and artists Dick Carter and Michael Cleverly both racing in the competition.
Cleverly’s Death Bat.
George Hamilton, awed by the Death Bat.
Michael Douglas, Tracy Keenan Wynn, and Doc, judging the entrants.
Cart
er had somehow conned a liquor distributor into sponsoring his racer. He built a huge fiberglass bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. It was very fast, and its great weight made it a potential hazard to both driver and spectators. All of the contestants needed to have steering and brakes—but the two weren’t exactly at the top of anyone’s list.
Cleverly was the team captain and driver for the Fedaykin Death Commandos, a group of prominent Aspenites who were successful, solid citizens on the surface but still depraved exhippie frat boys somewhere beneath and who had had the wherewithal to finance the Fedaykin Death Bat. They had stolen their name from the sci-fi classic Dune. Built by Cleverly and Aspen Times ace reporter Andy Stone, the Death Bat was a cross between a dragonfly, a square-rigger, a bat, and a biplane. It had multiple wings, propellers, and complicated masts and rigging. It looked dangerous and threatening. The logo for the Fedaykins was a high-tech skull with wings. The image most people associated with them was the baby blue nitrous oxide tank with several hoses extending from it that they kept in the pit area.
By the end of race weekend, DeDe had gained a lot of credibility with Hunter. He had a terrific time, spending as much of it as possible in the Fedaykin pit area with the nitrous tank. The fact that he was a judge prompted a few complaints of potential bias that were largely ignored. In point of fact, the Fedaykins had thoughtfully provided the announcers and all the judges with Fedaykin team uniforms. The announcers’ T-shirts sported the Fedaykin logo with BIASED ANNOUNCER written underneath, and the judges’ T-shirts had the words CORRUPT JUDGE under the logo. Kienast’s T-shirt bore a skull with CORRUPT SHERIFF. The idea of favoritism was pretty much a moot point. On the back, the shirts all carried the slogan SAFETY THIRD. Hunter was happy: there was blood on the pavement and there were drugs in the Doctor. DeDe was tops.
By the late eighties, DeDe had parlayed her Hollywood connections into a business called Aspen Production Services. APS essentially hooked the Hollywood guys up with whatever they needed to be hooked up with in Aspen, and acted as liaison between production companies and the Aspen community, although she also provided the same service in other parts of the world.
In 1991 Brandon Tartikoff and NBC decided to produce an Aspen movie. It was to be written by John Byrum. Byrum was a huge Hunter fan and had met the Doctor on a visit to Aspen. The film was supposed to be based on a Hunter-type character using Hunter language and involving whacky Hunter-type scenarios and “gonzo” events. DeDe and her crew were told not to mention any of this to Hunter under any circumstances.
The phone call DeDe inevitably got from Owl Farm was packed with expletives and threats. “How could you align yourself with these sadistic Hollywood pig fucks capitalizing on my life?” DeDe first denied everything, “Why would you think that?” Later: “How did you find out?”
Trying to outwit Hunter was futile. Occasionally flattery could be employed, but not here. When Hunter felt exploited, no amount of cajoling could placate him. The media was alerted; ugly phone calls were traded back and forth; there were newspaper articles.
It was too late for the production company to back off; they were already in too deep. Crews were in town, locations had been arranged, the actors were cast. All DeDe could do was make the best of a bad situation. She did her job and cast her future boyfriend, then-deputy Bob Braudis, as Deputy Cujo. The movie was a piece of shit; no one saw it.
For some reason Hunter forgave DeDe. In fact, the event was never mentioned between them. Perhaps even back then Hunter could see that somewhere down the road, his best friend, Bob, and the crazy hottie DeDe would get together. On into their dotage.
Hunter’s Adventures with “Duke,” a Gentleman of Dubious Character
Duke’s phone rang at 3:00 A.M. “DukethisisHunter, whatareyoudoing?” Hunter may have been the only person on planet earth who could ask that question, at that hour, and not be accused of being disingenuous. In Hunter’s world there were lots of things one might reasonably be doing at 3:00 A.M. As it happened, Duke was awake. “Just hanging out, hoping a couple girls might stop by.”
Did Duke have an actual reason to expect that a couple of girls might stop by? Or was it because any single guy who’s awake at 3:00 A.M. is going to be hoping that a couple of girls might stop by? What else are you going to be hoping for?
Hunter went on, “HowaboutifIcomeover? Doyouhaveanythingtodrink?”
“Where the hell are you?” asked Duke, justifiably. Duke lived miles from Owl Farm, but only about eight blocks from the Jerome Bar, where Hunter turned out to be. He must have been doing his good deed for the day, helping the bartender close up or something of that nature. We won’t ask.
Duke said that he might have a couple beers. Hunter said, “GreatI’llbeoverinafew.”
Duke Dixon and Doc enjoying Monday Night Football levity.
Half an hour later there was a knock on the door of Duke’s East Hopkins Avenue apartment. He opened the door, there was a huge potted plant standing there waiting to be let in. He jumped back. Absent LSD, visits from potted plants at that hour were rare, and a touch frightening. Duke studied the plant for a moment. It resembled ones that he’d encountered in the lobby of the Hotel Jerome. Just as he began to feel a little less uneasy, the plant spoke: “Jesuschristlemmethefuckin. Takethisthingforgodssake.” The plant wanted to come in. Duke opened the door wide, and the plant walked in, with Hunter Thompson directly behind it.
“WherethehellcanIputthis?” It was just Hunter carrying an enormous plant. That wasn’t so bad. “Anywhere you want, Hunter.” Hunter put the mammoth display of foliage on the coffee table. Duke was worried; could the table handle the weight? “Whathaveyougottodrink?” Duke went to the refrigerator. “Beer.” “Nevermind, Ibroughtthis.” Hunter opened his coat and hauled out a large, industrial-size jug of vanilla extract. This was exactly why a lot of us had always thought that Hunter’s innards should qualify as a Superfund site. Duke asked himself why someone would swipe a jug of vanilla extract from the Jerome kitchen when one could just as easily swipe booze from the bar? He didn’t bother to pose this question to Hunter. Vanilla extract is 12 percent alcohol, but still…
By 9:00 A.M. things were winding down. Duke had finished his beer and Hunter had put an impressive dent in the vanilla extract. The girls, real or imagined, had not yet materialized. Hunter was hosting a luncheon later that day at Owl Farm, and Duke was to be in attendance. The boys decided that the gals probably weren’t going to show, and called it a night.
Hunter’s fête the next afternoon was in honor of Semmes Luckett’s eighty-year-old mother. Mrs. Luckett was a true daughter of the South and had raised a Southern gentleman. She had long wanted to meet the famous writer from Louisville, Hunter S. Thompson.
Semmes was a close friend of Jack Nicholson, who was, of course, close to Hunter. Semmes was overseeing a construction project at Nicholson’s Aspen home and was a fixture at the J-Bar and other Aspen haunts. Hunter and Semmes were friends, so when his mom came for a visit, it was natural for Hunter to be gracious.
Hunter with six-pack, sketched by Jack Nicholson.
When Duke arrived at Owl Farm on his Harley with the usual hot blonde on the back, the other guests were already in place on the deck. They didn’t seem to mind the thin coat of driveway dust they were suddenly wearing courtesy of Duke and his motorcycle. As Duke and the babe climbed the steps to the deck, Hunter was busy wielding a machete, dissecting watermelons and cantaloupes that had been injected with liquor the night before. Dissecting is probably too elegant a term to use to describe what Hunter was doing. The chopping strokes he was using to cut up the melons would have decapitated an ox. A less trusting audience might have found it disconcerting, but those present were Southern aristocracy, and decorum wouldn’t have allowed for unpleasant accidents.
The alcohol-infused fruit and good food made for a convivial meal. After lunch Mrs. Luckett turned to Hunter and, in her best Southern manner, asked him if she might have some small memento to remember the afternoon by. Doc was
charmed by the request and cast about looking for something appropriate to give this eighty-year-old Southern belle. His glance fell on the wall behind them. There was a large, early-model stun gun/cattle prod. It looked more like a prop from a Star Wars movie than the nice compact devices the cops Taser us with nowadays. Doc kept it around to ensure civilized behavior. He ripped it off the wall and handed it to Mrs. Luckett, beaming all the way. Mrs. Luckett smiled and accepted the gift with only her bulging eyes betraying her feelings. Others at the table were clapping Hunter on the back and congratulating him on making such a fine choice. After a few moments Hunter asked Semmes Luckett’s mother if she’d like him to show her how to operate the device. There was a long, pregnant silence. Mrs. Luckett pondered. Upon what occasion would she use it, and on whom? Her lack of response was beginning to make people uncomfortable. Could it be possible that the stun gun had been an inappropriate choice? It seemed so right. Hunter began to have second thoughts. He excused himself and disappeared into the house. He returned to the deck a few minutes later toting a lovely turquoise pendant.
Taking the cattle prod and handing Mrs. Lucket the pendant, he said, “Itoccurredtomethatyoumighthavetroublegettingitontheplane.” It was clear that the only possible place Hunter could have come up with something like the pendant was his girlfriend’s jewelry box. People chose to overlook that obvious conclusion and said nothing. Mrs. Luckett beamed with both relief and delight. Her thank-you note to Hunter mentioned that she had no trouble whatever getting the pendant on the plane home.
The Kitchen Readings Page 8