With the arrival of the crane and tower components came the serious security. Dressed in black T-shirts with badges silk-screened on them and black jeans, they were stationed at the Owl Farm driveway and the new gate at the entrance to the field. They were mostly good-natured local guys who stayed cheerful despite the boredom and, I suspect, minimal compensation. The rare gawker seemed to annoy them a lot less than the supercilious event planner, who would go flying through the security checkpoint kicking up clouds of dust, without a glance of recognition for them.
The tower itself was wrapped around the vertical structure of a large stationary crane, the kind you see in the construction of skyscrapers. The cylinders were open in the back so they could slide around it; there were lots of them, many semi loads; each section weighed a couple of tons. Another crane on tracks stacked them, and then they were bolted in place. That crane was contracted out of Glenwood Springs. With the Glenwood guys and the L.A. guys, there were usually thirty or so people in the field. People wore GONZO MONUMENT TEAM T-shirts, très chic, and a very hot item to possess. The whole thing was cloaked in as much secrecy as possible, considering it was taking place in an empty field next to the road. At the end of the day, everything was draped with a huge blue tarp. When the last section, the fist itself, arrived, a special tent was erected just to conceal it while various technicians prepared it for installation.
The fist was finally set in place, and the tarps were replaced with one large piece of parachute fabric. Someone suggested that it resembled a giant penis wearing an ill-fitting condom. A lot of us were a little uncomfortable with the notion that there was a 150-foot-high penis in the neighborhood and tried to ignore it.
It seems that the actual unveiling was a complicated technical problem. In the model presentation, someone’s hand would represent a helicopter and, while making helicopter sounds, would simply slip the drapery up and off the little monument. Considering the elegance of the model itself, this was clearly the lowesttech aspect of that presentation. For some reason the chopper idea was scrapped. I don’t know if the reason for this was aesthetics or safety, or logistics. The alternate solution was a deep secret, and it seemed to me to cause of a fair amount of anxiety in the people who were responsible for making sure it worked. A dress rehearsal was out of the question, as it would expose the monument and because the fabric was so light that there probably wasn’t going to be much of it left intact afterward.
During the last week of monument assembly, another crew showed up. This group was constructing the platform upon which the party tent was going to sit. It was a big platform, a big tent. There were about four hundred guests, and it could probably have accommodated twice that number. A circular driveway was built up to the tent, and a beautiful path was created from the front of the tent up to the monument.
As the date of the event grew closer, the begging and wheedling for invitations grew more and more frenzied. The ice guy offered to provide free ice. Electricians and carpenters offered their services. Women offered…. But either you were on the list or you weren’t; spouses and significant others of the invited couldn’t get in if they themselves weren’t on the list. All this resulted in my swearing to God never to attend another event that had lists and security. Somehow I don’t think I’ll have to worry about being tempted to break that oath.
The event was to take place on a Saturday, and people started to show up in town on the Monday before. Friends of Hunter’s who had left the valley, celebrities based on the coast, media, and Hunter groupies. It was very much old-home week in Aspen. People who hadn’t gotten together in years were hooking up, and since they were all Thompson cronies, they weren’t meeting in church. The first unofficial event I attended was a cocktail party on Tuesday evening, after which I found myself wandering the streets of Aspen trying to find my car at two in the morning. From then on it was one thing after another: luncheons, cocktail parties, and dinner parties. By the time Saturday came around, a lot of folks were ready for rehab and not another party. But they were Hunter’s people; they were warriors and knew how to rise to the occasion.
It was a big deal even by Aspen standards. Parking on Woody Creek Road was absolutely forbidden by the county.
That week the media attention rivaled the frenzy of the days immediately following Hunter’s death. As Saturday drew nearer, the attention became more intense. It ran the gamut from legitimate out-of-town reporters wanting appointments for interviews when they arrived in Aspen, to kids with video cameras claiming to be filmmakers working on documentaries. I felt kind of bad for the reporters. After all, Hunter was a journalist, and plenty of his journalist friends were going to be attending the event. The early plans included a “media pen” near the entrance to the field. I’d never heard of such a thing, and it sounded kind of demeaning to me, but I learned it was a common term and a common occurrence at fancy affairs. In any case, it would have been better than what actually did happen, which was nothing. The “media pen” idea was canned, and there was a total press blackout. Some of us gave interviews, hoping to compensate for the lack of access—kind of a booby prize. In the end you saw a lot of reporters interviewing each other at the Woody Creek Tavern on Saturday.
Many financial and carnal favors were offered for one of these.
The stepped-up security began on Friday night. County vehicles drove up and down, depositing orange cones and No Parking signs on both sides of Woody Creek Road. Leaflets were distributed to every house on the road, suggesting that people keep their dogs, cats, horses, cows, pigs, and Komodo dragons inside on Saturday night, as there were going to be bright lights and loud noises. The full security onslaught came first thing Saturday morning; it looked like the neighborhood was being overrun by the Viet Cong. Scores of part-time security people dressed in black from head to foot poured into Woody Creek. There were dozens at Owl Farm and dozens more at the entrance to the field; every house and driveway on the road had its own security person. For my security, I got a pretty, young, retired stripper named Sativa. I complained bitterly; I made her dinner. I told a number of friends that they could park in my driveway and walk to the tent. With Woody Creek in maximum-security lockdown mode, travel up and down our little country lane took on new dimensions. Was this what it was like trying to get from East to West Berlin? Parking in my driveway was a good option because the official parking was at the Woody Creek racetrack, four miles from Owl Farm, with limos constantly running back and forth. The folks at Flying Dog Ranch, Thompson friends and attendees of the event, also offered parking. A couple of miles up the road from my place, they hired a taxi to be on permanent duty shuttling guests to and from the party. As I said, it was an easy walk from my cabin to the party; making it back was a different matter entirely.
Johnny Depp’s people did everything possible to be sensitive to Hunter’s neighbors and the rural character of Woody Creek.
Several people took me up on my offer, among them my buddy Loren Jenkins and my date and her sister. My date was my date because she told me she was my date. A couple of weeks earlier she had come up to me and announced that she was going to be my date for the memorial. It was okay with me; she had her own invitation. When she mentioned that she was having a dress made in New York, was herself making up a batch of tincture of peyote and fresh coca leaves, and wasn’t planning on wearing any underwear, the date idea really got some traction and I gave up any thought of arguing. I also figured I was pretty safe because her dad is one of my best friends.
Saturday evening came. There was a light rain. Loren, my first wife; Cass, our daughter; Eleanor; Eleanor’s husband, Kuni; and a couple of others set out from my place. My “date” and her sister and dad were running late and would be along later. I told Sativa that anyone who tried to park in my driveway probably had my permission, and not to worry about it. We set her up out by the road with a lawn chair, cooler, and table.
The rain wasn’t even substantial enough for us to put on the sweaters and jackets we’d brought
against the cool Colorado evening to come. When we arrived at the entrance to the memorial site there were a couple dozen photographers set up across the street, most of them professionals with long lenses, some kids with little cameras. They obviously had to hike it from the Tavern, and I was glad to see that they weren’t being hassled by the army of VC ninja security guys. The monument stood tall under the blue drapery. The road up to the tent passed in front of the entrance and circled back down. The walkway to the tent was festooned with banners with images of some of Hunter’s favorite authors—Hemingway, Steinbeck—the whole thing had the trappings of a medieval joust.
It really was a big tent. There were an awful lot of people already there when we arrived, and it still seemed cavernous. Everything from the bar in the center to the furniture was draped in dark fabric: blues, purples, and black. Draped to the point that you couldn’t really tell what was underneath. You couldn’t tell that the bar was a bar or the couches and chairs were couches and chairs.
I was told that the guest list was the same as for the Jerome event, plus. The plus turned out to be mostly big-name Hollywood and Washington types who couldn’t make that first service because of the short notice, and a few regular locals whose names had just slipped people’s minds when the Jerome list was created. It was an impressive cast of characters. Since the bar was completely draped with mourning cloth, waiters and waitresses roamed around with mint juleps and bottled water. The drinks stopped being served when the speeches started. The oratory was a bit more lucid than at the Jerome affair. A lot of the same people spoke: family, Steadman, Doug Brinkley, and others, plus some really heavy-hitters like George McGovern. John Kerry was in attendance but didn’t speak. The speechifying did go on, but it was impossible to get impatient when you considered the lineup.
As soon as the speeches were over people came out of nowhere and pulled off all the drapery to reveal what was essentially a huge set designed to look like Hunter’s kitchen and living room. There were skulls, bats, stuffed animals, weapons, exact duplicates of the furniture and floor covering, even refrigerators like Hunter’s, full of the beer and stuff Hunter’s refrigerator was always full of. It was great. I heard it was the weasel event planner’s idea, and I’ll cheerfully give him credit if that’s the case.
The entertainment was a mixed bag. A Japanese taiko drum band was playing from the time people started to arrive, and intermittently throughout the course of the evening. They had created a special piece in Hunter’s honor. It was something, walking up the path to the tent with the exotic percussion echoing all around. I’d never heard anything like it before. Old Thompson friend jazz flutist David Aram played. Nitty Gritty Dirt Band alumnus and neighbor Jimmy Ibbotson played. Lyle Lovett got up on the stage with no introduction whatsoever and played a solo set. The stage for the music had its own tent just across from the front of the main tent.
Hunter becomes one with the zephyrs.
The taiko band was the only music leading up to the blastoff. When the speeches ended and the drapery came off the furnishings, the bar opened and the drums started again. Waiters and waitresses came around with trays and made sure that everyone had a glass of champagne. It was clear that “it” was about to happen. The band stopped and “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum came on the loudspeakers. My friend George and I were sitting at a table toward the entrance side of the tent, the back of the tent as it faced the monument. Instead of shouldering our way through the crowd that was gathering toward the front, we went out the entrance and walked around. A couple of steps up and we were at the very front, standing next to Johnny Depp, the best spot in the house. The music was loud and then louder. As it swelled, the drapery began to move and slowly rise up. It was actually being sucked down into a tube at the back of the fist. The whole scene was full Hollywood drama. Then the fist was completely revealed. Huge spotlights illuminated it, and the peyote button lit up, began to spin, and change colors. “Spirit in the Sky” boomed. This went on long enough for the entire effect to be absorbed.
And then the fireworks, which contained Hunter.
Apparently when one is cremated, the end product isn’t that sandy stuff we see on TV. The result of real cremation is, for lack of a better term, a lot chunkier. For this reason, Hunter’s remains had to be pulverized before they could be packed into the explosive canisters. This was done. Then a certain percentage of them was given to Juan and Jennifer, an equal amount to Anita, and the rest was shipped to the fireworks people in Florida. Doc was such a big guy that they had to use more charges than they had initially planned. The fireworks with Hunter imbedded in them traveled from Florida to Woody Creek in an armored car.
Johnny Depp’s tribute to his friend.
So the peyote button spun and blinked and changed color, the music echoed across the valley, and what would have been Hunter’s favorite part, the explosions, began. Shooting straight upward from the ground on both sides of the monument, and far higher, great colored streams of flame and light delivered what remained of Hunter S. Thompson into the ether above Woody Creek. I turned to George, “This is pretty swell, being here tonight, like this, but wouldn’t we both trade it for one more night in the kitchen with Doc?” As George was agreeing, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was one of the monument team guys. Standing directly behind us, he had tears rolling down his cheeks and he was nodding. All of those guys would have killed to have met Hunter just once.
The pyrotechnics ended and the party shifted into high gear, with the massive spotlights pointed at the monument creating three beautiful intersecting “gonzo fist” shadows on the low clouds that created a ceiling over Woody Creek. I thought of Hunter’s last year, and his pain, and I thought that perhaps when we age and our senses become less acute, our vision and hearing dim, it’s so that when we finally leave this world, we won’t miss it so much.
—Michael Cleverly
Acknowledgments
In Hunter’s books his acknowledgments came in the form of an Honor Roll, and to honor him we’re going to continue that tradition. Hunter would never mention exactly what kind of contribution the honoree was being credited for; we expect that he did this to protect the guilty. Most of the people who have shared their memories and personal photographs with us are not included on the Honor Roll, as their contributions are enormous and obvious and can be seen throughout the text of the book, either as the subjects of their own chapters or with photograph credits. There are a few exceptions in which an individual’s participation went beyond the sharing of stories and pictures.
HONOR ROLL
Andy Stone
Linda Lafferty
Randi Bolton
DeDe Brinkman
Deb Fuller
Heidi Mitchell
Stephanie Wells
Eleanor Takahashi
Kuni Takahashi
Oliver Takahashi
Cass Zajicek
John Zajicek
Hayden Cleverly
Tamara Tormohlen
Juan Thompson
Jennifer Thompson
William Thompson
Carol Craig
Simon Beriro
Tina Beriro
Jeff Hanna and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Ed Hoban
Mary Harris
Shep Harris
Terry Helsing
Joe Fredricks
Paul Bresnick
Jeremy Cesarec
George Sells
Ziska Childs
About the Authors
MICHAEL CLEVERLY is an Aspen-area artist. He has been a columnist for the Aspen Times Weekly since 2000.
BOB BRAUDIS has been the sheriff of Pitkin County, Colorado, since 1986.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
PRAISE FOR
The Kitchen Readings
“For those of us who knew him, there were always two Hunter S. Thompsons: the pyrotechnic Gonzo character of booze and drugs
of his public persona; the amazingly engaging, caring, and brilliant Southern gentleman who held court in private from his kitchen stool in his home in Woody Creek. Michael Cleverly and Bob Braudis have done a masterful job of presenting the latter Hunter S. Thompson in The Kitchen Readings, a tale of the smart, amusing, and passionate soul behind the Gonzo mask. For anyone wanting to really understand the literary impetus for such modern classics as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Curse of Lono, this is a must read.”
—Loren Jenkins, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and senior foreign editor for National Public Radio
“The Kitchen Readings has many untold stories…. Another important book for your library if you would like to learn more about Hunter’s life at Owl Farm from some of his closest friends and neighbors…. I found it honest, refreshing, and great fun.”
—Deborah Fuller, longtime friend and personal assistant to the Good Doctor for twenty-three years
“I read the book on Halloween and it was frightening, as if I had been visited by Hunter himself. Few people knew him as well as Braudis and Cleverly, and they have preserved him in all his treachery, foolishness, and wisdom. If Hunter were wearing lipstick—their faces would be smeared with gratitude.”
—Bob Rafelson, award-winning writer-director of Five Easy Pieces
“There’s Hunter Thompson the writer, Hunter Thompson the character, and Hunter Thompson the man. Most of us know the first two, but only a few can claim to have known the third. Here is a memoir of a deep four-decade friendship with one of America’s national treasures. Braudis and Cleverly are the real deal, and they are natural storytellers. This book is hilarious, heartbreaking, and hard to put down.”
The Kitchen Readings Page 21