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How I Almost Got into
Hunter Thompson’s Memorial ... |
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But Had a
Good Time Anyway |
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Fireworks shooting off Hunter's ashes out of big red fist. |
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I prepared myself for
Hunter Thompson’s
goodbye-blast by watching a New York City Fringe performance of
Todd Robbins, master magician and
illusionist. Although the show staged as a séance, Robbins doesn’t actually
believe in spirits and coolly set out to debunk the mysteries of the night,
including the idea that the dead return to give us a message. I didn’t
for a minute think that Johnny Depp’s homage to the great and crazy Thompson
was intended to invoke anything supernatural … but why would
Depp… spend two million
dollars if someone weren’t hoping for a little otherworldly communiqué.
Robbins’ performance was a fun bag of tricks, but Thompson’s memorial had
the great aspens, glorious Colorado clouds and Hollywood on its side.
Anything might happen. |
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My plans for the trip were sketchy. Thompson family friend and ‘first gate’
Matt Mosley told me I was not a friend and couldn’t come to the party. When
I told him I could write a piece for High Times, magazine, he was even more
adamant that writers weren’t wanted, but did eventually promise me an
interview with Thompson’s widow Anita. A start or so I thought, and though
I despise party crashing, I have been known to try. The night Steven’s
Speilberg’s Alamo studio opened up on the Universal lot was on the top of my
least successful crash lists. Being a young actress at the time, with
dubious connections, I was unable to convince the henchmen that I was worthy
and was duly escorted off the lot in a makeshift paddy wagon. The invitees
stared in at me as if I were really going off to jail instead of being
escorted to my parked Rent-A-Wreck. Luckily, I was too young to feel the
real sting of humiliation. But then, how many of those punters got into New
York’s Studio Fifty-Four by mentioning the name of Steven King’s agent –
King, all the rage with the release of the film Carrie. But more often than
not, I’m the one digging frantically for cash while the in-crowd shoots
through the toll stations, flaunting their EZ Passes as they go. |
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Still, the idea that writers were being rejected from a writer’s wake struck
me as odd. Understandably, writers might be tempted to write about the event
and that could present a problem if privacy were a factor. If a painter
dies and painter friends come to mourn, more than likely, a painting will
not come out of it. The same guarantee couldn’t be said for musicians,
especially songwriters, but then again we’re talking about the act of
writing which quite often entails reporting. But this was the death of
someone who told an interesting version of the truth and his death is a
loss. Apparently, he did ask for his ashes to be spewed out of a big red
fist, but did he really say “and don’t you dare let a goddam writer into the
joint”? |
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When we pulled up to
Woody Creek
Tavern, Hunter’s neighborhood backyard bar and grill, a bunch of
grizzled newspaper guys were milling about sharing war stories and trying to
figure out where a point of entry might be. Denver guitar maker,
Scott Baxendale, was there
with his own documentary crew in tow, hoping to give Johnny Depp a
screenplay about his life as a renegade musician. I, too, had a script
--mine with a great Scottish male lead, but figured after playing Peter Pan
creator James Barrie, Depp might be tired of rolling his r’s and had left it
at home in a drawer. Nobody at the bar seemed to know where to go but all
were hoping that the Hollywood cabal would show up later at Woody’s when the
booze ran out under the big tent. |
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There was definitely an air of expectation in the joint. When
famous people are expected
anywhere, let alone a small town place like Woody Creek, the molecules
bounce around like monkeys in a space capsule. Hard core waitresses were
slinging out Gonzo Imperial Porter as models started pulling up looking for
a bathroom. You could have cut the atmosphere with an eagle feather. |
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Clearly a strategy was
needed. By this point, I had hooked up with an old pal Tim, an environmental
poet, and Jamie, the best-dressed man in the West. Jamie had failed his
California bar and was now a writer. His dusty brown cowboy leisure suit
and straw hat should have gotten him into the White House. We were a group
to contend with.
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A car and driver was
called for -- so we engaged a local, Lardo, who knew the lay of the land.
As I waited for the boys to money up at the local airport ATM, I spotted a
blonde pony-tailed suit who bore the look of ‘invited guest’ all over his LA
tan. Lardo offered him a lift, but blondie was concerned that his name was
on the list at Aspen’s Jerome Hotel and needed to leave from there. Before
he bolted, I managed to squeeze out his name and said “see you at the party,
Kevin.” |
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The boyz returned and
off we scrambled for the port of entry to paradise. I hadn’t seen as many
human blockades since 9-ll, though these guys wore tight black tee shirts
and carried clipboards. They were really nice local lads hired for the
event – who could blame them for enjoying a little power? At the first
gate, I, now sitting in the front seat with Lardo, was asked for my invite.
I told him I was “Kevin’s” date and that we were meeting at the soiree. He
looked through his list and found Mr. Simonson, but no “plus one”. I
explained that we were supposed to fly in from LA together, but I took a
detour through Glenwood Springs. He seemed to like the sound of that and
then asked for my I.D. …that I luckily produced. By chance the entire … “C”
page … that would have included my last name was omitted from his general
list. Providence. It seemed like I was magically going to get through.
But when he looked into the back seat and figured I was trying to sneak in
with two others, he got suspicious, no matter how much Lardo explained to
him that they were picked up at the airport separately. He said “Only two
people can get in without proof to this event – two Johns: Depp and Kerry.
“Now, please turn your vehicle around.” So much Mr. Nice Guy. |
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As the time to blast
off was getting closer, we had to race around looking for other access.
Every time we got close, a sheriff’s car would appear mysteriously out of
the mist and we were hustled back down the road. We kept thinking, “ what
would Hunter do”, but we weren’t Hunter and there were a lot of “them.”
Beyond the obvious ironies… it seemed strange that Hunter's family made such
a big PR story out of the event and then closed it off to people who would
inevitably need to write about it. |
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Big red fist being protected by Woody Creek's finest. |
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Finally, Tim took his
own car and drove us down Woody Creek Road past two miles of "no parking"
cones and left me and Jamie with a tiny cluster of journalists who had been
standing across the road from Owl Farm for hours --- everyone waiting for
the ball to drop and the fist to ejaculate. The sentry stood on the other
side of the road looking like they expected the cavalry to run them down.
There were only about fifty people on our side, many with expensive cameras
who weren’t likely to risk breaking them by dashing through the fence. In
fact, it was orderly and respectful, though most were pissed off at the same
time.
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AP journalist (left) who has sullied my reputation -- minor story for a
man whose spent years in Africa -- standing next to young journalist from
United Arab Emirates. He's the one who really wanted to run down the
gates with youthful fervor and hope. |
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My core group, a
writer from the Independent, an AP journalist and a student/writer from the
United Arab Emirates began chanting, “Hunter, this is f…d”. Someone said I
started. I really don't remember. It seemed to have arisen spontaneously
from the collective frustration of this gathering of pissed-off
journalists. It did, however, worry the guards. |
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Suddenly, a huge
floodlight was blasted in our faces making it almost impossible to get
photographs. One of the younger photographers yelled out that “ we are
privileged to even be allowed to stand there”. This only produced guffaws
from the cynics (and we were legion) and we chanted even louder. |
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I kept trying to
remember that this was indeed a memorial, but it was a Gonzo memorial and
what was the proper etiquette? After all, inside the tent, blow up sex dolls
were mixing it up with the likes of
George McGovern and Bill Murray. For my part, I just wanted a sign that
despite Todd Robbins theories on no life after death, Hunter would indeed
emerge from the ether and give us the nod. |
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From the dark, the
slow beats of Japanese drums started to roll. Someone from our group said
it sounded more like trashcan lids being banged, but to my mind it was at
least ceremonial. The group tensions were mounting, as the moment got
closer. We screamed at the guards to turn off the floods and eventually to
their credit they did. More drums. Louder. The towered fist stood proudly
against the sky ready to deliver. Its lights went on, blinking one color
after another, a circle of colors, the tower gathering strength and then
boom: out spew Hunter Thompson’s powdered remains into the Woody Creek sky
and all over our heads. A blessing? I carefully wiped off Hunter from my
glasses and slipped him into my pocket. A display of fireworks followed,
Mr. Tambourine Man
was heard, and then it was done. |
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There wasn’t much time
to weep or laugh as the sheriff’s posse rushed in to disperse us. Tim
returned to pick me up and we hightailed it back to the Woody Creek Tavern
to eat and wait for the ‘real Hunter crowd’ to show up. Lots of theories
were bounced about where the party would go next and what happened inside
the tent, but basically everyone was now on to the next story. |
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From the corner of the
bar, an old timer caught my eye. He curled his finger, urging me to come
closer. I joined him on a stool as he told me had just seen something
special and did I want to know. If this were New York, he would then open
up his trench coat –but this was Colorado and a memorial. I bought him a
Gonzo and asked him what he had seen. His eyes darted around the room and
then moving next to my ear, whispered “a yeka”. There was so much music I
couldn’t hear properly and asked him to repeat.” A yema”, he gurgled. I
moved even closer… despite his breath. He repeated again and this time I
heard. “A Yeti”-- a big foot. This man wasn’t drunk, he was merely telling
me he had just seen Big Foot, right about the time that Hunter’s ashes were
expelled from the red fist. Was letting me know in his way that Hunter’s
spirit had just gone running into the woods in the form of a big yellow
Yeti? Yup, that’s what he believed he had seen. Well, at least it was
newsworthy. |
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I
thanked him profusely for sharing and rejoined my friends. I only mentioned
it to Tim the next day when the image of a big blonde Hunter Yeti wouldn’t
leave my mind. Being a trooper, Tim piled me into his car and we headed off
to the pass where the Yeti spotter had spotted Yeti. It was up the Laredo
road, Upper Woody Creek Road, I guess, desolate and a bit spooky, the music
from the film Deliverance playing in my head. Otherwise, it was pretty
quiet except for a broken down cabin and what appeared to be a sad campfire
holding on to life. Gathered around it were a bunch of men so I asked Tim
to stop the car and we hiked into their piece of forest. There were four of
them, one even wearing mirrored sunglasses. Everything was in shambles, even
the old 250-pound dog lying in front of the fire. I didn’t have good
feelings about the group, but we had gotten this far and I needed to know
something. As we approached, I overheard one of them say, “Oh, this oughta
be good”. Well, I would show them that I was no Yuppie looking for Hunter
Thompson’s house, but a seeker of truth in the forest. Tim, who’s a foot
taller, stood protectively behind me as I entered their unholy circle. I
explained to them that we weren’t lost. “So what do you want”, asked the
grisliest of the troupe. Summoning my courage and letting go of any
embarrassment, I finally managed to ask them if ever, in all their time
there, had they spotted anything that resembled Big Foot, Sasquatch… a
golden Yeti? At that point we became their Sunday afternoon entertainment.
Once they stopped hoohawing and belting down whatever liquids were in their
bottles, the leader calmly said that they had never known a Yeti to be in
these woods – ever. He then scratched his head thoughtfully and added that
what my “source” may have seen was a cinnamon bear, golden and big,
sometimes walking like a man. I thanked them and walked quickly back to the
car, their laughter ringing behind us. |
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Yeti ??? |
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Feeling only slightly stupider than I did when rejected from Hunter’s party,
we carried on down the road, till I suddenly yelled, “stop” and asked Tim to
turn the car around. Lying on the side of the road was a huge furry yellow
mass. We got out of the car and tried to move it with a stick, but it was so
heavy that the stick broke. Finally, we managed to turn it around. It was
clearly an animal fur, yellow and without any trace of blood. It almost
looked like it had been a rug as there was no decomposition, just fresh
blonde fur and a backing that was well preserved. Tim, who has studied some
taxidermy, said he had never seen anything like it. It had the appearance
of a cloak, worn around the shoulders and then dropped suddenly, as if the
being inside took another shape and ran off, leaving his fur coat behind.
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The finding only
raised more questions and fewer answers. If the bearish-looking fur were a
Yeti, what was the yeti now wearing? And if the Yeti was actually Hunter,
what the hell was he up to and what was his message? |
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A
few days later, while swimming in the mineral pool at Glenwood Springs, I
met up with Greg, a director of photography who filmed the making of the
Hunter tower and the memorial event. Apparently the party is to be a
movie. Suddenly it was clear why the guest list was so restricted – we
didn’t pass the casting call. All the lovely models who possibly never have
heard of Fear and Loathing, let alone read it, looked so much better on
camera than a motley crew of grisly writers. Can’t argue with that. But… was
that what Hunter would have wanted? Who knows? |
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I floated in the water
effortlessly after that…the minerals keeping me buoyant. Everything was
lighter. I put all thoughts of spirits and rejection out of my mind. It
wasn’t until much later, when I returned home and began separating out my
clothes for the wash, that I found Hunter’s bits, nestled in the bottom of
my pant’s pockets. I picked them out carefully and put them on a seashell by
the windowsill. They were grayish, but in time, in the sun, they might turn
a shade like cinnamon. I will wait and see. |
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Here is a copy of
my letter to the Aspen Times and Denver Post: |
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To
the editor: |
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"In response to the
article in the paper, I'd like to add a rejoinder -- it wasn't my intention
to show any disrespect to Mrs. Thompson and family members who are clearly
in mourning. It seems, though, that the event was publicized to the point
that those readers affected by Mr. Thompson's words and deeds were
encouraged to be near him at the end in whatever way they could. Memorials
serve as cathartic events ... for someone like Thompson, whose words
affected and inspired so many, it was a double catharsis -- but only for
those inside the big tent. We are living in psychically challenged times
where the "lone voice" is needed more than ever and Thompson's voice was a
reminder that this country is not entirely asleep. It's cold out here in
Amerika. So when you read Fear and
Loathing... or listen to the words of Abbie Hoffman or Spaulding Grey, all
bristling with clarity and truth, you realize you're not alone. |
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"After
living in post-9/11 NYC with
its fitful attempts at order and 'security', suddenly facing all the black
shirts struck me as particularly ironic and inappropriate. As for being
accused of leading the barbarians to the gate, I'm only 5 ft and
wear glasses, hardly a perfect specimen for
rabble rousing. However, an event which carried the sense of 'them and
us', already so pervasive in this country, struck me as an imperfect
tribute to someone who valued the role of an outsider. Perhaps if Hunter
had been with us, we could have crashed the event together. Next time,
perhaps." - Nancy Cohen |
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DEEP IN THE DEAL |
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In my film
Deep In the Deal, which I've been working on
for the last decade, these questions of separation and oneness are addressed
by luminaries and less known celestials (Richie Havens, Terrence
Mckenna, Gloria Steinem and the superintendent of my tenement,
Walter) and I would have loved to have interviewed
Mr. Thompson. I think he would enjoy the film's prophetic
gonzo stance.. many of the issues we deal with are just beginning
to merge into the public's consciousness. I am surprised at all this halla
ballooey over my appearance at the memorial, but if it's to get the word out
about Deep in the Deal, then so be
it. I am in need of finishing funds for the edit .. so all are welcome to
jump on board my rickety space ship and help finish this terribly funny
film. To say it's a cross between Alice in Wonderland meets the DaVinci Code
would be putting it somewhat mildy. |
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Contact |
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Lambstar.com |
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BornAgainHippie |
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