The Kitchen Readings (21 page)

The other issues remained. It became clear that all but Hunter's most loving neighbors might have a problem with a permanent tourist attraction. Especially considering the type of tourists it was likely to draw. It seemed that permanence wasn't feasible. As soon as the monument became a temporary structure, a lot of things got easier. Zoning and building permits were no longer a big issue. If aircraft couldn't avoid the thing for a bleeping week, screw them. As far as a special event permit went, people in Aspen had parties with hundreds of guests all the time. The fireworks and possible torching of Woody Creek were still on people's minds. The fireworks company sent a representative to hunker down with the Aspen Fire Department. Together they came up with a plan that was pretty much workable even if it never rained again. The plan involved mowing the meadow around the monument, soaking it, tankers full of water on hand, pyrotechnics that would be extinguished long before they came close to the ground, and more. Fortunately, there was rain the week before the event, and any lingering concerns there might have been about conflagration were laid to rest.

There were signs of life in the field behind Owl Farm toward the end of July. First, just a stake with an orange ribbon tied around it. Then workers began to repair the old rail fence and installed a steel ranch gate. Gravel was trucked in, and a road was built back up into the field. A large area was leveled off and covered with more gravel. Minor repairs were made to the entrance of Owl Farm, and security stations were created at that entrance and the entrance to the field. A new group of L.A. guys showed up. These were the people who were responsible for seeing that the thing got built. They were the polar opposite of the event planner and his crew of self-important weenies. Regular guys, they would work out in the “field of gonzo” all day and then head into Aspen at night to show folks how they partied in L.A. I have no idea how they made it through the summer.

A gigantic crane arrived, then generators and other heavy equipment. I encountered the first truck when I was coming out of the Woody Creek post office. A flat-bed semi, the biggest I'd ever seen, was stopped in front, the driver scratching his head, lost. With several huge cylinders as a load, it could only be one thing. You could see where the wrapping had pulled away from one of them that they were stainless steel. Another neighbor of Hunter's offered to lead the driver to the site.

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.