Introduction by Johnny Depp
When I think of Hunter, which is often, the
floodgates open and I am instantly, easily and willingly
overcome by a great deluge of memories. Memories as
diverse as the man himself soar through my mind. Images of
some of our less publicized adventures:
A dawn shopping expedition for magnum handguns...
A
3:00 A.M. head shaving appointment, duly and gingerly
performed by the Doctor...
Delicately nursing ghastly
hang-overs -- feeding each other Fernet Branca while
taking turns hitting from an oxygen tank (neither
worked)...
The sheer fascination of watching him salt
and pepper his food (it could take up to an hour, but no
less than twenty minutes)...
Our thankfully short
lived and nearly fatal impromptu decision to take
hillbilly brides -- long distance...
The two of us,
cackling like mad, chasing an escaped mynah bird (Edward
-- a gift from Hunter and Laila Nabulsi) through my
house...
Being locked in a San Francisco hotel room
with him for five days and nights (a vast accumulation of
condiments, fruit plates, club sandwiches, shrimp
cocktails, and yes...grapefruits, stacked precariously
high in the corner of the suite towering up to the
ceiling)...
Hours and hours of intensely lyrical
tete-a-tetes -- reading miraculous passages from his many
inspired and legendary works...
There were snappy, split-second, spot-on, hilarious
observations that would buckle anyone's knees, endless
moments of hysterical rage, hilarity and rantings that
most times rendered me fetal, feeble and weeping on the
floor with painful laughter.
Yes, he did have a knack, our good doctor. He had the
uncanny ability to ruffle feathers while simultaneously
charming anyone into anything, or out of anything that he
might have had his sights on. All the while, and always,
maintaining the story (because there was always a story).
Keeping a keen eye to the happenings around him. Ever the
observer, the gift of his genius never taken for granted.
His nature was to observe and dissect any and all
situations, so observe and dissect he did with an
inexorable fervor. He lived it, breathed it, and
celebrated it, all of it. And if you were lucky enough to
prowl alongside him on any of his escapades, so did you,
to the absolute hilt.
Every document, scrap of paper, newspaper clipping,
cocktail napkin and photograph were sacred to Hunter. What
lives in this book, are essential threads of his life's
tapestry, pieces of the puzzle that had been diligently
packed away, safely and surely for posterity. They form
major insight into his life and work. Wandering these
pages, it seems clear that Hunter was indeed more than
well acquainted, and even in concert, with what destiny
had in store for him.
Within minutes of hearing the devastating news of
Hunter's decision to end his life, I was on the phone with
Laila in a pathetic attempt to make some sense of what had
happened, which of course was impossible. We wept and
consoled one another as best we could under such horrible
circumstances. And then suddenly, a realization took hold,
as if the Doctor himself had nudged us out of our tragic
haze. At the exact same moment we both blurted out, "WHAT
ABOUT THE CANNON?" "Oh, God... The monument..." In that
very second the focus slowly began to change. We were very
well versed with what Hunter's expectations were, and they
were not small. "Nothing Dinky!!!" seemed to be the
prevalent instruction from our departed friend. The
initial drawings and design commenced the following
morning and construction of the beast followed within the
coming weeks. His request had been for a 150 ft.
monument/cannon to blast his remains into the sky over his
beloved Owl Farm.
Simple. Not simple. I had been advised to abandon any
hopes of this mission ever coming to fruition. Not only
impossible, but completely insane, I was told. We forged
ahead. During my research into how to make this
impossibility possible, I discovered that the Statue of
Liberty was 151 FEET TALL!!! shit..."Dinky" and Hunter's
monument seemed to be converging.
Knowing that detail was everything to him and that this
was a detail that needed to be addressed pronto, the
decision was made to up the stakes and the design was
changed for the monument to be scaled up to 153 ft. Two
feet higher. Why? Because in death, as in life, Hunter
would have to exceed the American Dream (and its comely
representative) by more than just an inch or two. If you
could drive a car on 40 lbs. of air pressure in each tire,
Hunter would drive on 100 lbs., just to be sure. Sure of
what, only he ever knew. It was a Hunter thing.
The Monument team and crew worked non-stop for months
bringing Hunter's final wish to life, making the
impossible possible. We all stayed focused and driven even
in the face of potential total failure, which loomed
perilously close throughout the entire process. It wasn't
until quite a bit later, once we were all wholly consumed
with the project that I realized a grand part of Hunter's
scheme was to distract those closest to him by handing
over such an enormous task. Somehow, he knew that once his
loved ones dove into the stringy muck of building the
cannon, their mourning period would be distracted by such
a mammoth undertaking. He was a subtle one that Dr.
Thompson.
Reminiscing about the good doctor has always conjured
up more than a few choice moments to chew on. Even now,
nearly two years since he made his exit, I still get as
keyed up when I think of him as I always did. And though I
know he won't be calling and that bastard phone won't be
ringing off the hook in the middle of the night I clearly
hear his voice. I hear him "WHOOP!!!" every time "One Toke
Over the Line" creeps up on the radio, I feel him puff up
when "Sympathy for the Devil" kicks in. He calms and
ponders the gravity of "Mr. Tambourine Man".
He appears when he is needed.
He arrives when
absurdity peaks.
I imagine he always will.
Johnny Depp
