Bummer & Dammit Donnie
I knew three living legends before one of them died.
Donnie Cash died some years back in a car crash, so he never did grow old. Just like James Dean. The night before the funeral, we sat around drinking and telling Cash stories. Double D some called him -- short for Dammit Donnie.
Donnie had that third eye Eastern religion perspective that made life crystal clear -- providing your perspective revolved around endless partying. There came a Saturday night in January when Donnie and Satch Patridge showed up at my apartment, preparing to party all night. I had reasons to try to catch some sleep that night.
"Tomorrow's Super Bowl Sunday," I explained to Donnie, wanting to rest up for the next day festivities.
"Super Bowl Sunday!" Donnie exclaimed. "It's Super Bowl weekend!"
How could you argue with that insight. We stayed up and partied well into the the third quarter of some NFC blowout.
Donnie never did get to a Super Bowl, but we did take him to the Kentucky Derby one year.
We partied late and, it being Kentucky, started drinking whiskey early, around breakfast time. Just outside Churchill Downs, Donnie stopped us.
"Hold up a minute," he said, matter-of-factly. Donnie leaned over a bush and puked. When he finished, he growled, "let's go," as though nothing had happened.
Inside the racetrack, he started drinking heavily again, keeping up with the rest of us. Towards the end of the day we started walking out when Donnie stopped right in the middle of the infield. Amid the crowd of 100,000-plus, he bent over and puked again, leaving an obstacle for other revelers passing through the infield.
"Just like Donnie," Ed Wyatt laughed. "He pukes going into the derby, pukes coming out and never stops partying the whole time he's there."
Ed also knows the story about the time Donnie dangled a hooker by her ankle
from the eighth floor balcony of a St. Louis hotel, but I don't know any
of the other circumstances to do that story justice. Just that factuality,
though, established Donnie's reputation as a living
legend.
All the years I knew Donnie I would tell him that he was one of three living legends I knew. Nothing bothered Donnie as much as knowing there were other wild men out there doing their own outlandish thing.
He never paid much attention to the tales of Kevin "Bummer" Hall until the summer of '84 when I visited Bummer in Reno. Returning to Flora, my traveling companion, Carrot Briscoe, assured Donnie that not only did Bummer exist, but he was certifiable. Carrott first met Bummer as he was trying to run us down with his pick-up truck in the parking lot of a Reno Casino. His way of saying "hi." From that point on, Carrot and I prepared for the eventual meeting of the two legends.
While Donnie was usually too obnoxious for most company -- mixed or incestual -- he did have a reservoir of charm that he could turn on occasionally. Bummer had no such social graces.
There was the hockey game where Bummer mixed it up with some 6'6" player. His opponent immediately dropped his gloves and prepared to exchange punches. Bummer not only was still wearing gloves, he still had his stick in his hands. Surveying the scene, Bummer did what he considered the prudent thing. He drove the stick into his opponent's nose. This breach of decorum caused him to be surrounded by teammates as he was escorted off the ice, a step ahead of the angry opposing team.
Then there was the time we left a Frank Zappa concert during a snowfall. The fresh snow packed well and we engaged a group in a neighboring parking lot in a snow ball fight. This was harmless fun, but one jerk decided to play big man when a snowball came too close to his girlfriend. Picking me out, he said if another snowball was thrown he would thrash me.
"What?" I laughed.
"You heard me," he said. "I'm going to kick your ass if you throw that snowball."
I was still staring at him in disbelief when Bummer came over.
"What's up?" he asked.
"If you @$#$^%&# throw another snowball I'm going to splatter you all over the parking lot," boyfriend said.
"What was that?" Bummer asked innocently.
"If you @$#$^%&# throw another snow..."
Bummer sucker-punched boyfriend, knocking him on his fanny in front of his girlfriend.
Boyfriend got up, making further comments about what he was going to do to Bummer.
Bummer was not so mouthy. As soon as boyfriend regained his feet, Bummer punched him again, knocking him on the same fanny.
"Joe, get my gun from the glovebox," boyfriend commanded.
At this point a crowd had gathered -- laughing -- while the girlfriend told him to go.
Getting back to our car, Bummer had the last word on the situation.
"When he said to get the gun, I thought 'this guy's a bigger idiot than I am,'" da Bum said.
Once Bummer was diagnosed as manic depressive -- his behavior really didn't change. But at least he had control over the chaos that is Bummer.
In 1990 he was ordained a minister, performing the wedding service for Becky and I. He got the minister's license out of the back a National Enquirer and Dale Henson prepared the snazzy t-shirt pictured above. None of us was ever struck by lightning, so apparently God has a better sense of humor than most organized religions give him credit.
Or perhaps he just wants to delay Donnie's and Bummer's after-life reunion.