Chapter 17 – Aspen Ho-Ho-Ho!

The cabin in the mountains of Aspen was unbelievable. It was just Chas and me in a three bedroom A-frame that had a sauna and a Jacuzzi and was over 2500 square feet of unadulterated decadence. It also had a wet bar with every imaginable liquor in existence. Since Seger had opted out of the deal—he was spending the Christmas holidays with a school teacher from Detroit who, I am told, he ended up marrying. Way to go Bob!

I had Richard’s old skis and the only time I had ever gone skiing before that was in Lake Placid, New York twenty-five years earlier. I had gone up there from Long Island with my mother, father, sister and brother with the Meltzer’s (friends of the family) and a guy, Michael Marks, who brought along an acoustic guitar. It was the first time I had ever played guitar and I learned some songs which included, Michael Row Your Boat Ashore and Kimbaya—heavy stuff. There had been a heat wave and we spent the entire week lounging by the motel swimming pool; the only time I got to use my skis was the first day on the bunny slopes.

Chas was a semi-accomplished skier and would head up to the top of Snowmass Mountain to the blue runs—they were the intermediate ones. I, on the other hand, spent the first day getting a few lessons from the blond haired, blue eyed ski instructor with a permanent tan from the summers in Malibu and the winters on the slopes with the sun reflecting off the white-capped majestic mountains. Unfortunately for me, he was a guy. While Chas was speeding down the blue and sometimes even the black advanced runs, I was delegated to the kinder and gentler slopes of the baby green runs. I had visions of coming home with a broken leg or worse and didn’t want to risk ruining my vacation plagued with injuries. Every morning I dreaded the conversation in the Blazer with Chas that went something like this:

“So James, are you ready to go to the top of the mountain with me?”

Or, “Come on James, you’re not going to learn how to ski from those beginner slopes, besides all the hot babes are at the top of the mountain.”

I almost hyperventilated thinking he would goad me into something I was just not ready for and would say: “I promise by the end of the trip I will attempt the blue runs but for now I sticking with the green ones. When I can go down the mountain without falling I will be ready. Okay?”

He would just shake his head and look at me with that Sandford smirk on his face. Maybe if I was ten years younger I would have thrown caution to the wind and go for it, but as you get older you get more fearful. If it were now, I don’t even think I would get off the bunny slopes at all.

The second or third day in Aspen we went up to Don Johnson’s ski chalet so Chas could go over some song ideas for Don’s upcoming record. I felt so out of place but, being a songwriter, I wanted to be included in the process. Who knows, maybe by being in the right place at the right time I would even get to write a song with Johnson and Chas. Wishful thinking, I know, but it was Christmas and stranger things were known to happen. Johnson and Chas were huddling like quarterback planning a down-and –out play with his wide receiver over by the wet bar. I was a few feet behind feeling like I was on the opposing team waiting for the referee to thrown down the yellow flag for off-sides or interference. Johnson looked at me suspiciously and said to Chas,

 “Who the f*** is this guy and what is he doing here?”

I could take a hint so I meandered over to the bar and fixed myself a brandy then sat by myself in the corner like Peck’s bad boy. I was a third wheel on a Harley and I felt like running as far away from the Miami Vice star as I could. I’m not the tallest guy in the world but I felt small, miniscule—like Danny DeVito in wafer-thin soled shoes.

After the meeting, we headed back to Snowmass and I soon forgot all about being dissed—I was relieved to have my comfortable fear of skiing to contend with. Chas told me that on Christmas Eve, Johnson was throwing a party where everyone who was anyone would be attending. I figured with all the other people in the room, most of them famous, rich and beautiful, I wouldn’t have to deal with the host.

He wasn’t exaggerating. When I walked into the room and saw more stars shinning than inside the Milky Way. I happened to see Jack Nicholson sitting at a curved table next to Hunter S. Thompson looking out at the expanse of the Rocky Mountains while smoking a joint. I noticed there was an empty seat on Thompson’s left so I sat down. I saw they were engrossed in some metaphysical conversation or, more than likely, who at the party was fucking who and what were the chances of having some kind of a drug induced orgy. I just sat there hoping they would pass the joint over to me. I knew any pot that Nicholson smoked would have to be A-number one-primo shit. Now there was nothing left of the joint but an inch long roach that had gone out, so Nicholson placed it on his black leather cigarette case and continued his conversation with Thompson when I finally when I got up the courage to speak up.

“Excuse me Mr. Nicholson; are you doing anything with that roach?”

He looked at me with those penetrating Jack Torrance eyes like I was from the planet Neptune and I felt my heart leap into my sinuses. After the uncomfortable silence he said, “Sure kid, knock yourself out,” and handed me the roach. I didn’t know whether to smoke it or have it bronzed—I smoked it. It was primo shit.

Earlier in the day Chas and I went to the local mall and visited a ski shop where a very attractive young lady, I think her name was Toni or Terri worked. We told her there was a party at Don Johnson’s chalet later in the evening and she was raring to go. This was the time when Johnson was trying to reunite with his ex-wife, Melanie Griffith and she had come down to the party around ten or eleven o’clock. Meanwhile Terri or Toni was in the bathroom with Johnson doing either getting a blowjob or doing blow, probably both, but I wasn’t in the room with them so I can’t say for sure. When Griffith got wind of the situation she started banging on the door and screaming in that high pitched Valley Girl whine she is so famous for. A few minutes later Johnson exited the bathroom with his tail between his legs trying to persuade his ex that it was all in good fun, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Glasses were shattering; food went soaring through the air making esoteric art replacing the paintings that once proudly hung on the walls, people with frozen faces stood by while the two of them sprinted out in to the winter wonderland. A moment or two later, the patrons were back to abnormal and acting as if nothing ever happened. It was a damn fine party.

A week later, on New Year’s Eve, it was the grand reopening of the Hotel Jerome in downtown Aspen. They were throwing a black tie party for the event while Chas and I scouted the perimeter of the place dressed in our jeans and winter coats. I don’t know what it is about Chas, but he is always the guy that can get into any party he wants. I mean, there can be two lawyer types with engraved invitations standing at the ropes being hassled by the bouncer, but when they see Chas, they say, “Oh you’re cool, go on in.” I would tag along soaking up the excess starlight that reflected off of his shoulders. It was a much different crowd inside the Jerome that night and everyone was dressed to the nines, maybe even the nine and a halves. Teddy Kennedy was there sixteen years after Chappaquiddick with his whole entourage drinking enough to sink a whole fleet of battleships, Martina Navratilova had introduced Andy Mill to Chris Evert that night, Jack was back with his old drinking buddy, Bill Murray, Glen Frey and Jimmy Buffet were also there to name but a few. There was one young lady in attendance that seemed to be paying special attention to Chas. I told him not to look but a beautiful brunette was giving him the once, maybe twice over. He looked anyway. It was the stunning twenty year old Brooke Shields. He was at a loss for words which is something Chas Sandford rarely would fall victim to—he admitted he had a crush on Shields ever since he saw the movie, Pretty Baby. I urged him to go over and talk to her, and he was just about to get the nerve to ask her to dance when the lights went off, the whistles, bells and streamers went haywire. It was midnight and by the time the lights came back on she was gone—Happy New Year 1986!

The last day at Snowmass I finally got the nerve to make it up to the blue runs. As I sat in the gondola crawling inch by inch up the ski lift I thought I was going to die. But I guessed if one were going to buy the farm, sleep the big sleep or hear the fat lady singing The End by The Doors, there could be worse ways. I had a few stiff shots of brandy in my system for the extra bit of courage needed to go through with my mission. Chas and I were standing at the precipice and I told him to go ahead and I would be right down.

“You’re not going to chicken out, are you James?” He said.

“No. I going to go down, but I have to do it on my own.” Sometimes a man has to do some things alone— on their own terms. As I watched him descend the slope with the ease and grace of an Arctic fox negotiating the twists and turns of the frozen terrain at full speed, I felt totally out of my element. Wimping out was not an option and the thought of returning to the bottom of the mountain on a ski lift would be something I would never be able to live down. Gathering all the strength and fortitude I could muster and throwing caution to the wind, I leapt. The incline of the first section was not too steep and I was able to stay on my skis, but the in the second turn I fell trying to avoid a skier racing past me at an incredible speed. I was okay and picked myself up and dusted the snow off my borrowed Vuarney sunglasses. By the time I reached the bottom, I had only fallen ten times without any broken bones—but I was sore and bruised and my butt felt like it had been flogged.

On the way back to L.A., I reflected on the trip and how amazing it felt to conquer my fears and at the same time be there for a friend in need. It was a mitzvah, but there was a lump in my throat knowing that there was nothing to come home to except my two dogs that I couldn’t even afford to feed. What goes up must come down and I was coming down off of an Aspen Mountain high surrounded by fame and fortune and was descending into the depths of depravity in the tar pits of Los Angeles without a band, or a job and with less than twenty dollars in my bank account. I knew it was going to be a rude awakening.