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Larry Flynt
Sometimes we don’t get to choose our political allies. So it happened in 1983, when one of the world’s most notorious pornographers asked for my support. My campaign manager, Roger Iron Cloud—Paul’s cousin—received two campaign contributions of one thousand dollars each, one from Larry Flynt, the publisher of Hustler, and one from his wife, Althea, along with an invitation to a party at his Bel Air home. Since Flynt also offered to pay for first-class airfare, hotel rooms, and a rental car, we accepted. I needed something more formal to wear. As much as AIM detested used clothing, we had put that kind of donation to good use at Yellow Thunder Camp. Rummaging through piles of garments and shoes, I picked out a pair of pretty good cowboy boots and a corduroy sport coat with leather elbow patches to wear to Flynt’s mansion.
I had seen Hustler, Flynt’s magazine which left nothing to the imagination, and I had read about his trials for alleged violation of pornography laws. I knew that after he had been shot by a never-apprehended sniper in the South, he had been paralyzed from the waist down. Roger and I stood around the Flynts’ swimming pool until Larry appeared in his wheelchair to shake our hands. His wife was a slender, very pretty woman with jet black hair who had been featured in his magazine. The love between her and Flynt was mutual and very deep—I saw it. She stayed with him even though he was dead, sexually speaking. I could tell he was in great, constant pain from his wound. Later when the pain became unbearable, he had his spinal cord severed.
After chatting with the Flynts for a few minutes, I went to get some fruit juice, and I met former child evangelist-turned-Hollywood-actor Marjoe Gortner. “Hello there,” he said. “That’s a nice sport coat. It that Manuel’s?” I said, “No, it’s “Room-ahge,” as my dad had always called old clothes he got from places like the Salvation Army. Gortner said, “Oh, I haven’t heard of that designer. Where’s he located?”
“South Dakota,” I said, straight-faced.
“Oh,” he said as I walked off.
A few weeks later, Roger and I were invited back to Flynt’s home for a private dinner party. That time, he sent his Lear jet to Rapid City to bring us to California. Over appetizers, Flynt startled me with an announcement. He was about to mount an effort to become the Republican nominee for president of the United States. He went around the table to introduce several big-time advisers, experts, men who had previously run national political campaigns. Then Flynt dropped the other shoe. “I really wanted Jesse Jackson as my running mate,” he said. “But Jesse’s a Democrat and he turned me down. Now I’m asking you—will you join my ticket to run for vice president?”
I couldn’t have been more surprised. I managed to say, “What?”
Flynt explained that he had $20 million in cash, his own money, that he was prepared to spend on this effort. I said, “Before I give you my answer, let me call AIM.” Roger and I talked briefly about the pros and cons of associating myself with a notorious pornographer, wondering what this was really all about and if Flynt was serious. Then I dialed Clyde Bellecourt, who advised me not to get involved with Flynt. Dennis Banks, Larry Leventhal, and my brother Bill, however, all thought the publicity was worth the risk. They said yes—and that was good enough for me.
The next day, Flynt called a press conference to announce our candidacy. Afterward, he gave Roger and me each one thousand dollars in cash for “walking-around money.” We hadn’t played in that league before, so I asked Flynt, “How much are you supposed to tip at restaurants?” He said, “Tip the valets and doormen five bucks. If you go to a real nice upscale restaurant, slip the maitre d’ a hundred dollars. At a middle-of-the-road restaurant, twenty dollars is enough. If you go to a greasy spoon, give him five dollars.” I looked at Roger and he looked at me. I said, “Do we know any greasy spoons that have a maitre d’?” When I could speak without laughing, I said, “If that’s the way we’re going, I guess we’ll need some tip money.” Flynt gave us each another thousand dollars.
A little later, I went into Flynt’s private office and asked him, “What’s really going on here?” He called in his security chief, campaign manager, and a couple of other people. I recall his saying, “I’m a pornographer. I have a right to be one, and I want to be the best pornographer there is. I’m really concerned about the First Amendment—but Reagan has proven that he’s obscene. Now I want to remove that threat from this country.” As we talked over the next two days, we got down to the nitty-gritty. Twenty states whose total delegates were the minimum number required to win inclusion in the national primary would be targeted. One of those was Wisconsin, which has many Indian people. I knew some skins there who could plausibly present themselves as Republicans and who would become delegates. When we got to the convention, they would place Flynt’s name in nomination.
Realistically, we knew we’d never get that far. Flynt’s political advisers believed that rather than allow an infamous pornographer’s name to be placed in nomination for the highest office in the country under the gaze of the world media, the party bosses would sit down with us in a back room and work out a deal. In return for Flynt’s withdrawal, the party would get the religious right off his back. My deal point was Article VI, Paragraph 2 of the U.S. Constitution, which says treaties are the supreme law of the land and judges in every state are bound by them. I wanted that enforced, especially when it came to Indian treaties, so in exchange for Flynt’s and my bowing out, the party would have to make public commitments about Article VI.
I had to admire a guy who would spend twenty million of his own money to back his political beliefs, but we both knew it was a very dangerous move. Many people in this country have been killed for far less. Accordingly, Flynt agreed to hire a bodyguard for me. He also hired John Thomas. After having gotten shot with me on the Rosebud, he had done excellent service for AIM and the International Treaty Council on the Longest Walk and during the Iranian hostage crisis.
On the third day of my visit, Roger and I went into Flynt’s office. He was behind his desk in a wheelchair, and I noticed a briefcase on the floor next to the desk. He pushed it toward me and said, “Open it.” It was full of money. I remember Flynt told me, “Go ahead, take a bundle.” I looked at him for several seconds, then reached down and took out a packet. “You want to count it?” he said. “There are a hundred hundred-dollar bills in there.” That was ten thousand dollars. I looked at Roger and he looked at me. Wow!
Roger and I flew home the next day. I gave some of Flynt’s money to KILI Radio, some to the International Indian Treaty Council, and the rest to Yellow Thunder Camp to buy new tools and a used pickup to haul firewood. In the next several months, Flynt was in the news because of contempt-of-court charges he faced in Los Angeles. He also had several other cases being argued in the appellate courts. I began to fly around the country with him in his private jet. I got the best of everything, including limousines and magnificent hotel suites.
Flynt gave me another ten-thousand-dollar bundle before I flew with him to D.C., where his bodyguards got busted for carrying weapons. Before he went to the U.S. Supreme Court, he warned me that he was going to do something outrageous. I didn’t trust him, so I didn’t go along. Instead of taking part in his circus, I met with Kwame Toure and the All-African People’s Revolutionary Party, trying to get black voters to listen to Larry Flynt. After the chief justice adjourned court for the day, I was told that Flynt had unbuttoned his coat and shirt to reveal a T-shirt with a picture of an ejaculating penis. As news photographers snapped away, U.S. marshals hustled him out of the building. They couldn’t arrest him for contempt because court had adjourned, but he got what he was after—massive publicity.
Despite the repellant, exploitive nature of some photos and cartoons that appear regularly in Hustler and other Flynt magazines, I believe Flynt is a sincere man. He gave other Indians and me almost thirty five thousand dollars, money that went to good causes. Once the word got out in Hollywood that he had twenty million dollars to spend, his Bel Air mansion was deluged by all kinds of people, most with their hands out. Many, many Christian missionaries asked him for a few bundles of hundreds. Flynt constantly dipped into that briefcase to dish out cash. He was also a supporter of Madalyn Murray O’Hair, the noted atheist. I met her when she came to his mansion to get money.
One afternoon I walked into Flynt’s living room to find comedian/activist Dick Gregory getting measured for a tailor-made suit. He seemed a little embarrassed. A little later, Flynt said, “I’m giving $100,000 to Dick and he’s going to take it to Coretta Scott King.” I said, “Wait just a minute. There are needful organizations in Washington, East Saint Louis, Atlanta, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Cleveland, and other cities. You can have Dick deliver it, but why not pick out ten community organizations and Dick can take ten thousand dollars to each?” “Great idea,” said Flynt. “Right on,” said Dick.
When Flynt expressed a hankering to get into the recording industry during this period, I had him bring in Floyd Westerman—Red Crow—now a well-known Hollywood actor and recording artist, to help out. Flynt also wanted to start some new publications, among them a rock-and-roll magazine for Althea to run, and a magazine called Rebel. For Rebel’s first issue, I wrote an opinion piece about the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1983. Flynt was also thinking about starting an Indian magazine. At my urging, he hired John T. to help bring in Indian writers to do columns for Hustler and his other magazines and to develop, staff, and operate a magazine by and for Indians.
Flynt got John T. a suite at the Ramada Inn so he could bring his wife and children to town. On the night he arrived, he went to a party announcing Rebel magazine, got drunk, and made a fool of himself. I was disappointed but not alarmed. I knew him as a fun-loving but responsible guy. Something, however, had changed. I didn’t know it until later, but John T. stayed in that suite for weeks, drinking steadily, hosting big parties for Indian people from around southern California, even inviting some of his brothers to come from Oklahoma to party with him. Soon he was having problems with the hotel management, the sorts of things that come up when you’re drunk all the time.
Meanwhile, Flynt was defending dozens of lawsuits alleging violation of obscenity statutes, and trying to get into the Republican Party. As his distasteful stunt at the U.S. Supreme Court showed, however, he was going too far overboard. While appearing for a federal trial concerning First Amendment rights in Los Angeles, he came to court one day wearing the American flag as a diaper. He had a voracious hunger to be in the news, and he thought bizarre behavior was the key to media attention. When the diaper stunt brought him a fine of twenty thousand dollars for contempt of court, he hauled in a truckload of loose pennies. The judge said, “Okay, Mr. Flynt. You will now count every one of those pennies to make sure it’s the right amount. You have until eight tomorrow morning. Court’s adjourned.” The judge walked out, and Larry called in everyone on his magazine staff to count pennies. They were there all night.
That, of course, made the newspapers and television news, but I could see that he wasn’t paying much attention to his campaign for the Republican nomination. The next time he went to court, it was for trial on a First Amendment issue. He had top-notch lawyers who told him all he had to do was testify truthfully, to stick to subjects that were relevant, and he would win. The government’s case was very weak. In the middle of the trial, Flynt threw up his hands and said, “Judge, forget it. I admit everything. I’m wrong.” I was shocked. He was in a position to strike a blow for what was right, but instead he just wanted attention.
I walked out of the courthouse and strolled around downtown LA to my old haunts on Main and Spring streets and along Broadway. Mostly I just wanted to think. Finally I caught a cab back to my cottage at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where I called Flynt and told him I was through.
“You’re not serious?” he said.
“Yes, I am. You had a chance to strike a blow for the struggle for what’s right, and you blew it.”
He tried to jolly me into coming back, but I had made up my mind. Before I could finish packing, Flynt’s entourage arrived in two limos and parked next to my cottage. Someone came in to ask me to come outside, where his people said he wanted me to come back to Bel Air and discuss my decision with him. I said, “No, I’ve had it.”
All the way back to South Dakota, I thought about Flynt. He was a buffoon, a clown, obsessed with publicity. He was certainly rich, but he would never be more than that. But John Thomas was my brother, and his failure hurt me deeply. He had had a shot at something few people—especially Indians—would ever get. He had paid no attention to his responsibilities. He had partied for more than a month, wasted almost thirty thousand dollars on rental cars, hotel rooms, and booze—and accomplished nothing. He could have ended up as a magazine publisher, set for life, and made a big impact for his people. None of our plans came to fruition because he didn’t do what he had said he would. As much as I love him and his family, I can never forgive him for that.