Well, there’s more news coming on. Still raining outside, I have the sliding glass door open, to cool the room. When the news is over I’ll call Sandy and find out how things are going.
Love
Hunter
FROM OSCAR ACOSTA:
At this point Acosta was winning more cases for Mexican clients than any other defense attorney in California. He often asked Thompson to critique his writing, then objected to what he heard back.
February 20, 1968
Los Angeles, CA
THE DESTRUCTIBILITY OF CONTINGENT REMAINDERS … AND OTHER SUCH NONSENSE
Hunter,
You’ve got to be mad. How the fuck you gonna do all that stuff? And what’s the Rum Diary? Your memoirs at so early an age? I’ve thought of that. Seems everyone waits until they’re old farts and got nothing much left to say … but the whole truth. And since, as it’s now been established by you and Miss Harrell now that I’m honest abe in brown, maybe I should start working on my biography now. I once made a deal with a poet buddy that he’d write mine and I his. Until he fell for my ex and felt too guilty to talk to me anymore. It was funny because I wanted him, I encouraged him, I even encouraged her, to take up together. I only got pissed off when they both cut out on me. Anyway, perhaps if we’re still around in, say, 2000 a.d., perhaps you can make a few bucks off me and I one or two off you.
I wrote a letter to your friend. I thanked her and explained a few things about myself and the mss. And I asked her if she’d read “Perla” in exchange for some California sun. I also told her you were nuts:
1. Oscar writes a short novel.
2. Hunter says it should be a short story.
3. Oscar writes a short story.
4. Hunter says it should be a short novel.
5. Oscar says Hunter is a novel short story.
I have thought about doing non/fiction. In fact, just yesterday I decided to do a long letter to the editor type thing for/to the Free Press. A little one about their constant reference to Mexican/Americans and Spanish/Americans. Any stupid fucker who thinks he knows where it’s at now’a days and uses terms like that, euphemistic, insulting shit, needs to have a few lessons in the art of semantics. For christ sake that’s what the okies used to do with us. You see, to them, the word “Mexican” was like “nigger.” So to us, we got all screwed up about it, too. So, when they “liked” you, (uncle tom, where are you?) they’d say, “Hey, bud, you Spanish?” Now the only Spaniard in Riverbank was the owner of the grocery store and everyone knew damn good and well the rest of us brownos weren’t anything like old man Bordona. So we all got in the habit of saying, Yes. Even my cousin Becky, who married an okie kid named Billie who raises pigs, who once told me when she was six years old, “Me italiana” … Okay, that was in the forties and fifties.
So in the later years when the politicos started asking for the brown vote they started calling us Mexican/Americans. (my hyphen is broken.) Because, you see, they too thought Mexican was a bad word. Did you know the only other significant group that is still commonly hyphenated are the Japanese/Americans? Why? WW2, that’s why. How come there ain’t no Negro/Americans, Irish/Americans, Aspen/Americans? Et cetera.
So one would expect these leftwingrags to know this sort of stuff. One would expect the highest Mexican elected representative to know this, too? Wouldn’t you think? So I went to see congressman Roybal25 and talked to his field secretary. The secretary kept on using the word. Over and over. Mr. Roybal has done this and that for his people, the Mexican/American … blahblahblah. Finally, I said, Yes, but what’s he done for us? Who’s that, sir? (I think at that moment he thought I was Indian.) Us, sir. What’s Mr. Roybal done for the Mexicans?
Also, I want to write a studied article on what to do to protect your right of privacy. I’ve had about 25 dope cases in the past three weeks and could possibly have won twice as many as I did if people would remember a few rules of the road. (Trip?) Main thing: Don’t open the fuckin door. Let them break it down. It’s better to pay for a broken lock which gives you a better chance to beat it than go to jail. Second: Don’t say a fucking word. Nothing! If you feel compelled to talk, if you’re the gabby sort of uptight guy, then just say nonono to everything. Third: If you’re selling, for god sake don’t keep all the paraphernalia around the house. Fourth: Keep the stash hidden.
Now everyone knows this, but I want to show from actual cases that were won or lost on appeal why it is imperative. Also, in advance of any retort about, “Well, man, that’s being too uptight,” I want to say a few words about you fucking A john it’s uptight. I’ve yet to see anyone cool in the cooler. (In fact, why not, A Cooler Is Not Cool, for a title?) In other words, better to be uptight a few minutes while you’re hiding your shit than spend a couple of years in CYA or Big Q.26
Had this nazi bastard on the stand the other day. He had qualified as an “expert witness” to testify that he could give an expert opinion to the fact that this single two inch joint was marijuana. (The chemist had done the test, but I refused to stipulate to that, which is a story in itself, but they couldn’t find him and the judge and the D.A. were determined to finish the case that day so they put the cop on the stand.) He testified that he had seen and smelled dope over a hundred times and that in his opinion, by smelling it and looking at it there on the stand, that it was dope. So I asked the following questions to which he answered “I don’t know.”
Is that a California joint or an Eastern joint? Is that Acapulco gold or Bangkok gold?
How much, if any, hash does that contain? Is it rolled in sugar?
Well, is it cut with anything?
You ever smelled clover?
How would you define that “unique” smell?
Are you sure it isn’t dried banana?
Have you smelled dried banana skins?
Is oregano a narcotic?
Have you ever smelled a mixture of oregano, banana and dried clover?
Are young kids using that combination to turn on?
Needless to say the judge struck his testimony on the grounds that the cop was not an expert. Off [the record] the judge asked me, no it was the sheriff, if that was true. I told him that kids nowadays were turned on by almost anything.
I’m still wearing my boots to court every day and the rumor has spread that the D.A.s are out to “get me.” Don’t you think I’m having one swell time. I am. Not since my first year of preaching has it been so good.
You never answered the letter about the short story (23 pages) and Sandy was vague. I don’t care nothin for that stinkin greaser novel. Had a bit of dope and booze in S.F. last weekend. I’m staying clean in L.A. because I seriously believe the cops might be after me because of my success and my bugging them in court. And because I got no need for it.
Oscar
TO BOB SEMPLE, THE NEW YORK TIMES:
Robert B. Semple, Jr., a New York Times editor who would win the 1996 Pulitzer Prize for Editorial Writing, helped set up interviews for Thompson’s Pageant magazine article on ominous Republican presidential candidate Richard M. Nixon.
February 20, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Bob …
Thanks again for the help in Manchester.27 I kept after Ray Price28 all day Friday (the day you took off from Boston), and just about the time I gave up I found myself in Nixon’s car, with the great man himself bending my ear about pro football. The bastard really knows it; I figured his claiming to be a fan was just another one of his hypes, a pitch for the violence-vote. You’re right, I think, in saying he’s not a conscious phoney. That complicates my story considerably. I’m not sure what I’ll write, but I’ll send you a copy if and when it comes out.
Meanwhile, if you see Ray Price, tell him I did my “homework,” based on the lesson he gave me, and now I’m sure he was bullshitting me. He should have quit while he was ahead.
And convey my thanks to Don Irwin.29 He’s a good example of my theory that journalism, despite all its faults, is
still flexible enough to give people like Irwin enough elbow room to redeem the other 90%.
OK for now. Stop by Owl Farm on your way out to Oregon. Ciao …
Hunter
TO VIRGINIA THOMPSON:
Hunter Thompson wrote to his mother often until the day she died in 1998. His concern for his brothers was always apparent, even on less serious matters than how to keep Jim, the youngest, out of Vietnam.
February 22, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Mom …
Now that you mention it, I guess you know how I feel about thank you notes, too—so yours is a bit embarrassing, and especially so when I thought I wrote that check for $25. But what the hell? Money-talk is always embarrassing—like “thank you” notes.
I didn’t answer Jim’s very good letter because I had to go to New Hampshire right after I received it. Sandy wrote him a letter while I was gone. I just got back and now have to write 4000 words on the meaning of the “new, new, new Nixon.” The trip was fun, but grueling—very little sleep and expensive confusion trying to deal with Nixon, Romney30 and McCarthy all at the same time. McCarthy is the only human being in the race, so he’s naturally doomed. But he’s fun to travel with. Nixon is a nightmare of bullshit, intrigue and suspicion. Romney is a circus. I was there about nine days, then I spent a day or two in New York to argue about contracts. Things are almost settled—but the difference between “almost” and “settled” is vast and treacherous.
As for Jim and college, I’ll do everything I can to keep him out of the draft, but my income is so irregular and uncertain that I can’t promise anything in advance. If we’re lucky, I’ll have what he needs when he needs it. If not, we’ll have to kite some checks. OK for now.
Love,
Hunter
TO SUE GRAFTON:
Again Grafton asked Thompson to “reveal himself” to her.
February 23, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Sue …
Sorry to be so late, short-worded and useless, but I just got back from New Hampshire and ten days with Nixon—and now I have to make sense of it all, very quickly. Who is Nixon? And why? In 4000 words by the end of the month. I’ve also just signed (tonight) the contract for a book on Johnson, so I won’t be geared for letter-writing for awhile.
Yours was vaguely unsettling; I’m not sure why … except that I’ve always been leery of people who want to know “who I am.” Most of them seem to be probing for some kind of response, from me, to confirm an uncertain image they have of themselves. So I never know what’s expected of me—except that I’m expected to respond, for good or ill. Don’t take this personally; I’m talking in half-remembered generalities and besides that, it’s 4:42 a.m. here and my head’s not working as well as it should. I shouldn’t be writing this at all; I’m way behind schedule on the article and it still hasn’t jelled in my head. I have visitors here, as always, and my water-pipes are freezing. The basement is flooded, one of my cars is dying and the tax man is after me for explanations I don’t have. Send me your book and I’ll write again after I read it.
Ciao …
Hunter
TO OSCAR ACOSTA:
February 23, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Abe …
I don’t recall telling you to rewrite that story as a short novel; I was merely trying to brief you on the current word market, where books sell much faster than stories. This is a weird situation and it won’t last, so if I were you I’d try to ride it. Believe it or not, your chances of getting a $5000 guarantee for a “brown power” non-fiction book are far better than your chances of getting $500 for “Perla.” It’s also true that your chances of getting $5000 for the book depend on its being unwritten at the time of negotiations. Don’t write a word until you get at least $1000 and a firm contract for the rest. I’m not kidding.
Your comments on Mexican-Americans strike me as a good book-seed; send me two double-spaced pages, describing whatever kind of book you’d like to write, and I’ll send it on to Ballantine with a recommendation. Keep it loose, loud and menacing—with details. I don’t recall getting your letter about the short story, but let me look. Meanwhile, keep whacking on the bastards. I just got back from 10 days with Nixon & now I have to write something. Ciao …
HST
TO TOM WOLFE:
Thompson had quit his job at The National Observer in 1965 when the editor refused to run his glowing review of Tom Wolfe’s The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby. Later, he lent the author some tape recordings he had made at novelist Ken Kesey’s California ranch, which Wolfe would put to good use in his 1968 book on the Merry Pranksters, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.
February 26, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Tom …
I just got back from a quick shot in the East, and called from the airport but you weren’t home again. Who are these old crones who answer your telephone? I have a picture of some gout-riddled old slattern on her knees in your hallway, waxing the floor when the phone rings and rising slowly, painfully, resentfully, to answer it and snarl “He ain’t here.” Anyway, I called. The quick shot was New Hampshire for a look at the new, etc. Nixon. I’m not sure what I found, but since the article is due in two days I’ll shut this off and get back to it.
Did you, by the way, hear about the death of Neal Cassady?31 The Berkeley Barb says he died of unknown causes while walking along some railroad tracks in Mexico. I offer that, for the moment, without comment.
What stage is the Kesey book in? I finally came to terms with Ballantine (after coming to terms with Lynn Nesbit32) for a fantasy book on Johnson, to be finished at once.
Did you ever deal with those tapes? Don’t lose them.
Ciao …
Hunter
TO JIM SILBERMAN, RANDOM HOUSE:
Thompson had come to rely on Silberman’s editorial judgment, and together they would spend two years searching for the right approach to a book on “The Death of the American Dream.”
March 3, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Jim …
Thanks for the good letter. It arrived just as two of my houseguests returned from taking two others to the train station in Glenwood Springs. Tomorrow I plan to dynamite my cesspool, which will blow up my driveway and perhaps even the county road—in order to get the sewage out of my basement. Things are happening here. I insist on drainage, and if the landlord won’t provide it, then Alfred Nobel33 will. (Alfred? Is that right?)
I’m glad we all agree on the active, rather than abstract nature of the Joint Chiefs book. I don’t see the narrative idea as an ego trip on my part, but as the only possible way to make the book an original document. The essays have already been written and I’ll probably steal from a lot of them, but I think we need a participant’s point of view, not an observer’s. My overdue article on Nixon should give you an idea what I mean; I’ll send you a copy if it ever gets finished.
Probably I’ll need a lot more help on this book than I did on the other, at least in the formative stages. What I’m looking for right now is a long list of “joint chiefs,” which I can narrow down to about a dozen. The first, of course, will be the Joint Chiefs of Staff—the real ones. But after that I want to select the ten most prominent suspects in this investigation of the murder of the American dream. I’ve already settled firmly on the Oil Industry and the Press, but I’m not sure exactly where I’ll focus on either one of those. Maybe the ChiTrib/NYNews combine would be a good starter for the Press section. As I’ve said before, this is a far extension of Faulkner’s idea of “seeing the world in a grain of sand.”34 Except that I need at least ten grains of sand. I want to concentrate on ten specific people or institutions who represent the ten most obvious suspects in this case. The Police? Perhaps even the new Negro leadership. Maybe the gun freaks. Mailer had the right idea in his last book.35 Why, indeed?
So if you come up with any ideas, please send them along. M
aybe just newspaper clippings, or somebody’s column. I can’t read everything, and this is a crucial first stage. Thanks,
Hunter
TO THE EDITOR, ASPEN TIMES AND ASPEN NEWS:
Outraged that Sheriff Earl Whitmire had ordered riot gear for tiny, mostly rural Pitkin County’s police force, Thompson wrote a satirical letter to the editor of the local paper praising Aspen’s move toward law and order the Gestapo way.
March 9, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Herr Editor …
I am writing this letter for my friend Martin Bormann,36 who has finally arrived—in one piece, as it were—but who has not yet mastered the language. We were warming ourselves around the furnace the other night, chatting about discipline, when I pointed out the newspaper article on Sheriff Whitmire’s request for riot-control weapons. We both agreed that the sheriff would certainly make a name for himself if he ever got his hands on a full arsenal of riot-control devices and that the town would reap untold benefits if a local boy made good in the national press … but we also wondered if weapons alone would do the trick.
What we really need is a riot. This would not only justify the purchase of gas, firebombs, electric zappers and various armored equipment—it would also give Aspen the modern, up-to-date image that it vitally needs. We are fortunate in having people like the sheriff and Guido and Bugsy around, if only to keep a rein on dangerous waterheads like Tom Benton.37
Now I realize that a lot of people know about the bad blood between me and Benton because he crossed up my plans to build a fourteen story bamboo and styro-foam turkey barracks on top of the Paragon. Mr. Bormann and I had commitments for Argentine financing on this project, and it cost us a lot of money … but the big loser was the city of Aspen and one or two local architects whom we naturally refused to pay when the gig turned sour. Most of the locals were in favor of this project; I overheard numerous conversations at the Tower, the Refactory and the Leather Jug, and everybody was asking the same question: “What happened to the turkey barracks?”
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