Fear and Loathing in America

by Hunter S. Thompson

  Hunter S. Thompson

  TO OSCAR ACOSTA:

  June 17, 1968

  Woody Creek, CO

  Oscar …

  Thanks for the letter; I sent it, along with a brief note, to the NYTimes magazine, where my name is often cursed. If nothing else, it should result in a call, fairly soon, from a NYTimes news staffer, requesting an interview with you. And it might even result in my being sent out there to write something. I frankly doubt it, but if it happens I wouldn’t want you to assume that I’d approach it from any point of view except my own—which is now non-existent. Let’s keep that in mind, in case it ever becomes necessary to apply it.

  How did the talk with [Jim] Bellows go? I’m curious. Call if you can, or send comments. I’m about to hit him with a terrible scandal-laden twist in this Oil Shale thing, and I’d like to know what you thought of him.

  And what of [Eugene] McGarr? Whose wife, sister, mother, daughter, friend, etc. is he fucking or chasing these days? Let me know if he shows any signs of getting over that sickness, and I’ll write him a decent letter. OK … I’ll let you know when I hear from the Times.

  Ciao …

  Hunter

  TO CHARLES KURALT, CBS NEWS:

  Kuralt had asked Thompson to write a dust-jacket blurb for his new book about visiting the North Pole, To the Top of the World. What he got instead was two pages of crazed insults and jokes, which Kuralt understandably failed to appreciate.

  June 20, 1968

  Woody Creek, CO

  Charley …

  Maybe I should re-examine my sense of humor … did your editor Kroll show you my second, explanatory letter? I don’t really blame you for the cavities in my teeth. Christ, I figured they wanted about 2 lines for the jacket, so I sent a wide selection. What do you mean: “… the book is doing ok, anyway”?

  But what the hell? I’ve almost given up trying to communicate on any level; my efforts these days are purely physical: building huge fences, digging water ditches, hammering, sawing, growing things, etc. The country seems doomed and I’m not sure yet what to say about it. Or do. The Random House book is a start, but in the meantime I think I might run for County Commissioner this year, if only to gain a momentary forum & hold up a mirror to the town. At the moment there’s only one candidate and most people seem satisfied to keep it that way, but rather than see the Olde West drift into Communistic electoral patterns, I think I’d have to make the race myself. The Aspen story is still bubbling, and getting worse. Right now the Fear Trip concerns the several thousand hippies who gathered last week in Boulder to witness the end of the world—but who’ve been so badly hassled by vigilante groups over there that they announced a move, en masse, to Aspen. This has put the locals in a swivet. The sheriff is running around trying to deputize all the unemployable thugs in town & the county commissioners have scheduled an emergency meeting to consider methods of beating back the tide. This morning, according to bulletins, a vanguard of some 25 hippies was sighted on Independence Pass, trudging downhill toward the town. They were said to be burdened with backpacks & signs saying, “California, Big Sur.” The populace is bracing for the worst.

  If the above sounds like an exaggeration, I urge you to ponder the enclosed clipping from today’s Aspen Times. Guido is a Swiss nazi, a local restaurant owner who has a sign in the window of his establishment saying, “No Beatniks Allowed.” … and he’s also the local magistrate (which amounts to the municipal judge) … can you imagine the scenes that develop with this sort of freak in a town full of vagrant hippies? Read the letter; it’s an application to an asylum.

  Anyway, I’ll be looking for you in August. I’ll be in and out of town, so give a bit of warning when you know your schedule. But I suspect I’ll be here around then—in a death-battle with the local nazis and greedheads. I’d like to run for the Senate, but that won’t work, so I guess I’ll start at the bottom and maybe take a few of them with me on my way out.

  Ciao …

  Hunter

  TO JIM SILBERMAN, RANDOM HOUSE:

  With the Democratic National Convention nine and a half weeks away, Thompson tried again to make sure he would have the right press credentials to cover the proceedings the way he wanted.

  June 20, 1968

  Woody Creek, CO

  Dear Jim …

  I have about three letters to you sitting here on my desk, but they’re all so goddamn involved that I can’t resolve them enough to sign them and send them off. All kinds of wild rambling. I’ll do some chopping and send you the bundle in a day or so.

  In the meantime, however, I want to assure you that I’m counting on whatever action you’ve initiated to get me on all the right lists for the Democratic convention in Chicago. I’m not sure what you’re doing, but I hope your DC contacts are worthy. I’m planning on going, but it’s absolutely crucial that I have the proper credentials. Without them, I might as well watch the show on TV. My experience in SF at the ’64 GOP thing convinced me of the value of a “proper pass”—and I suspect the security at Chicago will be so tight that even accredited people will be harassed.

  It also occurs to me that a first-hand comparison between the GOP convention and the Demo thing might be interesting in light of what we’re after—especially with these settings: the middle of Chicago vs. the beaches of Florida. I see a far-reaching symbolism in the contrast—maybe surface, but maybe not. I think a detailed comparison of the people at both conventions might be instructive. Given the candidates and their backgrounds, it seems particularly fitting that Nixon should launch from Miami and Hubert from Chicago. In ’64, for instance, neither candidate had any psychic identification with the convention cities—Goldwater in SF? Lyndon in Atlantic City? But this time it meshes. Nixon’s Miami is down there in the Old People’s Belt, a long way from Whittier,77 but still the same scene. And Humphrey in Chicago is almost melodramatic—down there in the stockyards, giving drugs to the cows before they get whacked in the head. City of broad shoulders … and deeper corruption: “Take this liberal aspirin, dear … it’s stronger than pain.”

  What I’m saying is I think I should take in both conventions—to find the details in the contrast between Republicans and Democrats in their most shameless public moments, and their chosen backdrops.

  If nothing else, we could probably sell this contrast idea as an article—it goes beyond the notion of a specific commentary on a specific thing, so even if all the candidates are murdered between now and convention time, the comparison will still be valid. Neither Miami nor Chicago nor any of the delegates will change, regardless of who gets killed en route.

  I suppose—or assume—that your DC contact is equally at home with both Parties, in terms of arranging press accommodations for a Random House author. If not, let me know. We don’t have much time, and there’s going to be a hell of a press list. The more I think about the idea of comparing the physical reality of these two conventions, the better I like it. And unless I hear from you to the contrary, I’ll assume you’ll handle the credentials problem in your own style.

  I’ll send the other stuff as soon as possible, but this credentials aspect is the only rush item on the list.

  Thanks,

  Hunter

  TO BILL CARDOSO, THE BOSTON GLOBE:

  Boston Globe political reporter Bill Cardoso had introduced himself to Thompson on the Nixon press bus in New Hampshire by saying, “Hey, you’re the cat who wrote the Hell’s Angels book.” They shared a joint, and a bond was struck.

  June 20, 1968

  Woody Creek, CO

  Bill …

  For christ’s sake, do me and every other ill-dressed journalist in the world a huge favor, and don’t get busted for holding. If a Boston Globe reporter goes down for holding on the job, there’ll be such a vicious outcry against the “drug-maddened press” that free-lancers like me—who look a bit strange anyway—will be locked up on sight. And besides that, if you ever got busted for holding on the job, you’d be screwed forever in terms
of newspaper jobs. You could do almost anything else—punch Nixon in the face while slobberingly drunk at a TV press conference, abuse small children behind bushes in public parks—most editors would giggle at stuff like that … but man, once your byline became associated with “dope,” you’d be doomed. Beware—for your sake and mine; getting stories without wearing a tie is hard enough already.

  Your scene at Laconia sounds a bit like mine at Bass Lake with the Angels—a fear trip, never knowing which direction you’d be hit or busted from. Horrible; I’ve never been able to read my own book because of those hideous scenes; my memory is still too clear … I read a sentence or two and suddenly it’s all real again. I like the Spider poem [“Collect Telegram from a Mad Dog,” October 13, 1965] much better than the book; as a matter of fact I like it better than anything I’ve written. Did I send you the original? If so, please send it back and I’ll send you two copies. At one point I had ten originals, but they’re all gone. If you have one, I need it for my secret head.

  The Pageant thing is the lead article for July, but they cut about half of what I sent, including 15 of the first 20 pages. We had a terrible scene about it—that’s why it’s a month late and also why I no longer communicate in any way with Pageant. They fucked it up so badly that I first asked them to take my name off of it & when they wouldn’t do that I sent a long “author’s note,” but they wouldn’t run that either. So I told them to fuck off, and that’s the way it ended.

  Christ, I wish you’d made the gig as McCarthy’s press secy. I’d have immediately joined the press camp. On that end, I’m definitely planning to make the Demo freak-out in Chicago. You should tell the Globe that you have special contacts in the underground delegation, which will enable you to get the “rebellious elements” story that no straight reporter can get close to. There’s a lot of hell and disruption planned—like blocking the freeway with garbage & that sort of thing. As far as I know, Random House is getting me press credentials, etc., and probably a hotel room—which you’re welcome to use if it comes with two beds. I don’t know what they’re doing for me on that end … but you’d be better off doing it through the Globe & getting on all the right lists, etc. Otherwise, it’s hell; I went through that ticket-sharing scene in San Francisco at the ’64 GOP convention, and it wasn’t a real winner. I never had the right ticket for where I wanted to be, or if I had the right ticket I didn’t have the right ID to match it.

  Anyway, I could probably put you in touch with enough of the strange action to justify any pitch you make to the Globe on that basis. They can’t lose much by sending you—nobody’s going to be reading stories out of Concord during that time, anyway, so you’d be potentially more valuable in Chicago than sitting around home. Why not? It’s going to be a very weird show, with a lot of good offbeat stories hanging around, even if Hubert H. Humphrey has it fixed from the start. As a matter of fact, the more obvious the fix, the more certain the action. The mean freaks will be quiet as long as McCarthy has a chance, but if he’s obviously out of it they’ll do everything they can to embarrass Humphrey.

  Life here is decent, peaceful and entirely unproductive. I do a lot of physical work, but not much writing. I’m going broke, though, so I have to get back to the words. I see a bad and ugly time coming up, so I guess I’d better write before they lock me up. A Nixon-Humphrey election will set the scene for a total showdown. McCarthy is the last dim hope for a peaceful solution. If I were you I’d get your passport up-dated and ready.

  Let me know about Chicago. And don’t get busted.

  Ciao …

  Hunter

  TO JIM SILBERMAN, RANDOM HOUSE:

  July 7, 1968

  Woody Creek, CO

  Dear Jim …

  How does it feel to write a letter asking me for something? Weird, eh? I guess it’s that $5000. Or maybe you’re getting mellow in your old age, after all those power struggles. …

  Anyway, thanks for the letter. I appreciate the interest—and also the new (old) twist. Your notion about “Violence in America” reminds me of something Bernard something-or-other at Ballantine—that fellow who owes me $25,000 and won’t answer his phone—anyway, he once mentioned a book on “Violence in America.” But that gave way to “The Johnson File,” and then he quit and a lot of people were killed … and I got so busy clipping articles relating to the death of the American Dream that I couldn’t think anymore.

  You can’t believe the amount of garbage that comes in my mailbox every day. Try Human Events78 for a month or two; it’ll send you into the streets with a grease-gun. I had to buy three 14′ shelves, at $1 a board foot, to file all this garbage. Sandy works day and night to file all the clippings I mark in The New York Times, the San Francisco Chronicle and The Denver Post—and I spend all my time speed-reading. My only amusement these days is the wild, atavistic behavior of Howard Hughes. He’s the only real freak still on his feet and wailing.79

  Which is neither here nor there. Your suggested focus on Violence, or Violent People, may be the sky-hook I need to pull me out of this mire of information. Maybe the only way to get at the vitals of the American Dream is to come at it crab-wise … focus down close on something specific, then slam the enemy in the balls from some wholly unexpected vantage point.

  We’re still talking about the same book, and of course we always were… but perhaps your notion of narrowing the focus might save my head. Actually, I hadn’t realized what a savage, stupid and dissolute nation this is until I began to clip every article that related to the death of the American Dream. The idea of moving to British Columbia has crossed my mind more than once in the past few months.

  Other than that, I’ve been thinking about getting some sort of money statement out of Ballantine—so I can make some kind of agreement about buying this land I’m living on, and get that out of the way—and I’ve also been wondering if I traded a meal at that restaurant full of rubber plants for $7,500 worth of expense money on the new contract. I say this because of the seven-month time-lag on reimbursement for my NY hotel bill and half my plane fare RT from Aspen. It was, as I recall, $425, plus $150, in that order. Those bills were submitted in January—on Leon’s advice—and it’s now July. This strikes me as ominous, and makes me very leery of incurring any other out-of-pocket expenses. If that $7,500 “expense money” part of the contract is a joke, I’ll be fucked if it’s going to cost me any more than it already has. If the joke is on me, I intend to keep it cheap. Selah.

  Well … pardon that outburst. I meant this to be a friendly letter. I still have to finish off that thing on oil shale. Jesus, what a fantastic subject. It’s dull as hell until you realize that these bastards are playing a huge and vicious chess game for literally billions of dollars. I just came back from a chat with a fellow who interrupted one of our earlier talks to take a phone call from “Raddy.” Admiral Radford,80 as it were—calling, no doubt, from his semi-private ward in the Old Sailors’ Home in Butte.

  I get the same sort of feeling in dealing with these mean fuckers as I did with the Angels … it’s mainline adrenaline, out there on the edge where you can’t make the slightest mistake. I’ve had two sessions with the fellow I talked to today; a few weeks ago he got me off balance when my tape recorder failed and he never let me up … but today I wailed on him, no mercy at all, and he blew it completely. It wasn’t entirely fair, because I wrote all my questions down last night, and then came to him today after four hours at the motorcycle races … the music today was a whipsong, so forgive any echoes that might seem to sing in this letter.

  Another subject: the conventions. I can’t understand why my press credentials should be subject to the weird, neo-Crumpian politics of East Coast publishing. Why in hell should Random House put the “granting” of convention press credentials on the level of personal favors? I sent you the name of that press committee; all you had to do was send in my name on a Random House letterhead. I can’t do it on Owl Farm stationery. What the hell are you thinking about? Those bastards
aren’t doing me any favor by “allowing” me to see them in action; candidates don’t hire press buses because they feel sorry for reporters who would otherwise have to rent cars. And Theodore White’s books have made these freaks think twice about brushing off writers. I showed up at Nixon’s New Hampshire hq. looking like a refugee from the Final Midnight Mine—with no credentials except my casual word that I was writing something for Pageant magazine—and despite my ratbastard garb and cruel comments on the candidate (to his staffers) I was soon granted a private audience and a lengthy, free-wheeling interview that was so obviously an indulgence that it caused a lot of bitching among the other reporters in camp.

  And all that for Pageant. So why should Random House consider press credentials a favor? Just send a note to the Demo and GOP national committees (at this stage) and tell them what we need—ACCESS, no favors, no free meals, just freedom from harassment. And, as I’ve said, my experience at the ’64 GOP convention in SF (with a Wall Street Journal pass) convinced me beyond any shadow of a doubt that CREDENTIALS are necessary, at least for openers. Without a press ticket, you might as well watch TV.

  The most obvious hangnail, at this point, has to do with the relevance of my presence at the conventions to a book on The Violent People. I’d prefer to think that I need not try to explain this … conventions are the twin orgasms of the American political process, the sperm ceremonies, the conception of the champion and the anti-champion. You can’t talk about the NRA or surfers or hotrodders without putting them in the context of the political ceremonies that eventually inflict the hotrodder mentality on a rice-farmer in the Mekong Delta. Remember those 40′ high mug shots of Lyndon in Atlantic City? He was the Peace Candidate, right?