Fear and Loathing in America

by Hunter S. Thompson

  Holy Mary, you sound like Abbie,46 Mailer & Wolfe all in one.

  My thoughts are not exactly flowing smoothly because I’m really getting worked up as I write this shit.

  … and then you say, I think we might use the picture.

  … and then David says, I don’t think we’ll use the picture.

  Oh, sure, late at night, with everyone gone, you finally said, What do you think?

  It was too late and too little.

  But the best line of the whole week was, “I’m thinking of going down for your trial. Maybe, if I can swing it. I haven’t talked to Wenner yet.”

  You dumb cocksucker, you talk to me first. Your fucking arrogance has really gone to your head. Could it be it’s because you’re becoming successful? On the staff of R/S and all that?

  Fuck it. If you ain’t got the message by now.

  TO OSCAR ACOSTA:

  October 18, 1971

  Woody Creek, CO

  Oscar …

  Just read your last letter over again, and agree with Sandy that the most merciful way to deal with the thing would be to ignore it. The letter was a mess, and I doubt if I’m the only one getting tired of that paranoid, self-pity, Hey look at me, I’m Oscar trip … and all I know about your book contract is that nobody’s going to publish a lot of weepy gibberish about how nobody knows how important you are. You don’t know how fucking lucky you are that I didn’t run into you cold, as a stranger, on something like the Salazar story—because, with an act like yours, I’d have crucified you on general principles. Shit, you’re lucky the LA press is a bunch of lame hacks; anybody good would screw you to the fucking floor.

  He might regret it later, once he “got to know you,” but that probably wouldn’t happen anyway. If you mean to continue that Belli trip, you’d better give up on the idea that the press is going to love you for it. Not unless you’re dealing with somebody who can shrug it all off and talk to you later, with all the psychic cameras gone. There is a certain gut contradiction in knowing that the press is a gang of assholes and expecting them to love you & make you famous in spite of themselves—and you’d better figure that out if you intend to keep on practicing public law.

  But fuck all that. It’s 7:13 a.m. here & I want to go to sleep, but probably I won’t be able to because I feel so fucking guilty about what I did to you with that Salazar piece. It won’t happen again, and the only way you’ll get me to your goddamn pill trial is to subpoena me—which I assume you’ll do, if you think I can be any help. And if I can, I will—but only as a witness, not a writer.

  As for Vegas, I refuse to let you or anybody else edit the fucker—no more than I’d have let you edit Salazar, and for a lot better reasons, this time. The Caesars Palace photo won’t be used without your permission; I told you that a long time ago, and at this point I think it would clash with Steadman’s drawings … so as far as I’m concerned, we won’t use it.

  Talk to Wenner if this deletion offends your sense of justice—and if you insist on being identified as “my attorney” in the text, I guarantee you’ll regret it. This is my book. There is no editor on it—not at RS or Random House either. RH hasn’t even assigned a copy editor to it. (There is, however, the chance that I’ll want to use that CP photo of you & me on the back jacket of the RH book version—probably without any ID, just the photo. Let me know if you plan to object. Or maybe you’ll want an ID. Is that possible? If so, let me know & I’ll make the proper arrangements … and god’s mercy on your ass if you try to turn this book into a personal publicity trip.)

  That’s about it for now. I’m deep into packing for the move to DC. The house is torn all to pieces. Millions of goddamn boxes; packing everything I own into two basement rooms & then renting it out. My address in Washington is c/o Rolling Stone, Room 1369, National Press Building, Wash DC 20004. No phone yet….

  In closing, let me leave you with a straight verbatim echo of a thing that my old (& now dead) friend Lionel Olay sent me a few years ago when I was complaining about all the personal/mechanical problems that were keeping me from finishing the Hell’s Angels book. You’ve probably seen it on my wall:

  “You better get back to that machine, mister. You can con those guys out of front bread once, but only once….”

  There’s more, but I think the point is made. You’d better write that fucking book. A $2500 advance is about $1000 more than most first/unknown book writers get these days, and the truth of the matter is that I had nothing to do with it. The book thing is between you & Alan, and although I don’t know the guy at all I get the feeling that he attaches considerable importance to it—for himself, as well as you, and if I felt like tossing idle guesses around I’d guess you’ll have a hard time conning another publisher if you blow this one. But that’s only a personal guess … and I’m sure you’ll take it that way, for whatever it’s worth.

  In the meantime, for fuck’s sake get off the acid. There’s too much paranoia in it—especially for you, because you seem to enjoy cultivating it, and that’s suicide. There’s too much good in your head—and all the rest of you, for that matter—to bog it all down in sick gibberish like that last letter to me.

  As for details … I’m waiting for RH to send me some money before mailing you that $200, but I can send it immediately if you need it. And I could probably go $300 more, if necessary, so let me know. And if you think I could do you any good on the stand, let me know on that, too. Ciao … H

  “INSTRUCTIONS FOR READING GONZO JOURNALISM”

  November, 1971

  Washington, D.C.

  • Half-pint, 10-inch hypo-needle (the kind used for spinal taps & inoculating bulls)

  • Fill this full of rum, tequila or Wild Turkey & shoot the entire contents straight into the stomach, thru the navel. This will induce a fantastic rush—much like a ¾ hour amyl high—plenty of time to read the whole saga.

  Gonzo Journalism—like quadrophonic 4-dimensional sound—exists on many levels: It is not so much “written” as performed—and because of this, the end result must be experienced. Instead of merely “read.”

  Beyond that, it should be experienced under circumstances approximating—as closely as possible—the conditions surrounding the original performance. For this reason, the editors have agreed to pass the author’s “reading instructions” along to all those who might want to “experience” this saga under the “proper conditions.” We offer them without comment—& certainly without recommendation.

  To wit: Read straight thru, at high speed, from start to finish, in a large room full of speakers, amplifiers & other appropriate sound equipment. There should also be a large fire in the room, preferably in an open fireplace & raging almost out of control.

  (alternative, hot tub & vibrator)

  The mind & body must be subjected to extreme stimulus, by means of drugs & music.

  TO JANN WENNER, ROLLING STONE:

  Thompson installed himself in the nation’s capital on behalf of Rolling Stone on November 1, 1971.

  November 18, 1971

  Washington, D.C.

  Jann …

  I’m interrupting VORTEX/Washington #1 to whip off this quick note inre: timing, deadlines, priorities, etc. What I’ve written so far is a slag heap of spotty gibberish with no real subject at all, and it suddenly occurs to me that I’d rather miss an issue than send something bad and/or useless.

  What happened during the past three days was that Dave Meggyesy came into town to promote his book via Radio/TV & newspaper interviews, and since he was staying here at the house I found myself bashing around from scene to scene with him and doing about half the talking. In a nut, I’ve been on the DC promo circuit, talking mainly about the Youth Vote (that rotten phrase again) & why RS is “opening a Washington bureau.”

  It never occurred to me that so many media people in Washington would know who I was. I went into the city room of the Wash/Star today, to cash a check (my checks are totally worthless here & I have no cash), and suddenly found m
yself socked into a long Q&A session that eventually became a formal interview for a series the Star is doing on “Intellectuals & Sports.” None of these people had even read the Vegas stuff; their interest stemmed entirely from the HA book & two things in Scanlan’s. As it happens, the spts ed. of the Star just came from the SF Examiner & is staffing his whole section with freaks (see attached memo for two gratis subscriptions). He offered the facilities of his office for anything I needed: phones, typewriters, work, etc.—so I now have a second office.

  There are so many things happening that I can’t even sleep. Coming out of Woody Creek into this scene has jacked me into a brutal adrenaline trip—compounded by the shock of finding myself treated like a public figure of sorts. Given this odd visibility factor, I suspect the new fact of a RS “bureau” in D.C. will soon be viewed more as a lobby gig than a news operation because I’m already locked into the idea that I’m here to write a column with one hand and whip up a giant anti-Nixon Youth Vote with the other. There’s no escaping it; my history is too public—so for christ’s sake let’s create that vote. We have a tremendous amount of latent sympathy (& potential energy) among young heads in the media. They seem puzzled at the idea that RS is “getting into politics,” but they all seem to like it. Shit today I got my first Job Application, which I’ll forward as soon as I xerox it. Within a month or so, I suspect we’ll be needing that extra room in Prisendorf’s office47—more for political [reasons] than anything journalistic, and now that I think on that I suspect we should be pretty careful. The point, however, is that a hell of a lot of people seem to want to “help” me. Too many, I think, but at this point I don’t want to turn anybody off.

  On more specific fronts, I’m already gearing down to make “The Real Nixon” VORTEX/Washington #2 (that name is off the top of my head & might not last, but let’s use it for now as a sort of working title. It conveys a certain amount of urgency and bogus drama that fits in nicely with the activist side of this gig). In truth, I feel a bit like Victor Louis. From here on out it’s going to be hard to defend the notion that I’m here to merely write a column.

  OK for that. #3, I think, could combine “Youth Vote” & “Candidates” by running a flash survey on how various candidates view the possibility of a youth vote. That way, I could run a series of quick interviews with all the candidates, on the basis of a single question—then come back to the ones we want, after using the survey to sort of introduce myself.

  I think, however, that we have to get away from that phrase “Youth Vote.” It leaves out about two thirds of the people we’re talking to. Ideally, we should come up with something about halfway between “Youth Vote” & “Freak Power.” Something to embrace both the latent (& massive) Kesey-style voter with the 18–21 types.

  ***

  Now a few important details:

  1) My rent checks should be made out to:

  J.M. Ely … and sent on the first of each month to that name & acct. #, c/o the SURBURBAN TRUST CO., Hyattsville, Md.

  2) I’ve had a long talk with the mgr. of the newsstand next door to the Nat. Press Bldg (see enc. note with name of big boss for all six UNIVERSAL NEWS stores) & the man in store says RS invariably sells out “in a few hours.” I told him I wanted it there the next time I came around, so he gave me this man Siebert’s name—which you should pass along to the distributors. I got the note on the doubled-up distribution & according to the man at Universal, they’ll all sell. Maybe not, but he had no reason to bullshit me.

  OK for that. I haven’t seen a copy of RS for sale since I got here—and that makes life unnecessarily difficult for me. There is—now that I think on it—a first-class FM rock station here that reaches almost the entire young/music type audience. I’ll get the name & send it along. A few spots on it might work wonders. I’ll check around for other possibilities & let you know.

  Right now I have to get to bed. It’s 6:30 a.m. & I have to get up before noon, in order to buy a bed & a TV set. Today is Saturday. (My private phone number just got activated yesterday. It’s 726-8161). Don’t give it to anybody; not even on the master Rolodex. The RS number—882-2853—rings here in the house; that should be enough for all but the critical few.

  The point is that I want to have one phone I can always answer, without fear of being fucked around by lunatics … and the first time I start getting hassled on that number, I’ll change it. So don’t give it to anybody except Max, Stephanie, etc.

  Well … now that I have all this space I’ll include the two names I want to lay gratis subscriptions on:

  1) Dave Bergen, Sports Editor

  Washington Evening Star

  225 Virginia Ave. SE

  Washington, DC 20003

  2) Kiki Levathes

  1280 21st St. NW

  Washington, DC 20036

  (this is the girl who’s doing the “Intellectuals/Sports” series for the Star.)

  Actually, since I’m paying $5 a hit for these subs, I see no point in explaining why. So from now on, just deal with the names & bill me & assume I know what I’m doing.

  This would work nicely as a sort of General Rule, for that matter—except that right now it’s not entirely true. What I’m doing at the moment is feeling my way around & trying to cope with all these unexpected reactions to my gig. The problem, oddly enough, is that things are working out better than I expected … but at the same time I’m swamped with vicious little details. The phone man, for instance, got here at 10:00 and left at 4:30. He’s just back from Vietnam, & for a number of reasons that need no explanation it took him six hours to drill through a stone floor & then a stone wall, in order to put two phones in the Fear Room. And then he came back this morning: to check the phones, he said, but what he really wanted was a copy of #95. Not for Vegas 1, but because of that story on Sly.48 “I been wonderin why that sonofabitch is always late,” he said … then he said he’s been reading “the Stone” for 2 yrs in Nam. I figure he’ll be around again—which is okay, I think, because in a city that’s 72% Black it might be nice to have a sharp black friend. When the bastard came back today he was wearing a hat that would have freaked even Sly.

  And that’s it for now. Hopefully, I’ll get a column in by Tuesday—but I’m not optimistic about its potential coherence or heaviness. If it looks bad I’ll simply hang it up and make the nut with something else. Don’t worry, either way. This is going to be a good & extremely active gig, but I’ll have to get grounded first. (I assume, by the way—based on the schedule you sent me—that the real deadline for VORTEX #1 is Dec 1, instead of Tuesday 11/22. Is that right?)

  Send word,

  HST

  TO JANN WENNER, ROLLING STONE:

  Thompson found that settling into the Washington political scene was no easy task, given his notoriety and limited resources. Among other things, he wanted an assistant to spare his wife, who was pregnant once again, from the chaotic pace.

  December 9, 1971

  Washington, D.C.

  Jann …

  Just a note to get this stuff out of the way before I get down to putting #1 together … jesus; it’s 3 hours since I hung up the phone after our talk & I’m still getting things straightened out enough to do any writing (making dinner & reading today’s Post & Star took most of that time; the WSJ & the NY Times are still unread—along with Newsweek & a whole In-box full of other magazines).

  Which brings up the question of hiring some kind of assistant for these things. (We may as well face the fact that Sandy is absolutely useless on this front. Between the doctor, Juan’s school and setting up the house, she has about 2% of her time left for the sort of secretary-act that she was doing in Woody Creek … and this is proving to be a hell of a lot more of a problem than I might have thought, if I’d given it any thought: because I’ve grown accustomed to letting her deal with my day-to-day reality & keeping the fucking weasels off my back.)

  We had a terrible hassle, for instance, about that seemingly quick little thing of picking up that shit fro
m the Moroccan embassy. She finally did it, but I’ll never ask her to do anything like that again …pregnant women are very touchy; and especially pregnant women who are very tense about being that way, like Sandy is.

  Anyway, the point of all this is that I find myself having to cope with all kinds of minor-detail bullshit that I’m not used to even thinking about….

  Which brings up the question of an assistant.

  Valliere is a possibility, but that raises various problems: 1) I’m not sure if anybody who takes himself seriously as a “heavy young journalist” (as Valliere seems to) could handle all the maddening bullshit I’d necessarily be laying on him. What I mainly need is something like a very bright secretary-type to stand between me and the world of daily detail-madness—and to do all the stuff that must be done, by somebody, but not by somebody who has to write, too. In other words, I need somebody to do most of the things I’ve spent most of my time doing since I’ve been here—like trying to find a fucking copy of RS & taking it out to the Capitol press gallery because they wanted it for my credentials trip … or talking to these lunatics who keep calling the RS number and asking weird questions … or getting things xeroxed, or etc. etc. etc.

  2) Valliere wants to write, not get into slave-work, and I suspect he’d be more valuable as a sort of regular back-up man for stories I think are important but not quite important enough to cover personally—especially when I won’t be in town. The other thing is that Valliere has a job in the Nat. Press Bldg. that pays his rent for about 2 & a half days work, per wk, and he’s very eager about writing, which means he’d probably work—for a yr. at least—on a regular piece-work basis, with maybe a monthly or weekly minimum & anything he can make on top of that on a per-word basis.

  3) This would leave us the option of hiring a sort of halftime secretary & general non-writing assistant, which is what I really need. This should be a girl, I think—if only because Prisendorf would like that, in the office, whereas he couldn’t handle some eager young sport whose very presence would be a put-down to his own assistant. (In other words, a male writer-type assistant would mean getting another office—and I’d hate to lose the bundle of odd advantages of working in a scene with a guy whose job requires him to stay on top of every breaking big story & who also has an assistant, a wire ticker, vast files, many contacts & considerable prestige on the DC press front. I can go in there at 4:30, for instance, and get a quick, authoritative rundown on everything important that has happened since dawn … and even when I don’t go in, I can count on either Tony or his assistant calling me at home if something heavy comes up.)