OK for now. And if Scott Meredith or any of his henchmen ever mention my name to you again, tell them you’ve never heard of me. I was arrested last week in San Diego, for unspeakable crimes. Selah.
Hunter S. Thompson
**check the current (Aug) Pageant (yeah, Pageant) for my article on hair-fairies. I daresay it will make some weird reading in all our dentists’ offices. The dry-rot runs deeper than we know.
TO RALPH GINZBURG, FACT:
KERISTA Pope DAU the Pied Piper Philosopher at Large Avant Garde Therapy, Nirvana Sessions for Donations Revivals at Tompkins Square Park 982-xxxx 7th Street & Avenue B or 4-xxxx
July 25, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Ralph.…
Pope Dau of Kerista finally got the message and sent a crotch-thumping apology for menacing my peace of mind in Woody Creek. Thanks for getting through to him … but even so, I think I’ll back off that article. Pope Dau strikes me as a bad combination of Billy Graham and an Oregano dealer.[…] His first letter turned me off completely and his second convinced me that he should be croaked for the greater good.
Anyway, I suspect there might be some decent people hung up in Kerista and I’d just as soon spare them the kind of mean bias I’d bring to any article concerning Pope Dau. If you’d put me on to one or two of the love goddesses I might have stayed interested … but the last thing I need right now is a lot of bullshit from a phony priest. It couldn’t work at all, and you probably wouldn’t want the article.
So let’s scratch it. If you get any more ripe ideas, let me know. I’m usually game for almost anything weird, but Pope Dau struck me as a depressingly familiar sort of con man. You can tell him whatever you want about my reason for copping out on the article: tell him I’m a secret fag and his charisma was so fucking powerful, even on paper, that I knew I’d go all to pieces if I ever encountered him in person. I’m sure he’d buy that.
OK for now. Let me know if you want a piece on The Love Slaves of Kiwanis, or something like that. Gross libel and madness. I’m getting bored with straight writing. Ciao.…
Hunter
TO ART KUNKIN, LOS ANGELES FREE PRESS:
August 14, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Kunkin.…
I was standing in a bar in New York about three days ago when one of my lawyers who was supposed to be in San Francisco rushed out of the beery darkness and announced that I was being sued (along with Cavalier) for $5.5 million and also that I was suing the Free Press. And the reason I was standing in the bar in the first place was to talk with my New York lawyer who’s defending a lawsuit against my lawyer. I have many lawyers; one just went to the loony bin.
Anyway … well, no, I probably shouldn’t put anything like that in print because I no longer trust you people. I don’t think you’re dishonest; just incompetent. Your man H. Lawrence Lack wrote me to ask for my reply to that piece of vicious libelous bullshit that you published about my book … so I sent it to him … and you didn’t print it. In other words, you took advantage of your position as a publisher to libel me in terms you couldn’t possibly defend in court … and then, while eulogizing yourself as a hard-pressed, honorable champion of the “free press,” you won’t even acknowledge receipt of my reply to the abovementioned libel—much less print it.
That’s all I asked, and I can’t see how it’s anything but fair. So what the fuck am I supposed to think when you ignore my efforts to at least correct the obvious, indefensible lies that you printed about me? What kind of “free press” are you running?
But that’s your problem for now, and next time you read about it … it won’t be in a letter. Beyond that, I’m going to let my mad-dog torts lawyer push his case for whatever he thinks he can get. I don’t have much stomach for the suit, but I don’t have much stomach for being stabbed in the back, either … and, given a choice like that, I’ll spend everything I have to on a mad-dog lawsuit if you want it that way.
Frankly, I can’t understand what the fuck you’re thinking about, but, again, that’s your problem. I just wanted you to know that I haven’t forgotten that thing … and now that I know I’m suing you, I’m not going to forget that either. If you want to talk about printing that piece I sent, I’m open … if not, well, I guess I’ve said all that, so to hell with it.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO ASPEN DAILY NEWS:
A public debate erupted in Aspen because Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara had decided to purchase a home in the valley. Thompson was infuriated that the local newspapers were asking citizens to embrace the U.S. overseer of the Vietnam War when he arrived because it would he “good for the tourist business.” Thompson took part in a vigilante march to try and burn McNamara’s house down.
August 15, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Sir.…
Please pass this message along to the good people of Aspen. It is, after all, for their own good.
My friend, Martin Bormann, will be visiting here next week, and I think we all agree that he needs a rest. His wife, moreover, is recovering from a recent hoof operation and his doctor insists on total calm. She wants a separate peace.
So I urge the population to keep their own best interests in mind and refrain from bothering the Bormanns during their short vacation here. Demonstrations and howling will not be tolerated; we have ways of dealing with such things.
Fortunately, at least half the local press has already gripped this question in a responsible manner. Indeed (and here I quote from the News of 8/10), “Aspen’s total dependence on tourism dictates that we play host to people seeking rest and relaxation. In our own self-interest we should make sure that they leave here rested and refreshed. If we don’t supply the privacy and relaxation they seek, people will soon go to some other place that will.”
This is true. It was only my considerable influence that prevented Herr Bormann from taking his rest at Vail. The same editorial in the August 10 News explained my thinking with an eloquence that I could never hope to achieve. To wit: “Our top public officials are already burdened with tremendous responsibilities, endless criticism and pressures from dissenting groups and the tensions of mountainous work loads. Too much criticism voiced against these officials is irresponsible, negative and hate-inspired. Many capable people retire from public office, discouraged by the endless barrage of criticism, misunderstandings and lack of public appreciation of their efforts. They must be able, periodically, to renew their energy, enthusiasm and perspective if they are to continue functioning efficiently.”
Well said! And shades of Dink Stover.20 Thank god not all the press has gone to pot. In any case, my purpose in writing this message is not to debate Herr Bormann’s policy or behavior. He’s only doing his duty, implementing directives from his superiors. Surely this is understandable.
We must also keep in mind that Herr Bormann is both tougher and smarter than the rest of us. He never backs down. In our conversations by wireless, he assured me that any half-mad schwein who disagrees with him will be given a fair hearing at the proper time, memo a memos. (Note: the first memo is singular, the second is plural—delete this note from the published version.)
In closing, perhaps I should add that Martin has agreed to keep off the public playgrounds and out of the meat markets. Certainly we can ask no more—except perhaps that he takes all his meals at Guido’s Restaurant. For his own peace of mind.
So let us rally now, around our long tradition as a hospitable community. Martin Bormann wants to get away from it all, if only briefly. We can make him feel welcome in Aspen. Our hippies can give him flowers, our liberals can take him to lunch, and our conservative gentry can seek his advice on the international gold and currency exchange. Despite various foul rumors, Martin doesn’t care what Aspen can do for him, but only what he can do for Aspen.
Lets take advantage of his visit. He won’t be with us for long, and, as the responsible press has n
oted, let us not forget that “Aspen lives entirely on tourist satisfaction and approval.” We have a responsibility to ourselves, our heritage and our children, to make Martin Bormann feel at home here.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO HERB CAEN, SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE:
Caen was the Chronicle’s most popular local columnist.
August 28, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Mr. Caen.…
Perhaps you can put me in touch with a maker of bumper stickers. I want a thousand copies of one saying: HUBERT HUMPHREY IS MARTIN BORMANN IN DRAG. Actually, I’ll pay for 50,000 of these, if we can find a reputable distributor. I have just placed that phrase as a classified ad in the Aspen Times for the next four weeks. My “Bormann Letter” (see enclosed) ran in both the (liberal) Times and the (nazi) Illustrated News last week … and the News actually ran it on the editorial page, although it’s a patent mockery of their editorial, one week earlier, which said [Secretary of Defense Robert] McNamara shouldn’t have been harassed here by the likes of Bishop Pike and his hippie followers—which he was—because Aspen should be nice to its tourists. The News, owned and published by Harold Pabst of the brewing Pabsts, claimed that old Bob should have been left in peace, if only to lick his wounds. (McNamara is buying a house here; maybe he knows something about fallout drift.) But his recent visit was not peaceful; Pike led a march of the local heads on his house, and the News was incensed.
Thus, my letter—which puts the words of Pabst’s editorial in a somewhat different context. The only trouble was that only a handful of people in the town knew who Martin Bormann was. They thought he was just another one of my flipped-out lawyer friends from San Francisco—like the one who came out earlier this summer and terrified half the town by smoking grass in public for three weeks before they finally busted him for chasing a girl with a chain … when the sheriff arrived, he (the San Francisco lawyer) was smoking his inevitable pipe and when the sheriff asked, “Do you have any more of that?” he replied with fine dignity: “Not with me, but if you want to run over to the Alps, there’s a plastic bag on the bar.” And there was. The sheriff picked it up … but the lawyer was never charged with possession because his prior behavior had been so weird that he was adjudged “temporarily insane.” You might pass this on, for whatever it’s worth. Although maybe the insanity statutes are different in California.
In any case, I can tell you this because I’m leaving the country in about ten days … for a variety of reasons: foremost among them being Lyndon’s bloodlust and a $5,500,000 lawsuit filed against me and Cavalier magazine by the greedy lunatic Chester Womack, who runs the Rustic Inn in Glen Ellen. I remember that right after I wrote the article he kept saying, “When’s it coming out, Hunter? When can I read it?” And when Cavalier finally ran the goddamn thing, Chester sued for $5.5 million. Never trust a bartender.
Anyway, I’m getting over the border and leaving all you poor sheep to your respective and ill-deserved fates. Whatever that means. But I’ve retained a high-powered New York lawyer to watch over my various lawsuits. The Rustic Inn action is of course the main jewel in my tiara—but the other one I mean to pursue is a libel action against the Los Angeles Free Press, based on a vicious and fraudulent review of my Hell’s Angels book. I was accused, among other things, of betraying Ken Kesey’s address in Paraguay, after he jumped bail and left the country. The address I gave in a footnote was c/o Agricultural Attaché, U.S. Embassy, Asunción, Paraguay. Down there with Martin Bormann. But this freak who wrote the Free Press review took it seriously, and claimed that I blew poor Kesey’s cover. Which I guess I did, except that everybody including Chronicle reporters knew Kesey was never within 5,000 miles of … well, what the hell? The point of all this is to say that Henry Luce has no monopoly on malicious bullshit and careless editing. Time Inc. has always had a good appetite for rebels, and the word right now is that this current crop from the Underground Press is the best in a long while. Anyway, I’m suing the Free Press for 400 motorcycle tires, to be given at FP distribution points on the Sunset Strip. I plan to distribute them myself, in drag.
Anyway, it’s been a fairly active summer here in the Rockies. The town has been swamped by refugees from the Haight-Ashbury, and this caused a general freak-out among local merchants who fear for the tourist trade. “Hippies ain’t good for business,” they say, and maybe they’re right. But Martin Bormann is presumably OK, Tonight, taking off on my letter, an ex-KJAZ staffer named Les Hansen ran a half-hour interview on the local radio station (KSNO) with a middle-aged German just recently arrived from Argentina and dismayed with the “flabby attitude” of local youth. Christ, I guess I’m getting old. I was just interviewed on that station about six months ago.
And all I meant to do, when I started this letter, was to send a short note, to explain my “Martin Bormann letter” and ask about possible printers for the Humphrey/Bormann bumper sticker … yeah, maybe that’s the way it should read: Just-HUMPHREY/BORMANN IN 1969. Why not?
Why not, indeed? And be sure to check with me if you ever have to run the border in haste. I can, of course, be reached c/o Random House. And if you have any religious preferences, write me c/o Cardinal Spellman … he’s just across the courtyard. […] That should do it.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO JOHN GRABREE, PLAYBOY:
Grabree was the feature editor at Playboy. After reading Hell’s Angels, he wanted to commission stories from Thompson.
September 4, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear John.…
I’m off to the coast in about two days and, now, in the midst of all this chaotic action prior to takeoff, I’ve just had a decent idea. This had nothing to do with your “Werewolves, Vampires and Ghouls” action, which I can’t even evaluate until I get the fruits of your research. I have, however, discovered a book titled Man into Wolf, which purports to be a case study (or two separate studies) of men who actually turned into “wolves.” The only copy now extant (unless you have one) is in Ketchum, Idaho … although it will shortly be in Woody Creek. Anyway, I’ll be working sort of loosely on that until I get your research package; then I’ll see what we have.
This other idea has to do with about two hours of a taped interview that I’ve been sitting on for 3 or 4 months. I got the stuff in the course of my research for that New York Times Magazine article on the Haight-Ashbury, but after listening to what I had on tape, I decided to keep it for a separate article. It’s a very long talk with Ed Denson, manager of Country Joe and the Fish. We started off talking about hippies, but the focus got pretty fuzzy and we drifted into everything from the Beat Generation to Dope to Goldwater and the difference between East and West Coast rock music, Flower Power, civil rights, the FSM … the whole thing. So what occurs to me now is a chance of turning this interview with Denson into the nexus of a piece titled something like, “A profile of a rock band that made it.” That’s not a title, just a working idea. Denson is an immensely articulate guy; he can explain, in 3 or 4 dimensions, why the rock bands and the hippies suddenly emerged as a cultural force in 1966, instead of, say, 1961. He understands the context, as it were, of his own action. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s a goddamn interesting subject.
Anyway, I just got a letter from Denson (in reply to one of mine, regarding the tapes), saying he’ll be in San Francisco when I get over there around September 20. I mentioned the tapes as a vague article possibility—perhaps for The Nation, since I’ve owed them a piece for over a year—but tonight, with greed creeping in, I decided to look for a framework worth more than $100, And naturally, you came to mind.
The idea, in a nut, is a detailed background piece on a big-name rock band. There was a time when I could have done one, from the very beginning, on the Jefferson Airplane, but my friend who began as their manager got sacked when his wife—the lead singer on their first album—was replaced with Grace Slick, who was part of a
worthless group called the Great Society in that year when all the West Coast rock bands were premiering at The Matrix, a cheap club in San Francisco’s Marina district. I recall the Airplane’s debut at The Matrix, and afterwards calling Ralph Gleason to give him the word.
Maybe we could weave the Airplane’s rise to fame into the cerebral stuff I have on tape. Denson and Country Joe (McDonald) are flaming intellectuals, compared to Marty Balin, who heads the Airplane, and Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead. But the contrast is interesting and I see a good article in a detailed look at the past, present & future of the acid rock bands. Like, “What made it happen?” and “What now?” And “Why?”
But this is all talk off the top of my head. If the idea sparks in your area, let me know quick. I’ll be in Lake Tahoe, California from September 8 to 17 (you can reach me c/o Judge Laurence Hyde at the Univ. of Nevada … (702) 784-xxxx. Ask for Señor Thompson of The New York Times; that’s my employer for the week.21 After the 17th, and until the 22nd, you can reach me via Peter Collier at Ramparts, in San Francisco. I’ll probably be talking to Denson during that week, so if you like the idea for the piece, I’d just as soon talk about it while I’m loose in San Francisco, and sitting on top of the subject, as I would on some grey afternoon here in Woody Creek. So do whatever’s right.…
Ciao,
Hunter
TO WARREN HINCKLE, RAMPARTS:
Thompson had met Hinckle, executive editor and associate publisher of Ramparts, in early 1967. They became fast friends, and Hinckle, who went on to found Scanlan’s Monthly in 1969, would play a pivotal role in the development of Thompson’s gonzo journalism.
October 2, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Warren.…
A good visit but totally disruptive. That fucking monkey22 should be killed—or at least arrested—on general principles. Anyway, I came by Monday—or maybe Tuesday—and found you in some kind of drunken limbo, Stermer in Kansas, and Collier gone off with a priest. I finally got to Berkeley on Tuesday, after pointing off in that direction on Friday night.
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