Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967

by Hunter S. Thompson

  I was brooding about this—which I’ll write about sometime later—when I picked up the latest Free Press and read an obituary for a three-year-old kid named “Godot” … which is nice, but as I read it I was reminded again of Lionel Olay and how the Free Press commemorated his death with a small block of unsold advertising space that had to be used anyway, so why not for Lionel? I am also reminded that I’ve asked you twice for a copy of his article on Lenny Bruce (in which Lionel wrote his own obituary), and that you’ve disregarded both queries. Maybe there’s no connection between this and the fact that the Blues Project people were fucked out of any mention on their own album, but I think there is. I see it as two more good examples of the cheap, mean, grinning-hippie capitalism that pervades the whole New Scene … a scene which provides the Underground Press Syndicate with most of its copy and income. Frank Zappa’s comments on rock joints and light shows (Free Press 12/30/66) was a welcome piece of heresy in an atmosphere that is already rigid with pre-pubic senility. The concept of the UPS is too right to argue with, but the reality is something else. As Frank Zappa indicated, if only in a roundabout way, there are a lot of people trying to stay alive and working WITHIN the UPS spectrum, and not on the ten-percent fringes. That’s where Time magazine lives … way out there on the puzzled, masturbating edge, peering through the keyhole and selling what they see to the big wide world of Chamber of Commerce voyeurs who support the public prints.

  Which brings us back to Lionel, who lived and died as walking proof that all heads exist alone and at their own risk. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe his funeral procession on the Sunset Strip was enough to bring even cops to their knees … but since I didn’t hear anything about that action, I have to doubt it. I suspect Lionel died pretty much as he lived: as a freelance writer, promoter, grass-runner and general free spirit. I’m sure a lot of people knew him better than I did, but I think I knew him pretty well. I first met him in Big Sur in 1960, when we were both pretty broke and grubbing for rent money. After that we did a lot of writing back and forth, but we’d only met (usually at the Hot Springs in Big Sur) after long months of different action in very different worlds. He was broke somewhere in New England when I was in Peru, and later in Rio I got a letter from him with a Chicago postmark … when I got back to New York he wrote from L.A., saying he’d decided to settle there because it was the “only home we had.”

  I’ve never been sure if he included me in the definition, but I know he was talking about a lot of people beyond himself and his wife, Beverly. Lionel saw the west coast of the 1960’s as Malcom Cowley saw New York after World War One—as the “homeland of the uprooted.” He saw his own orbit as something that included Topanga, Big Sur, Tijuana, the Strip and occasional runs up north to the Bay Area. He wrote for Cavalier, the Free Press, and anyone who would send him a check. When the checks didn’t come he ran grass to New York and paid his bills with LSD. And when he had something that needed a long run of writing time he would take off in his Porsche or his Plymouth or any one of a dozen other cars that came his way, and cadge a room from Mike Murphy at the Hot Springs, or in his brother Dennis’s house across the canyon. Lionel and Dennis were old friends, but Lionel knew too much—and insisted on saying it—to use that friendly leverage as a wedge to the screen-writing business, where Dennis Murphy was making it big. Lionel had already published two novels and he was a far better plot-maker than most of the Hollywood hacks, but every time he got a shot at the big cop-out money he blew it with a vengeance. Now and then one of the New York editors would give him enough leeway to write what he wanted, and a few of his articles are gems. He did one for Cavalier on the soul of San Francisco that is probably the best thing ever written on that lovely gutless town. Later he wrote a profile on Lenny Bruce (for the Free Press) that if I ran a newspaper I’d reprint every year in boldface type, as an epitaph for free-lance writers everywhere.

  Lionel was the ultimate free-lancer. In the nearly ten years I knew him, the only steady work he did was as a columnist for the Monterey Herald … and even then he wrote on his own terms, on his own subjects, and was inevitably fired. Less than a year before he died his willful ignorance of literary politics led him to blow a very rich assignment from Life magazine, which asked him for a profile on Marty Ransohoff, a big-name Hollywood producer then fresh from a gold-plated bomb called The Sandpiper. Lionel went to London with Ransohoff (“first-cabin all the way,” as he wrote me from the S.S. United States) and after two months in the great man’s company he went back to Topanga and wrote a piece that resembled nothing so much as Mencken’s brutal obituary on William Jennings Bryan. Ransohoff was described as a “pompous toad”—which was not exactly what Life was looking for. The article naturally bombed, and Lionel was back on the bricks where he’d spent the last half of his forty-odd years. I’m not sure how old he was when he died, but it wasn’t much over forty … according to Beverly he suffered a mild stroke that sent him to the hospital, and then a serious stroke that finished him.

  Word of his death was a shock to me, but not particularly surprising since I’d called him a week or so before and heard from Beverly that he was right on the edge. More than anything else, it came as a harsh confirmation of the ethic that Lionel had always lived with but never talked about … the dead-end loneliness of a man who makes his own rules. Like his anarchist father in Chicago, he died without making much of a dent. I don’t even know where he’s buried, but what the hell? The important thing is where he lived.

  And there’s the chill of it. Lionel was one of the original anarchist-head-beatnik-free-lancers of the 1950s … a bruised forerunner of [Timothy] Leary’s would-be “drop-out generation” of the 1960’s. The Head Generation … a loud, cannibalistic gig where the best are fucked for the worst reasons, and the worst make a pile by feeding off the best. Promoters, narcs, con men—all selling the New Scene to Time magazine and the Elks Club. The handlers get rich while the animals either get busted or screwed to the floor with bad contracts. Who’s making money off the Blues Project? Is it Verve (a division of MGM), or the five ignorant bastards who thought they were getting a break when Verve said they’d make them a record? And who the fuck is “Tom Wilson,” the “producer” whose name rides so high on the record jacket? By any other name he’s a vicious ten-percenter who sold “Army Surplus commodities” in the late 1940’s, “Special-Guaranteed Used Cars” in the 1950’s and 29-cent thumb-prints of John Kennedy in the 1960s … until he figured out that the really big money was in the drop-out revolution. Ride the big wave: Folk-rock, pot symbols, long hair, and $2.50 minimum at the gate. Light shows! Tim Leary! Warhol! NOW!

  Now what? While the new wave flowered, Lenny Bruce was hounded to death by cops. For obscenity. Thirty thousand people (according to Paul Krassner1) are serving time in the jails of this vast democracy on marijuana charges, and the world we have to live in is controlled by a stupid thug from Texas. A vicious liar, with the ugliest family in Christendom … mean Okies feeling honored by the cheap indulgence of a George Hamilton, a stinking animal ridiculed even in Hollywood. And California, “the most progressive state,” elects a governor straight out of a George Grosz painting, a political freak in every sense of the word except California politics … Ronnie Reagan, the White Hope of the West.

  Jesus, no wonder Lionel had a stroke. What a nightmare it must have been for him to see the honest rebellion that came out of World War Two taken over by a witless phony like Warhol … the Exploding Plastic Inevitable, Lights, Noise, Love the Bomb! And then to see a bedrock madman like Ginsberg copping out with tolerance poems and the same sort of witless swill that normally comes from the Vatican. Kerouac hiding out with his “mère” on Long Island or maybe St. Petersburg … Kennedy with his head blown off and Nixon back from the dead, running wild in the power vacuum of Lyndon’s hopeless bullshit … and of course Reagan, the new dean of Berkeley. Progress Marches On, courtesy, as always, of General Electric … with sporadic assists from Ford, GM, AT … T, Lockheed and Hoover’s FB
I.

  Hunter S. Thompson

  TO SONNY BARGER:

  Thompson had learned of the death of a Hell’s Angel.

  February 8, 1967

  Woody Creek, Colorado

  Sonny—

  I was surprised and saddened to hear about Elsie.2 I didn’t get any details, just a late-night collect call from San Francisco, so I don’t know how it happened. But it doesn’t really matter now. She was good people in every sense of the word.

  One thing I can’t really understand about the Angels is that the ones who get killed, snuffed, or whatever you want to call it, always seem to be among the best of the breed. You might give this some thought, because it puts you right up there at the head of the class.

  Anyway, I was sorry as hell to get the news about Elsie. I hope you’ll do whatever you can for the kid; he always struck me as being pretty bright and decent.

  Take care of yourself.

  Sincerely,

  Hunter

  TO SELMA SHAPIRO, RANDOM HOUSE:

  Random House had assigned Shapiro to do the publicity for Hell’s Angels.

  March 21, 1967

  Woody Creek, Colorado

  Dear Selma.…

  Sorry for the outburst today. But another piece of evidence that the CBC was fucking around with me was more than I could handle without shouting. They’ve lied to me about every aspect of this thing, so why should I assume they’re being straight about the $500???3 And since I took your word that I’d be paid for that fiasco I figure you’re responsible for getting the $500.

  The outburst was also triggered by the fact that I got no sleep last night … just lying there, sweating, from midnight until 5:30, when I got up and smoked some grass. And for all those 5½ hours I thought about RH, the contract and the future. So when I woke up at 2:30 to find the CBC hassling me again, I flipped out.

  Unfortunately, you just happened to be the one on the other end. But against the background of my absolute conviction that Silberman and Shir-Cliff have deliberately screwed me, I doubt that today will be the last time you’ll have to take that kind of bullshit. If I thought it would do any good, I’d scream the same way at Silberman, but I don’t think he has any blood in his veins. Every time I start yelling at him he just laughs sort of hopelessly and defensively, as if he were talking to an idiot child. Every time he says, “Don’t look back,” I focus more intensely to the rear, the past, and the indefensible fucking I got on the Hell’s Angels contract. And I’d rather not hear the same kind of corporate, pawnshop bullshit from you. Silberman is very candid about admitting that he screwed me, so it hardly becomes you to go reaching for those awkward misinterpretations that you’ve been trying to pass off on me. You may as well live with the fact that I see our whole thing on two very distinct and separate levels, and when you try to mix them up I begin to distrust you. I suggest you recall what you told me about your benefactor and mine (no corporate names, of course) long before this dirty argument came out in the open. So don’t try to whitewash him now. And don’t assume, either, that I’m basing what I say and think on what you told me. I’m a better reporter than that … and if my bitching seems too loud and crazy to you, keep in mind that I’ve given the whole thing enough quiet consideration to think that I know what I’m doing.

  In a nut, I don’t see that I have anything to lose by pushing Random House far enough to break the contract for the next two books. I couldn’t possibly do any worse with another publisher—not at this stage of the game, anyway. If the book stopped selling tomorrow I’d be in a good bargaining position, simply on the basis of reviews. And since Silberman doesn’t want to bargain, fuck him. He may think Random House is the only publisher in New York, but a look at the Publisher’s Weekly bestseller list you sent me the other day would indicate that there are at least a few others. Aside from Hell’s Angels, I didn’t see any Random House book either listed or noted as “comers,” So if this is his first “success” in two years, as far as I’m concerned it’s going to be his last—at least at my expense.

  And so much for that. Let’s keep ourselves straight by not arguing any more about the contract situation. I don’t blame you for it, and I don’t like you putting yourself in a position where you have to defend it. It makes it harder on both of us. Let’s keep the human side of publishing separate from the knife-in-the-back side. (Incidentally, I re-read—before writing this—your letters of March 10 and the one from the Boston plane. And I felt like a bit of a monster for yelling at you this afternoon … but then I am a bit of a monster, so what the hell?) Anyway, do us both a favor and keep in mind that we’ll get along a lot better if you don’t try and mix up your roles on me. I relate to Selma, not Random House … and if you come back at me with company bullshit, then expect that kind of reply. OK for now.…

  Hunter

  TO TERRY THE TRAMP:

  Thompson was conspiring to get his Hell’s Angel friend Terry the Tramp free copies of his book.

  March 21, 1967

  Owl Farm

  Woody Creek, Colorado

  Tramp, you worthless beast! Random House finally forwarded your letter through to me. What the fuck is the Angel’s Inn?? What are you doing? Whatever it is … beware. Anyway, here’s how to get some books: call (collect, during the day, New York time) Selma Shapiro, publicity manager of Random House, and tell her I said to send you five (5) books and put them on my account. Two of these should go to Skip4 … the crazy bastard came up to Toronto and screamed bullshit at me for an hour on national TV. But I told him I’d send five books, so two of the five are his (they cost me $3 each). Also tell Skip to send me his address and I’ll send a check for that mystery keg of beer that everybody seems to think I owe the club. I don’t remember agreeing to any specific keg, but the fact is that I intended to have a mind-bending publication-day party that would have made beer a minor consideration. As for free books, I wrote Sonny and told him exactly why I was going back on that agreement.5 I was pretty pissed off about getting stomped and I was disappointed, frankly, that you didn’t come around afterward and at least get the story straight. Skip told some kind of incredible tale that made me sound like a combination of Marshal Dillon, Superman, and a Lunatic. He admitted afterward that it didn’t make sense, and I was on a radio show—by remote control—with Pete Knell6 and some others last weekend, and we got the story more or less straight.

  Anyway, when you call Selma you’ll have to convince her that your request is legit—in other words, that I’ve sanctioned it—so you’ll have to tell her that you know the password: “Chicago.” And if that doesn’t work, we’re both out of luck. My relations with Random House are sinking in shit, due to the fact that they’ve screwed me so badly on my book contract that not even a best-seller will pay my expenses for two years of work. I get 22½ cents for every book sold; you figure it out.

  Anyway, I’m evicted from here as of May 1, and I should be back in San Francisco for the summer freak-out by sometime in June. Send me a line c/o Selma Shapiro at Random House, 457 Madison Ave., New York 22, and tell me how to get hold of you quietly, without violence. But if we’re dealing with people holding grudges, forget it. This is a big, wide world, and I have all the action I need without stupid feuds. OK for now.…

  Hunter

  TO HUGH DOWNS, TODAY:

  Downs hosted NBC’s Today show, on which Thompson had been interviewed.

  April 1, 1967

  Woody Creek, Colorado

  Dear Hugh.…

  In the midst of working on an article for The Realist on that whole, rotten publicity stunt for the Hell’s Angels book, I remember how much I appreciated your help—first on the “Kup” show7 and then again on Today. The Kup thing was the first time I’d ever been on TV, and when he said, “Tell me, Hunter, what do you think about the Hell’s Angels?” I figured the best thing I could do was walk off the set. So it was a hell of a relief to have you re-phrase the question in manageable terms. I didn’t miss that.

  As for Toda
y, I still can’t understand how anybody can function at that inhuman hour and I’m sorry I wasn’t more lively, but if you and Paul Cunningham8 hadn’t carried me as well as you did it might have been a total disaster. (Oddly enough, I got a lot of comments saying that my wretchedness made the thing seem more “real.”) But everybody agreed that I looked wretched, for good or ill.

  Which is a pretty good definition. I could have used some of your help in L.A., where I had 36 appearances in five days. Anyway, I want you to know that I realize you went out of your way to keep me afloat in a bad time … and if I can do you a favor sometime, let me know.

  Sincerely,

  Hunter S. Thompson

  TO LEWIS NICHOLS, THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW:

  Although Thompson loathed the publicity tour for Hell’s Angels, he had a great time at his lunchtime interview with journalist Lewis Nichols, who wrote about the experience in his “In and Out of Books,” a regular feature in The New York Times Book Review.

  April 5, 1967

  Woody Creek, Colorado

  Dear Mr. Nichols.…

  I was just reading over your tale of our lunch in the Book Review of March 5 and I enjoy it as much now as I did when I first saw it. My main pleasure in it is that Selma was sure, from beginning to end, that I was living, walking proof of everything you might find offensive. She was still worried after we parted with you, but I told her she was crazy. I enjoyed talking to you and I had to assume it was at least tolerably mutual, because otherwise we couldn’t have talked at all. There were some really wretched scenes on that tour—strange plastic freaks babbling at me, asking stupid questions, no hope of human communication. You were a sort of oasis; I had a good time and even a good lunch. Scallops. I am now an authority on the quality of scallops in New York restaurants.