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.
Big Sur was a terrifying experience. I think we have a good article idea in something like “The New Quackery: Or, The Transmogrification of Big Sur.” Probably I’ll run that down in the first handful of columns. So far, I’ve run up a list of 30 or 40 instant-necessary subjects. Collier agreed to pay me $1500 a month for the column; I think that’s about right—fair and equitable, etc.
We did, by the way, manage to get together with Pierce, the mayor of Richmond.23 He tried to cop out, fearing a treacherous belly-shot from Ramparts, but it worked out pretty well. There’s a hell of a wretched, fucking story there, but you have to keep in mind that Pierce is worried—and not without reason—about what you might do with whatever he tells you. Collier will have to catch him about three in the morning with a head full of gin to hear the real gospel. That’s when he forgets who he’s supposed to be protecting.
As for me, I’m trying to wrap up the New York Times (Tahoe judges’ conference) piece and that other thing for Krassner before zapping off to deal with the Texas Rangers. I’ll get it to you on or about November 15 … but keep in mind that I have a funny sense of time. Anyway, I’m focused on the TexRanger thing, so make some kind of room for it.
I have a head full of other possibilities, but right now I don’t have any time to work on them. That National Observer thing—which you asked about very quickly—makes me a little bit uncomfortable. They treated me pretty decently, for a freak, and I’d rather not comment on them—at least until they publish something that seizes me … but when that happens, it’s every man for himself. (Our final split, for instance, came when they refused to publish my favorable review of Tom Wolfe’s book … so I sent a copy of the review to Wolfe, along with a letter, and a copy of the (Wolfe) letter to the Observer. The problem was that somebody on the Observer—in a reject position—had worked with Wolfe on The Washington Post and hated the air he breathed. One of the editors explained this to me as part of his “yes, but” rejection of my review and then flipped out when I passed the word to Wolfe.) But that’s pretty personal shit, and not worth much without a bigger handle. I was pissed off because it was the first thing of mine they’d bounced in more than two years—they even published my letters, begging for money in Quito, Rio, La Paz, etc.—so I can’t work up much of an appetite for zapping them.
Or maybe—it just occurs to me—you didn’t really intend to zap them. In that case, we might make a good piece of it. They try, but they have certain structural defects … and they don’t hire people who can’t ignore them. Hell, it might be a good piece … but not as a fang job, at least not for me. They published some of the best things I’ve done—and they still do some first-rate things (see current piece on Western Union, for example), so we might whip up something decent about the possibilities of journalism in a nation of hoodlums. But to hell with all that, right now. It’s getting light outside and I need sleep. The Times is hassling me for that Tahoe piece, so that’s the project for the next few days.
Again … it was a good show over there, and my advice to you is to give up all forms of booze and book-keepers for the duration of the crisis. Moderation in all things. When you turn up a freak on the staff, don’t just fire him/her—pursue him into the very bowels of the economy and queer his act for all time. And get that nigger off the premises. You’ve got to get a grip on yourself. Otherwise … they’ll cut your throat.
Beware.… -245*@
(Hunter)
TO JOAN BAEZ:
October 3, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Joanie.…
Here’s another weird pitch. I sort of backed into it with a jangled grin … but what the hell.
Anyway, Gerry Walker, an editor of The New York Times Magazine, was telling me on the phone today how he needed $7800 to pay for this full-page ad (the tax protests, etc.) in The New York Times. Weird, eh? So I said, “Why not ask Joan Baez? She’s kind of invested in this game.” And he said, “Why don’t you ask her?” And I said, “Why the fuck should I?”
But I finally agreed, under considerable duress, to at least call this thing to your attention. Frankly, I don’t think you should whack out $7800 to pay for the ad. So far the list includes about 350 names, at $10 each, so that’s half the nut right there. But it might be nice in case Walker ends up owing his employer $3500 or something like that, if he felt he could call on you in case of some terrible emergency. Probably he’ll be fired, anyway—like I’ll be dunned for six years of back taxes—but by then we’ll be at war with China and it won’t make much difference. Selah.
I was over there last weekend, bumping around in that piggish shopping center at the mouth of Carmel Valley, buying booze and ice for a 2-day run to Big Sur … which didn’t work too well, due to my own state of mind & Fulton’s24 madness, so I wound up sleeping in the back of my Volvo world-cruiser somewhere above Santa Cruz on the beach highway. The Volvo has become my womb: I have a bed, a freezer, food, drink and a fine reading light in the back lounge—with music. But I was hounded by the notion of stopping by your fort and saying something like Hello … and it ruined my night. I thought it would be a good thing to stop by, but I was afraid I might run into Harry Belafonte, Marlon Brando, Peter Wingo and all those people. And you know how I am with public appearances. So I settled for the beach.
Tragic. But again, what the hell.
Fulton said he’d seen you, but I got the impression he did all the talking and I offer my condolences. He’s pretty well flipped. Seriously. He came out to Aspen and wound up in some straightjacket en route to the Colorado loony bin. Sometimes he makes good sense for a while, then he jumps to his own private limbo. On balance, he’s nuts … so consider this if you have to deal with him again.
That’s about it for now. I’m still not certain you’re getting—or reading—the mails, and I don’t feel like communing with any of your public secretaries. So if you feel like doing something in re: this tax protest, that’s fine. And if not, that’s fine too. I’ll tell Walker that your receptionist is taking it under consideration.
Ciao.…
Hunter
TO KEN KESEY:
October 5, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Ken …
I fucked up. First, I was three days late getting to San Francisco, and when I got there it turned out the people I was staying with were getting a divorce and I had to cope with it. Second, when I finally got to Ramparts on Friday afternoon I was instantly plunged into a drinking bout of mind-scrambling proportions and didn’t escape until eleven that night—and then only to drive like hell to Big Sur, where I found my tax lawyer still out of his mind and everybody else reading about themselves in Time. So I fled from there, too, and wound up sleeping in the back of my Volvo somewhere on the beach above Santa Cruz. By the time I got back to San Francisco I was long overdue in Aspen and the people who were keeping my clogs—and living in my house—were ready to leave for Europe. So I loaded the car with as much furniture and other garbage as it would hold, and boomed off for the hills.
Anyway, I’m sorry I missed you … but it looks like I’ll get over there again pretty soon.… I have hazy memories of agreeing to write a lot of things for Ramparts … and besides that I think I’ve fallen in love with a transvestite in Watsonville.
What the hell? Gerald Walker at The New York Times tells me you refused to sign the tax protest, or maybe you didn’t. He couldn’t seem to tell, from whatever reply you sent. If I were you I’d try to clear that up, or you’re likely to wind up in jail without knowing why. I signed
the bastard and I’m not particularly worried about it, but whatever you do is your own business.
OK for now. I’ll check with you again on my next westward run. Ciao.…
Hunter
TO CAREY MCWILLIAMS, THE NATION:
October 7, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Carey.…
I’m just back from a month on the coast and found your note. I can’t blame you for grumbling about my lack of action—at least for The Nation—but I could use five pages telling you why. […]
I missed Ed Denson, manager of Country Joe and the Fish, in San Francisco; that was the article I mentioned to you a few months ago. But the awful reality of that one is that even getting the tapes transcribed is going to cost me $40 to $50, and then I have to talk to Denson again. So it involves a lot of time and effort, just to break even. I’m not excusing myself, just pleading guilty to the obvious counts—greed, necessity, disorganization and lack of time. Despite what everyone seems to think, I haven’t made much money on the Hell’s Angels book—and I’ve had to hire a New York lawyer to get rid of Scott Meredith and try to break all my publishing contracts. I spend about half my time writing legal letters and making long distance calls in re: Meredith’s thieving behavior. And I’ve just been named a co-defendant in a $5.5 million lawsuit in California, which requires more legal action. And I’m also in tax trouble; my lawyer flipped out and I still haven’t filed for 1966.
So those are just a few reasons why I haven’t been deluging you with articles, or even ideas. I have, in fact, written only two articles since the Hell’s Angels book came out—for a total net of $1400. This recent outburst is more desperation than anything else. I feel madness coming on if I don’t write something … but writing gets harder and harder. Next week I have to go to Texas to profile the Texas Rangers for Ramparts; and after that, Billy Graham.
I’ve told everybody else—including Ballantine and Random House, who keep after me for a second non-fiction book—that I’ve given up on the idea that I can sell my own article ideas. I haven’t pursued one of these since I split with the National Observer. Even the two for you were both based on your ideas. And as far as I’m concerned, they are two of the best things I’ve ever done. Everybody else wants me to write things on hippies, hoodlums and various cults … but I refuse to do any more of that stuff; I think it’s called “spin-off” in the trade, and I’m not that hungry.
Bernard Shir-Cliff and I have more or less settled on a book on the Joint Chiefs or the Military Establishment—but so far we don’t really have a focus. I’m still under contract to Random House, but I have no communication with them and I don’t see much hope for establishing any. The big problem now is my failure to deliver the Rum Diary … but since I can’t afford to deliver it under the present contract, we’re completely bogged down.
If you have any good ideas in re: the Joint Chiefs and/or the Military Establishment, why don’t you send them along? I still think your idea about those towns like Huntsville, Ala. and other defense industry cultures is one of the best. You might give Shir-Cliff a ring at Ballantine; he has a very vocal respect for your idea bank and you might be able to come up with something I could get started on. It’s all a matter of focus … and if you come up with a peg, I promise you a full-length piece, for The Nation, on whatever it leads to. My own interest, right now, is in the Joint Chiefs. I want to know who they are; not by name, but in every other sense. Does that strike any sparks? Send Word.
Hunter
TO PETER COLLIER, RAMPARTS:
October 11, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Peter.…
[Mayor Dave] Pierce got here a few days ago […] so with that, and three days of vicious stomach flu, I’m running about a week behind schedule. But it looks pretty definite that I’ll be taking off for Texas on October 16, which still leaves me a month to get the article in, and I have to assume that’ll be enough. So until I send word on the next time-fouling disaster—you can count on the piece by mid-November.
As for the “column,” I have about five rough drafts, all on different subjects, and one that went completely amok and wound up 16 hand-written pages—on New Journalism. Which I contend is simply an updated version of the best Old Journalism. But, if this sort of excess keeps up, we might have to adjust our schedule to make room for an occasional “extra” full-length piece … because I sometimes get caught in the Leon Uris syndrome of trying to see the world in a grain of sand … and once in a while I need more than 1200 words to do that.
Anyway, the simple idea of a short-yardage outlet has my brain zapping along in a new way. Now I can consider writing things I used to only talk about … and so much for that and everything else, for right now. I have to get this goddamn piece written.
Also enclosed is a phony expense sheet for my visit over there. It seemed easier to bill you on a straight mileage basis, and to hell with all the daily food, room and miscellaneous expense details. Obviously, I could adjust the mileage to fit in with the Times expenses on the Tahoe story—but then I’d have to sit down and think about how to bill you for roughly the same amount, but in a very complicated fashion. I’ll do it that way, if you want—but it seems to me that this is a lot quicker route to the same end, and to hell with the tax man. Let me know how this fits with your financial practices. And if it does, feel free to send a cashier’s check at once. Selah. […]
OK for now. I enjoyed my quick, high-powered visit over there and look forward to a dead-game replay when I’m in better condition. Tell Hinckle he’d better take some liver exercises … and also to get braced for my wild cards, which don’t always mix real well with grapefruit juice and bourbon.
Until Texas, I remain.…
distractedly.…
Hunter
TO PAUL KRASSNER, THE REALIST:
Thompson had bungled his Hell’s Angels book tour by appearing on TV and radio shows either drunk or tongue-tied.
October 22, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Paul.…
There’s no avoiding the fact that I blew this one completely. And I still can’t understand why. The horror of the TV tour has dimmed a bit, but my subsequent dealings with Random House, Ballantine and Scott Meredith still have the glow of rottenness. I no longer believe, for instance—as I think I did when I talked to you in New York—that the Random House handling of the book was a compendium of sloth and incompetence. Now I think it was a matter of deliberate, slothful, incompetent policy … done strictly by rote, with all the human factotums constantly apologizing for the heinous decisions sent down by somebody who was never named. I have never been able to get a line on the person—or people—actually responsible for the hopelessly bungled handling of a book that might have made us all a bit of money. As it is, I’m sending you $200 of the $1900 I now show as book-profit on the hardcover edition. So now I have $1700.
Meanwhile, both Random House and Ballantine are advertising the book as a “best seller.” (See special banner on the paperback edition that comes out this week.) I’m hoarse from screaming at the bastards—not only in re: the old contract but also on the new one, which I’ve repudiated in every possible way, but which still exists—so I’m effectively taken off the book market. None of this would have happened without the fine aid of that motherfucking black-minded pig-whipping cocksucker Scott Meredith. As a matter of fact, if you want to make the following announcement in The Realist, surrounded by a big fat black border, you have my consent:
“The Scott Meredith Literary Agency is a stinking, shit-spined monument to everything that sinks to the bottom in the sediment pool of human responsibility. Scott Meredith is a fascist soul-fucker whose reputation as an agent rests on the sawdust remains of all young, no-leverage writers who’ve been conned into signing with his agency. Any writer considering a contract with Meredith should contact me for the same bill of particulars that I’ll give to that bastard’s lawyers when they sue me for th
is statement. I further attest, at this time and in my right mind, etc., that I have every honest and serious intention of wreaking a thoroughly personal and honest vengeance on Scott Meredith himself, in the form of cracking his teeth with a knotty stick and rupturing every other bone and organ I can make contact with in the short time I expect will be allotted to me. I might further note—for Meredith’s own interest—that I recently flew to New York with a heavy club, for no other reason than to crash into his office and whip on him. I was persuaded against this action by the attorney I eventually had to hire to keep Meredith from stealing all my funds. This theft has continued, with no hint of apology or remorse, to the point where I now feel compelled to deal with Meredith on his own terms and lawsuit be damned. The very existence of his agency is a testimony to everything foul and corrupt. Even the people who work there are compelled, by reason of conscience, to write letters at night to people they’ve abused and misled during the day. Eichmann, of course, was only obeying orders. Like Hubert Humphrey. The present political climate precludes any threat to Humphrey’s teeth, for the same obvious reasons that make it advisable for me to join in Hubert’s whimpering prayer for Lyndon’s dental health. But Scott Meredith is both stupid and arrogant enough to use Johnson’s methods in an area not usually protected by the FBI.”
… jesus, I seem to be out of my head, but my brain has really been jangled by dealing with this pig. I didn’t believe this kind of shit existed—but it does, and legally. Anyway, if you want to shift the focus of the piece away from Random House and toward Meredith … but what the fuck? Who gives a hoot in hell about that? I guess I could still write a funny piece about TV promotion shows, but that’s not what I’m pissed off about right now. Maybe I’ll do it when I get rid of these articles I’m supposed to be working on … but the whole satire/protest gig seems more and more a waste of time. Not even your hideous Johnson/Ladybird jokes are funny anymore, because the bastard is worse than anything you can say about him. He probably laughed when he read about him fucking JFK’s corpse in the neck.
Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967 Page 82