P.S. Are you still getting fatter and fatter? My new address is on the back of this sheet. If you aren’t too fat, how about sending me another picture of you. The two I have are a little old. But I gaze fondly on them in moments of reverie.
TO GERALD “CHING” TYRRELL:
Although Thompson was enjoying his journalism career, he was becoming desperate to get out of the Air Force. Much of his energy was devoted to pursuing an honorable discharge.
March 10, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida
Mon ami,
My apologies are abject, my heart is down, my head is spinning around, I had to leave a little girl in Kingston town. The procrastination of it all is humiliating. Fain would I have written sooner.
None of this makes much sense, but I do apologize for not having written sooner. Between both of these damn jobs, I never know whether I’m coming or going. It came as something of a shock, after leafing through my files, to find that the last letter addressed to you bore the date of December 12, 1956. This is inexcusable, but will not happen again.
After reading your letter again, I find that I have indeed written since then. My confusion must be apparent.
As it is now, I am three days behind on both sports pages and am scheduled for a terrifying inquisition of some sort tomorrow, concerning innumerable charges of insubordination which have been placed against me within the last two weeks. At last count, nine NCOs had registered complaints, the Air Police had found me drunk in the office at 3:30 last Sunday night, I had been turned in for reckless driving on my new motor scooter, and the Colonel had discovered that I was working for the News without his permission. Needless to say, the situation is unsettled.
To add to everything else, I dropped a gallon-jug full of beer in the office Friday night, and the odor has permeated the very walls, being particularly offensive in the Colonel’s office, which has no ventilation. I am seriously considering applying for an unadaptable discharge (inability to adapt to the military way of life).
For the sake of everything you presently take for granted, give up all ideas of volunteering for the draft: or for anything military. It is a way of life which was never meant for our type. Being almost wholly composed of dullards and intellectual sluggards, it is a painful hell for anyone with an I.Q. over 80. Be a beachcomber, a Parisian wino, an Italian pimp, or a Danish pervert; but stay away from the Armed Forces. It is a catch-all for people who regard every tomorrow as a hammer swinging at the head of man, and whose outstanding trait is a fearful mistrust of everything out of the ordinary. Should you volunteer, it will be two years lost in a sea of ignorance.
And that for the military.
You seem to be even more mercenary than I had previously imagined, but I wish you the best of luck next year in the company of Vaughn.3 I now see the secret of capitalistic success, but unfortunately, the AF leaves little chance for this sort of thing. WE believe in democratic processes. […]
Until I hear from you,
I remain,
your friend …
Hunter
TO THE ATHENAEUM LITERARY ASSOCIATION:
On March 11 Thompson received a letter from the Athenaeum Literary Association reinstating him as a Class of 1955 member. (The society had excommunicated him from its ranks for “insufficient morals” when he was arrested for robbery.) This hometown boost of confidence did wonders for Thompson’s sagging morale.
March 17, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida
Gentlemen,
It would be a waste of time for me to carry on at length about how much I appreciate the action you have taken in re-instating me in the Class of 1955. If you will put yourselves in my place for a moment, I’m sure that you will see how I feel.
The Athenaeum meant a great deal to me, and to be separated from it under the conditions which brought about my resignation was a painful thing. But the very fact that I left the Association under a cloud has made the reinstatement something which I will always look on with pride. Needless to say, I am deeply grateful to each and every one of you for making it possible and I hope I will be able to thank you in person the next time I get home.
They say that you never really appreciate anything until you’ve lost it, and any old grad can tell you that this is true where the Athenaeum is concerned. To many of us, the ALA was, and still is, a way of life more than anything else. We look back on the friends, the meetings, the arguments, the dances and the bull sessions with a feeling of genuine regret that they are things which we will never do again. Appreciate it while you can because those years are short and I can guarantee that there won’t be a one of you who won’t wish he could live them over again.
Of all the things for which I am grateful to the Athenaeum, I think the most important thing I learned was the importance of thinking. Had I gained nothing else, the acquisition of this quality would have made those three hectic years worthwhile. A man who lacks the ability to think for himself is as useless as a dead toad, while the thinking man has all the powers of the universe at his command. If this has not been made clear to you so far, then you have missed one of the most valuable lessons the Athenaeum has to offer: something which has for years placed the Athenaeum man head and shoulders above his intellectual contemporaries.
If it seems strange that I should mention the development of the intellect before the consideration of friendship, let me say that it has been intentional. I have always wondered why some people feel compelled to verbally eulogize a quality which, in its essence, is understood rather than talked about. To make a point of declaring friendship is to cheapen it, for men’s emotions are very rarely put into words successfully.
The two qualities I have mentioned, when properly perpetuated, are a tradition in themselves and can be very easily turned into the familiar triangle. Naturally, each man’s triangle will be a little bit different from the others, but the differences will only be superficial and will leave room for the individual to be appreciated as something separate, yet still linked to the group which has taught him to think as he does.
Leaving you with that, I shall now make an attempt to ward off what I feel sure will be a vicious attack on my character on the part of Mr. Colgan.4 I ran into him and “Dangerous Dave” Ethridge last week somewhere in the vicinity of the Indian Mound Saloon in Fort Walton Beach.
Hearing a voice cry “Hunto,” I felt sure that it could be nothing else but a delusion brought on by lack of sleep and continued on my way to do battle with the proprietor of a motor scooter garage which has become a permanent resting place for my only means of transportation. Then, hearing the cry again, I turned slowly around and found myself staring at what appeared to be a bum in need of a drink. Here stood Ethridge, with at least eighteen days growth of scraggly beard on his face, and dressed like a man who had stolen his clothes off of a dead Cuban beachcomber.
After exchanging pleasantries, we were soon joined by Mr. Colgan, wearing exactly the same clothes he had on when I first laid eyes on him back in his sophomore days. It was obvious that the two had been drinking steadily for several days and I felt that my reputation would be in grave danger if I were spotted in their company.
I know that, even if I were to relate the whole story of their visit, Mr. Colgan would warp it to his own glorification, so I’ll establish a few facts before he gets a chance to say anything.
First, I have been ill for months with a strange tropical disease which causes me to have frequent attacks of sleeping sickness. Anything he says to the contrary will be a definite untruth.
Second, recognizing the fact that there may be some truth in anything he says about my not leading the life of a good airman, let me simply say that there are extenuating circumstances which he may not have understood.
Third, knowing that they would undoubtedly become involved in some trouble, I felt it necessary to go with them to Panama City and see that nothing happened. As it turned out, I b
arely escaped having Spanish Fly put in my beer and avoided what would have been a virtual disaster. If it is implied that my conduct was anything but exemplary, that too will be an untruth. The fact of the matter is that Ethridge was thrown out of a respectable bar for using profane language and that Colgan was intent on destroying every known truth. Both posed as soldiers of fortune and barely missed being rolled for all they were worth. Unfortunately, I became ill shortly after midnight and fell asleep; whereupon they robbed me of most of my money and otherwise treated me rudely.
In a more serious vein, if you happen to find yourselves in the neighborhood of Fort Walton anytime in the near future, give me a call at either the town newspaper or the base and I’ll come in and give you a ride on my motor scooter. This area really isn’t a bad place to spend a few days (or the whole summer for that matter) and I’ll do my best to arrange for hospitality.
Before I go, let me thank you again and say that I’m looking forward to coming back to a meeting the next time I get to Louisville.
Until then, I remain,
very sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO VIRGINIA THOMPSON:
Davison Thompson, then a senior at Louisville Male High School, came to visit his older brother with the intent of spending a weekend in Florida. Instead they drove to New Orleans for a night of fun in the French Quarter with Henry “Ike” Eichelburger, who was studying at Tulane University.
April 11, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida
Dear Mom,
Leaving the usual apologies unspoken but understood, I’ll get on with the letter—which should be informative but short.
First, Davison arrived on schedule last Saturday and we had what I considered to be a very enjoyable weekend. I imagine that he has already informed you that we spent most of our time either on the road or in the French Quarter of New Orleans, so this revelation shouldn’t come as too much of a shock to you. It was a spur of the moment decision, born of the realization that there was absolutely nothing for us to do in this vicinity except brave pneumonia and chills by a little beachcombing.
After warning him several times of the considerable travel and expense involved with such a trip, we roared off in “my car” at about 5:00 pm on Saturday. We arrived at Eichelburger’s apartment at about midnight and departed immediately for the Quarter. In the short space of about six hours, I tried to give him as comprehensive a tour as possible on our limited funds, having a fine time in the process. After getting to bed at about 6:00 am, we awoke around noon, had an excellent meal in one of the Tulane restaurants, and spent several hours shooting the bull with Ike—who really enjoyed seeing Davison in this completely unexpected manner.
Realizing that he had to catch a bus out of Pensacola at 2:00 am Sunday, we spent the afternoon at a jazz concert and set out for “home” at about 7:00. The trip back was somewhat less pleasant than the one on the day before, due to the fatigue which had begun to get the best of both of us—especially Davison, who I would imagine is a little new at the game.
After a groggy and vaguely recalled farewell, I retired to the bed at about 4:30 and would assume that he got into Tallahassee at about 7:30 or 8:00 am.
Before I forget: when he arrives I wish you would surreptitiously find out if he made off with my green, crewneck sweater. I first noticed its absence this morning and came within minutes of reporting it to the Air Police as a malicious theft. Then I recalled the “few” articles I have made off with at one time or another—whether they were Davison’s or not is a moot question—and thought it would be best to find out if he had returned the favor and quietly appropriated my prize sweater. Don’t let him know that the loss has shaken me, but please inform me if he has it or not.
On the subject of my status—I had another big storm about an article I wrote about Arthur Godfrey, who is—unfortunately—a personal friend of Colonel Evans’, and may return to the Comm Sq at any time. This is a matter of little importance, as I have already volunteered for overseas and will turn my whole attention to the Playground News, making the same amount of money and escaping this senseless, maddening censorship which has all but taken the enjoyment out of working on the Courier. Right now, the situation is flexible, but I’ll let you know when anything definite develops.
As for Easter, I’ll probably spend it with Ike in New Orleans—with an eye to getting home either for the Derby or when the colleges adjourn for the summer.
Until then, I remain,
Hunter
TO THE CHAMBER MUSIC SOCIETY:
Whenever Thompson received an overdue bill notice he would write back a note either trying to finagle his way out of the debt or venting his rage.
May 3, 1957
Eglin AFB, Florida
Chamber Music Society
71 Fifth Avenue
New York 3, New York
Gentlemen,
I was extremely embarrassed by a “final notice before suit” which I received from your office yesterday. My shame was manifest as I read and re-read the lines which proclaimed to all the world that I, a gentleman of impeccable honor and unimpeachable integrity, have been slandered and branded in this crude manner by a dark plot which threatens my very reputation and standing in this lovely community.
This astounding implication that my professional honesty is in question has thrown me into a state of extreme mental anguish and has caused my guardian to initiate proceedings to place me once again in the narcotics sanitarium which was my home for the last five horrible years.
Should this come about, the responsibility for the disaster would settle heavily on your shoulders—for sending me this hideous little notice and putting me in the class with that lowest and most odious of all humans—the welcher.
Let me say in a final desperate plea—that any debt of mine shall be paid. Even though I am destitute to the point that I must accept meals and lodging from charity; that burning zeal and great dedication which carried me through “the cure” will once more come to my aid in this hour of urgency to cleanse me of this terrifying taint of debt and restore me to my former eminence. Even if I must pawn my syringe, I will see to it that this wretched debt is cleared immediately.
Most cordially,
Hunter S. Thompson
Command Courier
Eglin AFB, Fla.
TO KAY MENYERS:
Despite his sarcastic tone, Thompson was truly upset that Menyers, a Louisville girlfriend, had failed to answer his most recent love letter.
May 11, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida
FRAILTY, THY NAME IS WOMAN!
Dear Frailty,
After hovering for two months in a state of hopeful desperation, I have all but given up the ghost. The hideous realization that you have cast me aside like a dead toad has split my heart asunder. My spirit has plunged into a bottomless pit of despair.
Words cannot describe this great ache which permeates my entire being and threatens to drive me crazy with grief. For weeks I raced eagerly to my mailbox twice each day, oozing with hope that I might find a letter from you. But my waiting has been in vain and my hopes have decayed with the passing of time. How could you have done it to me?
The throbbing pain of this ghastly rejection had begun to subside last week when I was set upon by a pack of lesbians and bludgeoned half to death. As a result of these two disasters, my faith in women has been set back an untold number of years and my once-cheerful disposition has become as foul as rancid butter. Oh cruel woman that you are, you have ruptured my soul and I know that I shall never smile again.
Tearfully,
Hunty
TO CHAPLAIN (LIEUTENANT COLONEL) ROBERT RUTAN:
While writing for the Command Courier and Playground News Thompson discovered the acerbic H. L. Mencken. Devouring the collected works of the arch commentator, Thompson began raging against the American Puritanical tradition in the style of “the sage o
f Baltimore.”
June 6, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida
Chaplain (Lt. Col.) Robert Rutan
Headquarters, Air Proving Ground Command
Chaplain,
Naturally, I cannot be expected to dignify your wild accusations [of drunkenness] of June 4 with a defense of any type. However, I located the following quotation in “the Fourth Book of Mencken” last night and felt that it may be of some interest to you: my most abject apologies if I’m wrong.
“The theory that the clergy belong to a class of educated men, once well supported in fact, has persisted into our own time, though it has not been true for nearly a century. Even Protestants are commonly willing to admit that Catholic priests are what they call highly educated men. They are, of course, nothing of the sort. Nine-tenths of the knowledge they are stuffed with is bogus, and they have very little grounding in what is really true. Since The Origin of the Species, clergymen have constituted a special class of uneducated persons. Catholic and Protestant alike.
If they happen to be naturally smart fellows, they may pick up a good deal of worldly wisdom, but even that is not common. The average clergyman is a kind of intellectual eunuch, comparable to a pedagogue, a Rotarian, or an editorial writer.”
—H. L. Mencken—
In hopes that you may find as much pleasure in Mencken’s wit as I have,
I remain,
most cordially,
Hunter Stockton Thompson
TO L. J. DALE, NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF SCHOOLS AND PUBLISHERS, INC.:
Thompson made a habit of joining book and record clubs, then not paying his bill. This time a collection agency tracked him down with a threat of legal action. Deciding to cough up the money owed the Book of the Month Club, Thompson wrote the collection agency this Menckenesque riposte.
June 26, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida
L. J. Dale
N.A.O.S.A.P.I.
A Private Collecting Agency