We had run the whole campaign with a power-nut of about six people, and when the final count came in, each one of us knew at least three people who hadn’t bothered to vote or who’d mocked our efforts to persuade them to register. “Politics is bullshit,” they said. “You fuckers are kidding yourselves with this Joe Edwards bit … you don’t have a chance.” By dawn of the next morning we had the voting lists together and it was easy to see why we lost: Almost thirty of the town’s most infamous heads had either failed or refused to vote. Some were too stoned to make it to the polls, others had left town, temporarily, without making the five-minute effort to sign up for an absentee ballot … a few had forgotten, they said, to register … and another dozen or 80 had simply opted out, insisting that it wasn’t worth the effort.
So the new Mayor of Aspen is a giddy old lady who would feel honored to go down on Agnew. Looking back on the election, there are two ways to see it: 1) That we were lucky to mobilize enough heads, on a one-shot basis, to come within six votes (or one) of winning anything … or 2) That our last-minute rush to make Freak Power a voting reality came close to a weird and “impossible” victory … and that the Edwards campaign forged a power base and a new voice in this county that, in future elections, the fatbacks can’t ignore.
In the uproar surrounding the mayor’s race, nobody noticed that we managed to elect two heads to the City Council. Those two, along with the two liberals elected, gives us a probable 4–2 majority on the Council—which is crucial on issues like Hippie-Purges, Dope Crackdowns, Pork Barrel expenditures and that kind of crap. There is no question that now—for the first time—local laws are going to be enforced on a fair and equal basis. No more hair-hassles, or busts for blocking the sidewalk … and it’s weird, in retrospect, to see that it took only two years to turn that whole scene around.
The next step looks like one of the heaviest—getting rid of the Sheriff. He’s up for re-election in November of 1970, not many months away … and if the Joe Edwards campaign was any indicator, we have the votes to elect almost anybody with a valid claim to sanity. At the moment I seem to be the only serious challenge-candidate—and that’s a horror, because I’m not really looking for work these days, and particularly not as the Main Pig. My supporters assure me, however, that I’m likely to be sucked into office by means of a spontaneous draft, so I am already hard at work compiling a list of qualified deputies to carry the load. My own responsibility, as I see it, will be mainly philosophical.
Christ …I seem to be running on. All I meant to say was that we made a serious Power Bid here, and almost won. I mention it because the formula we used could work in a lot of other places, particularly in any town or small community with a recent influx of heads & urban refugees. The formula, as such, sounds simple, but making it work can be a goddamn nightmare—unless, of course, you start with a clear majority. Otherwise, you have to work off of a minority power base and somehow persuade a lot of straight/alien types that you’re Right.
The first step is getting your own people to register, without frightening the potential opposition into some kind of backlash panic. This is tricky, because it has to be done quietly. At the same time, you need a candidate freaky enough to convince even hard-core dropouts that voting might be worth their effort … but not so freaky that his name or the very sight of him will cause shock-tremors in the straight community. And finally, he needs a program—on the surface, at least—that makes excellent sense. It can be weird and radical, but not cheap and crazy. In Aspen, for instance, Joe Edwards was able to advocate and successfully defend the idea of laying grass-sod on all the city streets and banishing autos to parking lots on the outskirts of town … but his campaign would have been doomed from the start if he’d talked about legalizing marijuana, a far less radical notion than tearing up the streets. We did everything possible, in fact, to avoid the “hippie issue,” because Edwards’ bias was so well known that any discussion could only have hurt. There was no point, we felt, in backing ourselves into that kind of treacherous corner—it would have made the campaign a suicidal joke—like Tim Leary’s bid for the governorship of California. There is a massive difference between self-promotion and self-preservation. I’ve never had much taste for Leary’s trip, and electoral politics is such a foul and rotten game that only a fool would play it except to win and move on to something better.
Which reminds me that I have to get back to writing for money, so I can put together enough to get out of the country on short notice—which seems likely if my sheriff’s campaign results in anything but total victory. Probably you recall what happened to that fellow Yablonski, who tried to unseat the president of the Mine Workers union. He and his family were murdered in their home within a month after the election.58
And so much for that. My whole point, in the beginning, was to say that we proved out here—against a powerful, wealthy and relatively sophisticated opposition—that Freak Power can work. It would take me more space than I have here to explain the details and various circumstantial problems, but if anybody’s curious, tell them to write me and I’ll try to line it out. The crucial point is that it can be done without a numerical majority and without any crippling compromise. Some places would obviously be easier than others, depending on the opposition, issues and the nature of the local economy. Like Butte, Montana might be a little tough, since it’s run by the Anaconda Copper Co. And Youngstown, Ohio, would be nasty, for different reasons that amount to the same thing. But I can think of several places that look easy—although they probably wouldn’t be if I named them. I can’t think of anything more likely to unify a town than a rumor saying it’s been marked for TAKEOVER by the International Freak Conspiracy.
On this note, I see where Bill Graham, the Fillmore man,59 has decided to make a movie about a bunch of heads taking over a town in Colorado …if the film ever appears it will make things viciously difficult for anybody who wants to try it for real. It would be like trying to organize a motorcycle club in a small town where The Wild One has just played at the local theatre.
But what the hell? When Agnew becomes president we won’t have to worry about elections—except as film fantasies and weird scenes from the past—so there’s no real point in bitching about a greedhead like Graham sabotaging a scene he’ll never need. But on the off-chance that we’ll still be able to vote a year from now, he could do us rural refugee types a favor by not terrifying the natives with a film that will cause us all to be driven back to the cities like tribes of lepers.
Well, shit … this is way too long and not half as coherent as it might be, but I don’t have time for a rewrite so you’ll have to cope with it, for good or ill. Right now I have to get back to my project; I’ve developed a process for deriving a powerful hallucinogen from potatoes. The patent is pending, so I can’t discuss it until at least next year. Selah.
I hope the paper goes well. Here’s $5 for my renewal. I forgot to send it earlier, when I got the notice. My life has become very chaotic; this pastoral existence has made my brain soft. Once I get this potato business under control, I plan to move to Watts and join the police force.
Ciao,
Hunter
FROM OSCAR ACOSTA:
Acosta’s antics continued to take their toll on his legal career.
X-mas eve, 1969
Hunter,
Slightly uptight cause in an hour or two I might be in jail; maybe because I was fired yesterday; maybe because I finished the play after nine months on the fucking thing; maybe because I took two bennies to keep me going.
It is the second job I’ve been fired from in the past two years and both times for the same reason: my fanaticism, my radicalism, my nationalism. What gripes me is the dirty pool. … I’m something of a damn good lawyer. I use the law, within its own confines (they know nothing of my extracurricular activities). Possibly, I may make new law …a thing that happens to one lawyer out of a million. I speak freely and directly. It is for this that they move against me … how can I
not advocate the overthrow of the government? Without seeming too paranoid, too egotistical, I know it was not simply the incompetent Board of Directors that did it. … It was men from Reagan’s staff and men from the Ford Foundation. … As absurd as it sounds, I actually have Senators ([Alan] Cranston and [Edward] Roybal) and Congressmen (Burton and Brown) and Assemblymen (Brown and [Jesse] Unruh), etc., who have, of late, been responding to my requests. I have never given them a damn thing, never once even hinted that I would … and yet they respond. Which means that they are aware of me. At least.
What do I do with this near power? Where do I go from here? It would be absolutely impossible for me to run for elective office …I haven’t paid taxes in five years … I’ve advocated victory for the Viet Cong, etc. … and, of course, I’m a well known acid freak.
The last thing I want to do is be a middle-aged, loud mouthed so-called revolutionary. It’s got to be the real thing for me. The last thing I want to do is die from some stray bullet during a “civil-rights” demonstration. Jesus, that would really spoil it for me … to say nothing of my image.
I’m sending you the play. I think it’s finished. I’ll go over it one more time before I submit it. I’d really appreciate it if you could give me your opinion, advice, or what have you. … As you know, I’ve really put myself out for this one. Except for the novel of 1960, I haven’t spent this much time on anything. Myself, I like it. It may even be a good play. I wish you wouldn’t hold back. The criticism you gave me of my long, short story was very helpful, technically, but more importantly, it gave me the extra boost I needed to start writing again. … All I get from the workshop and those lily-livered liberals are things like: Wow! Great, man! It really works! …What the fuck can I do with that?
The remaining acid from that batch we consumed … it worked as well as any other I’ve tried. I took it with six persons, once, and with four others, once … it worked for all. So, your theory was wrong. It’s something to think about, wouldn’t you say?—which reminds me: did you buy the mesc? I can get either for a buck a cap in S.F., wholesale. Next month I’ll be going up, so if you’re interested, let me know.
I’ll be leaving the office by the first of February … call me collect any time. I repeat: tell me what you think of the play.
Z
TO HUGHES RUDD, CBS NEWS:
Rudd had run up quite a tab during a recent visit to Woody Creek.
December 28, 1969
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Hughes …
I’m enclosing an itemized account of your expenses in the course of the Aspen gig. As you see, it takes care of the bulk of your $21,000 outstanding … and all I ask is an even split when the nut comes in. Shit, I’ll take a third—or even less. Why not settle for $2500 and call it square? It took me a long time and a lot of research to put this thing together.
As for Spade Cooley, you deserve whatever happens to you on that one. Hell, even I knew—far out in Woody Creek—that Spade had cashed in. Next time, use Mitch Greenhill’s name;60 he’s good for 10 more years, at least.
For christ’s sake don’t tell Benti I said he “admitted that CBS had yielded to pressure” in the course of our phone call. He didn’t. In fact both he & Lewis insisted, at great length, that nobody from Stanton on down would dare to touch a fucking second of their news time. And I said that I fully understood this & felt overcome with shame for my rude notions of pressure from somewhere UP. Shit, I know better than that—even while your friend Craig is sitting out here telling me how he and “several others” killed the piece in the “best interests” of Aspen. Which gave me a good chuckle until I realized that the thing had, in fact, been killed.
Anyway, I don’t want to get into that again. I got a good letter from Benti—written from his home in the grip of a hashish frenzy—and if I could find the thing I’d try to answer it in kind. Which reminds me that on Xmas day I gave away about two ounces of hashish, never dreaming it was worth $75 per. Now, stone broke again, I tend to question my sanity. Actually, I question it daily, and for many more reasons than my tendency to dispense drugs like Florence Dooley.61
Christmas was the same old annual nightmare out here, and NYr’s will be worse. I am locked into an orgy of betting on football games & constant haggling with the bookie. I am considering having his arms broken for $100 each, but right now I can’t pay the hit man—not until the bookie pays me. So you see the problem. They’re closing in on me, I think. Agnew was right …
Ciao,
Hunter
***
ITEMIZED EXPENSES … out of pocket & otherwise, incurred by Hughes Rudd during work and research on doomed Aspen/Hippie piece—August ’69
$1,769
….. Misc. food and drink for H. S. Thompson during 10 days of probing into local mores, habits, kinks & philos. bkgnd. of same
1,000
….. @ $100 per day to H. S. Thompson for protection from local thugs, authorities, etc.
190
….. S&W .44 Magnum revolver
88
….. ammunition for same
4,650
….. drugs and drink for sub-advisors and special consultants (LSD, mescaline, hashish, beer, wine, marijuana, Old Nightrider whiskey, black rum and Jimson Weed …)
1,120
….. car rental and repairs after riot
987
….. damage to camera during riot
220
…..surgical fees, inre: Cameraman attacked during riot
600
….. rental fee, glass dwelling with sun exposure
9,362
….. mental anguish and possible brain damage—H. Rudd & family—due to savage harassment, abuse and attack by local merchants & influence peddlers … also for Soul Challenge and other spiritual crisis, lack of sleep for prolonged periods and general nerve-rot.
$20,986
…..Total expenses for Rudd Aspen encounter
1970
THOMPSON FOR SHERIFF … THE FREAK ALSO RISES … WILD VICTORY IN HORSE COUNTRY, DISASTER AT THE AMERICA’S CUP … NIXON’S MASSACRE AT KENT STATE, THE NIGHTMARE OF RALPH STEADMAN … JUST HOW WEIRD CAN YOU STAND IT, BROTHER, BEFORE YOUR LOVE WILL CRACK? …
In kitchen at Owl Farm during sheriff’s campaign. Left to right: Bill Kennedy, HST, Ed Bastian.
(PHOTO BY DAVID HISER)
Voting, 1970. With Sandy, Bill Noonan (Freak Power candidate for county coroner), HST. (Under Colorado law, the coroner is the only official with the power to arrest the sheriff.)
(PHOTO BY BOB KRUEGER)
“Beat them to death with their own rules”: with Oscar Acosta at Freak Power headquarters.
(PHOTO BY BOB KRUEGER)
Cover of Scanlan’s, June 1970.
Scanlan’s, 1970.
(DRAWING BY RALPH STEADMAN)
Warren Hinckle.
(PHOTO BY RALPH STEADMAN)
Wallposter #5.
(POSTER BY TOM BENTON)
TO SELMA SHAPIRO, RANDOM HOUSE:
Going through her files at Random House, Hell’s Angels publicist Selma Shapiro came across a photograph Thompson had sent of himself—naked—taken in Haight-Ashbury. She one-upped the joke by sending it back.
January 1, 1970
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Selma …
Words fail me at this time. What can a man say to a person who returns a stark-naked photo of himself? Probably next week the publicity manager for Today will send back my Phi Delt pin …and I’ll find that special locket I gave Jay Allen1 on sale in some dingy East L.A. pawnshop.
Well … life is ugly. We do what we can, but the scales tell the story every time. Fear and loathing is everywhere. The swine have come home to roost.
In the meantime, I trust you are still selling well. And that life in NY still rattles around on those peaks that those of us in the outback will never know. OK for now. I’ll send word when I finish wrapping my new product.
Ciao …
HST
br /> TO STEVE GELLER:
Still hoping to get The Rum Diary made into a movie, Thompson updated a Hollywood friend about his venture into local politics.
January 8, 1970
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Steve …
You got it all wrong. It wasn’t me who ran for mayor. I was the guru, the main hustler, the hype-monger. I called the fellow one Saturday night and said, “Yes, you must make the race …” and after that I didn’t talk to him for another two weeks, or a few days before the election. And I’d never talked to him before that. By that time he’d seen his name on posters all over town and heard his program lined out with a flute background on the local radio and huge full-page ads in the paper saying what he was going to cure and croak if elected …and finally he began to take it all seriously: at a crucial public meeting, just as it looked like we were losing momentum, he suddenly emerged from his funk and ate the other candidate alive. It was like the first Kennedy-Nixon debate …and with another two days we’d have won handily. Actually, it was the heinous copout of the local liberals that beat us.
But fuck all that. It’s history now, and I’m not sure what to do with it. Right now I’m using it as the lead-in for a book on … well … who can say? But I thought you should know that I didn’t run for mayor. My gig is saying and writing all the shit that a candidate can’t say, for fear of alienating huge blocs of voters. And this was done—except for six votes. Now, looking back and ahead at the same time, I’m not sure what to make of it. Possibly, we laid the groundwork for a total takeover out here. Or maybe we just kicked up a one-shot stir that will never work again. I’ll know by the end of next summer, when two more crucial elections come up—Cty. Commissioner & Sheriff. By winning those two, we could snap the spine of the Establishment. The mayor’s race was largely symbolic, but these next two involve real power.