But no matter. The thing we need now is a powerful symbolic display of Aspen’s willingness to come to grips with the 20th Century … and by this I mean a flat-out, ding-dong riot. Mr. Bormann and I have offered, on numerous occasions, to furnish the necessary ingredients on a cost-plus basis. Sheriff Whit-mire, in his wisdom, has anticipated our project and is already pushing it. Aspen needs more men like this: far-sighted men who are willing to invest in the future. Martin Bormann and I can do business with people like this; we can turn Aspen into a paying proposition.
To the others I say only “Beware.” They will be driven, like the schwein38 they are, from the money-changing temple. The future is on us, and in closing I can only offer my condolences.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson (For Martin Bormann)
TO BERNARD SHIR-CLIFF, BALLANTINE BOOKS:
March 25, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Bernard …
I’m enclosing a few words on a book idea by a friend of mine named Oscar Acosta. Brown Power, as it were. Be the first on your block to have the definitive text on this new and growing menace to the white man’s peace of mind. Après les blaques, les brownes … once more, Zapata,39 looting and rapine, throw the rascals out.
Yeah … and if I seem a bit flippy from being threatened at every corner of my consciousness, you’ll have to pardon it at least long enough to remember your job … which is, they say, to publish saleable books—and in that context I think I’m doing you a favor by putting you onto a potential inside view of the “brown power” thing. Somebody’s going to do it; that’s obvious. And it’s going to make money—especially when the first Negro governor of California is burned at the stake on a Big Sur beach by Brown Nationalists.
Oscar is very much into this scene, as I think you’ll see by his letters. The two pages marked “outline” are intentionally limited—at my suggestion—so don’t blame Oscar if you’d have preferred to get more. I told him two pages would do for an opener, but after reading these two I suspect five or ten would have been a better vehicle. Anyway, I think Oscar is eminently capable of writing a book on this thing, despite the fact that he seems to have approached the outline as an adversary proceeding. He has a pretty good eye for most things, and I suspect he’ll regain his focus once the initial excitement of this new scene breaks down into mean tangibles. As a “Chicano lawyer,” he’ll be forced to see “brown power” for whatever it is, in terms of day-to-day reality.
Anyway, I recommend it. Check with Oscar and see what you think. His address is on the outline, and I’m enclosing his card. He has, by the way, written a full-length (unpublished) novel and several other things, so he won’t go blank at the notion of turning out 75,000 words. Call me if this letter doesn’t tell you all it should. OK. …
Hunter
TO OSCAR ACOSTA:
March 26, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Oscar …
I sent your “outline” and four other pages to Bernard Shir-Cliff at Ballantine. Probably you’ll hear from him soon, but in the meantime I suggest you pay your rent by conventional means. (This is not to say I’ve paid mine—at the moment I owe Craig for Feb. and March, but I’ll have to pay him soon or he won’t introduce me to McNamara.) Yeah …
Anyway, I was not impressed with your presentation on “Brown Power Through the Vengeful Eyes of Oscar A.” The subject itself will sell a book by somebody, but damn few publishers are going to want a flat-out piece of bugle-blast propaganda. You’re asking for some serious beatings—both as a writer and a lawyer—if you persist in your notion that all Mexicans are doomed heroes. Some Mexicans, as I recall, actually drive their own cars off of cliffs for no reason at all, or stall in the middle of highways and piss on themselves … right?
And we all know what the world can expect from Kentucky booze-freaks, so don’t bother with that indictment—it’s a matter of public record. My point is that you’re going to have to figure out some way to reconcile your roles as a Chicano lawyer and a Chicano writer—which might also involve some weird juggling of the lawyer-client relationships, eh? Or maybe not. But if you want to write propaganda tracts about how all the brown and black brothers sing TRUTH AT ALL TIMES AND FUCK ANYBODY WHO CAN’T UNDERSTAND IT, then I submit that you’ll probably wind up publishing your own book. Yeah … the whole publishing world is a gang of evil racist swine: they won’t give Nelson Algren40 a Guggenheim Fellowship because they’re saving the money for LeRoi Jones.41 Back-scratchers. But not racists. They don’t have the balls for that. They talk about Jesus, but they pay dues to the Grand Inquisitor…. Jesus is the favorite son, but on the second ballot the smart money will be on the G.I. Selah.
Obviously, it’s late here. Your letters and outlines are sealed in a fat envelope, so I can’t answer anything in detail—which hardly matters because the only question you asked had to do with the book-notes you sent me. And this letter should settle all that. As for prospects, I suspect you’ll have to outline your ideas again for Shir-Cliff, and in far more detail; your problem is going to be in convincing any publisher that you’re capable of deciding, in your own head, whether you want to write as a reporter or an advocate. I’m not sure, myself, what you have in mind, but since most of the stuff you’ve sent me was biased to the point of dementia, I felt an obligation to tell Shir-Cliff that your head is really pretty good.
Ciao, HST
TO TED SORENSEN:
JFK’s gifted wordsmith Theodore Sorensen was working on New York senator Robert F. Kennedy’s just-announced presidential bid when Thompson volunteered his speechwriting services—just as he had three months earlier to Eugene McCarthy’s rival Democratic campaign.
March 28, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Ted Sorensen
c/o Sen. Robert Kennedy
Senate Office Building
Washington D.C.
Dear Mr. Sorensen:
I understand that you and the Senator are casting about for human assistance in this strange and whimsical gig you’re into. Perhaps I can help in some way; I’m not sure how, but if you have any ideas by all means let me know. I met you several years ago at the Aspen Institute. You were one of the gurus at that session, along with Walter Reuther, Lionel Trilling and Justice Brennan.42 I was writing a piece on the Institute for The National Observer, my employer at the time. The article appeared, in gutted form, some weeks later—spring of ’63, as I recall. But what the hell?
Shortly after that I moved to California and continued to work for the Observer until the 1964 GOP convention, which I covered as part of the Dow Jones “team” and blew my cover, as it were, in the process. That scene, plus my coverage of the first Berkeley uprising, caused the Observer to question my objectivity … which led to my reclassification as a book reviewer and eventually as a non-person.
At that point I began writing for The Nation, which led almost instantly to a book project—the results of which I’m enclosing, along with a review of the book and an article I did last year on hippies. All I can tell you about the book is that it’s about a hell of a lot more than the Hell’s Angels; they are a logical product of a society that created them just as inevitably as it also created McDonald’s Golden Arch. And The President, our leader and millstone.
With the lone exception of the 1960 presidential campaign, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid any personal involvement in politics … but I have the feeling that we’re down to bedrock again, and if that’s the case I guess I want a piece of the action.
Like I say, I’m not sure what I’m offering. I live in Woody Creek, about 10 miles out of Aspen, but I think that’s immaterial. I move around a lot, and right now my schedule is pure politics. I spent about two weeks in New Hampshire, for instance, following Nixon around with the idea of finding out if he really existed. I’m still not sure, but the article is already written and now I have to finish a quick paperback for Ballantine by June 1 called “The Johnson File.” Your friend and mine.
It’s a fantasy book, a rude parody of the Iron Mountain thing, but this time with all the fangs showing.
No sense explaining it here, but I’ll tell you about it in Oregon if you have time for a beer up there. I’ll be there in connection with another book that I’m writing for Random House on “The Joint Chiefs,” and/or “who killed the American dream.” If Nixon wins (or, “if the boss gets in,” as Pat Buchanan43 says), he’ll qualify for canonization as one of Thompson’s “joint chiefs.” Actually, he’s already qualified: Nixon is a monument to all the bad genes and broken chromosomes that have queered the reality of the “American Dream.” Nixon is the Dorian Gray44 of our time, the twisted echo of Jay Gatsby45—the candidate from almost–Los Angeles.
And so much for all that. I think I’m rambling. It’s late here—almost dawn, in fact—and in looking back over this letter I don’t think I’ve made myself clear. So I’ll try to strip it all down, to wit: I’m not volunteering to ring doorbells or hassle the 500 or so registered voters of Aspen, many of whom are already worried about my houseguest, Martin Bormann, who writes letters to the local papers about McNamara. So precinct-work is out; I’m not looking for a career in politics or even a dam for Woody Creek. All I really want to do is get that evil pigfucker out of the White House and not let Nixon in … and the only real hope I see right now is your friend Robert. So maybe I can write something for you; that’s the only thing I do better than most people, so I guess that’s what I should offer. This Hell’s Angels book, by the way, has sold about 500,000 in paperback, mainly in college-type bookstores. I’m not sure how relevant that is to your interests, but perhaps you can do something with it.
If you think I could help in some way, by all means write or call ASAP so I can adjust. My phone here is (303) 925-2250. Or you can reach me through Jim Silberman at Random House or my agent, Lynn Nesbit at 1271 Sixth ave. OK for now …
Hunter S. Thompson
TO JIM THOMPSON:
Thompson’s youngest brother was now a sophomore at the University of Kentucky.
April 3, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Jim …
Sorry, very sorry, to be so late with a letter. I’ve more or less given up writing them. Ever since Xmas I seem to have been either traveling somewhere, or just getting ready to leave, or just getting back. And in between all that, I’ve been plagued with visitors. My nerves are shot and my temper is raw … and last Sunday night Johnson’s cop-out cost me $10,000. That’s what I was going to get for a book on the bastard. I really hated to see him quit; he deserved to be destroyed on his feet.
Speaking of all that, how is it going at UK? I think you’ll have it made if you can hold out another year; it’s going to take us that long to admit that we’ve lost this war in Vietnam. I say this without losing sight of the chance that Johnson might provoke something totally unforeseen … and if that happens it’s every man for himself. But I don’t think it’s going to happen that way; I traveled around with McCarthy in New Hampshire long enough to realize that a lot of people are very disturbed about this war and its implications. I went there to write about Nixon, but McCarthy was a lot more fun to travel with, so I switched off whenever I got the chance. My Nixon article should be in the June or July issue of Pageant. Another article just came out in the Collier’s Encyclopedia 1967–68 Yearbook. Check in the library if you get a chance. The photo in the front of the book is a horror.
I’ve checked with the local radio station about the possibility of hiring you this summer, and it doesn’t seem too promising. There’s a chance, but it’s damn slim. Keep looking around on your own and don’t count on this thing; I’ll let you know if anything breaks. Sandy’s mother says she might be able to get something for you with a new station in Deland, Florida. I’ll have Sandy check on that and let you know.
The enclosed check is something I’ve had on my desk for a few weeks, so I thought I’d put it to good use. Maybe it’s a birthday present. I don’t know how you’re fixed for money in terms of tuition, etc., but let me know if you get seriously strapped. The sudden death of this Johnson book has jolted the shit out of me in terms of this year’s money, but if things get hairy on your end I can probably come up with something. In any case, let me know. Like I said, I think you can ease off after the elections. But hang on until then. It would be a rotten goddamn thing to get drafted out and killed for no damn reason at all … and don’t kid yourself about that; draftees your age are going to be killed right up until the last hour of this stinking war. So be cool about it. I assume you’re in good shape, but I haven’t heard anything for awhile and if your status has changed any since Xmas, let me know.
I thought I’d have a chance to stop and see Davison46 on the trip to New Hampshire, but it didn’t work. I haven’t heard from him at all in a few months. I haven’t heard anything, for that matter, so send a line when you have time. I feel like a pure bastard for not writing in so long, but there aren’t enough hours in my day to even keep up with the basic action. Right now, for instance, it’s 8:15 on a Thursday morning and I’m going to bed just as soon as I finish this letter. Juan is already up, banging around in the kitchen and watching Captain Kangaroo or something like that on the TV. Sandy is still asleep. The dogs are outside, fighting over a deer-hide that turned up yesterday and terrorizing a strange dog that turned up on the porch last night and won’t leave. It’s a fine bright day, for a change. Still a lot of snow on the hills, but there’s already grass in the yard and I have my motorcycle running—that’s a sure sign of spring.
Juan and Sandy say hello. We’ll let you know about the slim chance of a radio job here, but even if it doesn’t work out, plan to come for a visit sometime this summer. The phone here is (303) 925-2250; call collect some night and bring us up to date. OK for now,
Love …
Hunter
FROM OSCAR ACOSTA:
Civil rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr., had been assassinated on the balcony outside his room at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis on April 4, 1968.
A day or two after they shot King …or,
a day or two before we burn.
[April 6, 1968]
Los Angeles, California
Hunter,
One thing the movement does to you is [it] takes away your sense of humor. Once upon a time I was a liberal, yesterday I was a militant, today I am a revolutionary, trying like hell not to become uptight.
By their own admission, four of us have “wrecked the educational system of six million.” An inside joke amongst ourselves. Today East LA, tomorrow the world. Outside agitators arise!
One tries like hell not to take one’s self so seriously, the awesome responsibility of the rabble rouser matures you; when you suddenly realize you could raise the people to take arms against his neighbor, to burn the city, to murder the fascist pigs, Christ that makes you grow up overnight.
TV cameras, reporters, electronic equipment, suffocating white lights, Bastards from the Dolce Vita jamming those mikes in your all too tired face, Your Thing becomes headlines, and suddenly the newsprint becomes The Event. And all the time you get this sickening feeling that they (the fourth estate) want you to burn the fucking town, all for a bigger and better circulation.
What has happened in ELA to this day from the time of my arrival, depending on what happens to us within the next week or two, could be an historic thing. Even on paper it looks like a man carried away with his own rhetoric, doesn’t it?
Look at it this way: The mayor, through millionaires, wants to meet with me in private; we have, in our pocket, a telegram of support ending with the words “Viva La Raza!”47 signed by Bobbie [Kennedy]; large sums of money are being dangled in our brown hungry faces; and the sex thing …
Hunter, I came here to blow minds, as usual, and as a secondary thing to stir the Mexican-American Liberation. It has happened all too fast. The slogans have become reality. And now with the King thing fucking our heads it is not inconceivable that this largest of citie
s could be on fire before this letter reaches you. I’m scared shitless because the anger within me looks forward to seeing the fear in their faces … and the burning.
Oscar
TO KAREN SAMPSON:
Thompson could be extraordinarily generous with his time and thoughts in responding to young Hell’s Angels fans such as Sampson, a high school student who had written him for advice on her term paper about the biker gang.
April 14, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Karen …
Thanks for your good letter and comments on my Hell’s Angels book. I wish I could send you a bundle of ripe information that wasn’t included in the book, but unfortunately I didn’t anticipate this market, so I went ahead and put most of what I knew about the Angels into the book. Sorry. The only thing I can think of that might help you with your term paper is an aspect of the story I couldn’t put in print for the same reasons I can’t tell it to you in a letter. This is the fact that I was as careful as possible to leave out of the book any piece of specific information that might have been used as evidence, in a criminal case, against any of the people I was writing about. This is something that might help you, if you ever pursue sociology as a means of income. It took maybe five or six months of drifting around with the Angels to convince most of them that I wasn’t going to write something that would get them all arrested. This is a problem that every honest “street-level” sociologist runs into sooner or later: if the people you’re interested in are living in any sort of conflict with the law, they won’t tell you the truth until they’re sure they can trust you. And that’s when your work really begins, because then you have to decide if they’re really capable of telling you the truth. Some of the Angels, for instance, were so much in the grip of their own myth that they really believed some of the ridiculous lies they told me. So I had to keep cross-checking, sifting, comparing versions, etc.