Mr. Brower might do his own mental health a good turn by understanding that not all of “us” live that way. I don’t know what Robert Pirsig20 had in mind when he aimed his bike toward Montana, or what John Gregory Dunne was looking for when he went to Las Vegas … so I can’t speak for them.
As for myself, however, I went to Las Vegas for reasons that would even now be understandable to any nickel & dime agent or editor on Mr. Brower’s NY luncheon circuit … and those reasons were 1) Money, and 2) A chance to Get It On, on somebody’s corporate tab. It’s entirely possible, I suppose, that I had a “walking nervous breakdown” in the process—but if I did, I wasn’t aware of it, and if that’s what happened I’d just as soon do it again, because it was an extreme kind of high & I dug it.
Again, I want to emphasize that I’ve always considered Brock Brower (or is it Bower?) as one of the dozen or so writers whose name in any table of contents would usually cause me to buy whatever magazine it appeared in; he has always struck me as a generally sane & perceptive writer….
… until now, when I open the Nov 7 Voice and see where he decided to take me, Dunne and Pirsig with him when he apparently went down the tube, lo, those many months ago. How would Brower feel if I flipped his coin in print and included his name among those writers who had inadvertently joined me on the long slide to terminal brain damage from drugs?
Which may or may not be true—and I frankly don’t give a fuck either way—but if the day ever comes when I decide to publicize my own failure & blame it on drugs, I hope I’ll have the grace to ride that rail alone, just like I started.
I’d also like to remind Mr. Brower that the pieces in Scott Fitzgerald’s Crack-Up were written after he’d written one of the technical masterpieces of American literature and one of the cleanest, saddest statements in the English language.21
In a nut, Brower’s piece reminded me of the same editorial instinct that prompted your cheap & vicious attack on George Plimpton several weeks ago … and although I don’t want to include Brower personally in this flash at what appears to me to be a sort of bitchy/neurotic editorial bent, I just want to make it clear to him and to you that if I’m going mad, I’ll goddamn well do it on my own terms … and I suspect Dunne & Pirsig feel the same way.
Brower may be right in assuming that a lot of writers just want to “sit tight and not move off (their) butts,” but he should do a little research west of the Hudson before he starts naming them, just in order to lend weight to his own lame confession.
Almost everybody who goes to the mats gets beaten, one way or another, but not all of us get broken.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
cc: Lucian Truscott
TO GEORGE V. HIGGINS:
Duke University had refused to compensate Thompson for an October 22 speaking engagement, claiming that he had arrived forty-five minutes late and was belligerent toward the audience (calling them “beer hippies and pig farmers” and throwing a glass of bourbon in the air from the podium). Thompson refused to speak at Florida Atlantic University because of contract stipulations that he appear at a press conference and reception afterward.
November 17, 1974
Woody Creek, CO
Dear George:
Here is the lean meat of my APB [American Program Bureau] file, with emphasis on our lack of an original agreement and the Duke fiasco—along with the Fla. Atlantic Univ. botch that I aborted because of that contract-rider that Novotny signed for me, in absolute defiance of a statement I made in a meeting of APB sales reps at their Boston office & under Walker’s aegis. In other words, Walker invited me out to Hq., and had me sit down in a meeting with his salesmen & explain my act … that was almost two years ago & every date since then has gone off pretty much according to my book, to wit:
I said very firmly that I detested these fucking things & that since I felt I had nothing to say I refused to even pretend to make a speech. I would, however, answer any and all questions from the audience—preferably in the form of a pile of 3 × 5 cards submitted in advance, although I specified in advance that any person designated by the speakers’ committee or any person appointed by them could select the questions. …In other words, I wasn’t trying to dodge anything; all I wanted was some help in sorting out the bullshit, so I wouldn’t have to do it on stage—which was not done at Duke, a fuck-up (considering that they had 45 minutes to wait for me, they claim) that contributed very strongly to the chaos that resulted.
I also specified, during my talk with the salesmen at APB—with Walker listening in—that I would in all cases insist on drinking my own beverage while speaking & that it would be either Wild Turkey or something stronger. They were not required to provide the booze, but ice and a large glass were part of the deal. In all other cases, however, I’ve been provided with so much Wild Turkey, prior to speaking, that I ended up giving quarts away before leaving town.
There was also the “Cocaine Proviso,” which I enunciated quite clearly at the APB salesmen’s meeting: I would, I said, agree to knock $100 off the speaker’s fee (mine), if the “hosts” provided me with a gram of coke for my own use while in town. This was said with my tongue about halfway in cheek, but the first two schools they laid it on took it seriously … and things went very nicely, all around.
What I’m getting at here—since APB so politely accepted Duke’s refusal to pay me, and since they signed a contract-rider for the Fla/Atlantic U. trip the night before that would have guaranteed non-payment—is a certain feeling on my part that APB owes me the full amount for both the Duke and the Fla/A.U. appearances, plus about $100,000 for gross damage to my reputation …and possibly to my earning power as a campus-speaker in the future, in light of Jann Wenner’s mumbling today about a “blacklist” inre: “problem speakers.”
In fact—due to this hassle with APB over the Duke non-payment—I was forced to cancel two appearances this week: On Nov 19 at the State Univ. of NY at Albany for $1250 plus expenses, and at St. Lawrence Univ. on Nov 20 for $1250 plus expenses.
These two losses amount to at least $3000, in addition to another $3000 inre: Duke & Fla. Atlantic … so that’s $6000, plus incalculable damage to my reputation and my future earning-power as a speaker.
I figure $506,000.00 as a proper amount to claim from APB. How about you? $6K actual & $500K punitive.
Let me know.
OK,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO MAX PALEVSKY:
Thompson offered Palevsky a settlement to resolve the matter of the $10,000 loan.
December 5, 1974
Woody Creek, CO
Max,
My instinct tells me you’re hunkered down out there in a state of fear & confusion vis-à-vis your lawsuit against me—& God knows, Max, I hate that vivid image….
Whereas, in fact, I’m the one who’s laid out—with malaria, strep throat, & god knows what else.
Anyway, I have a carbon of the letter Sandy sent to you while I was getting re-educated in Africa—and I think that pretty well covers it. We can end this whole wretched farce by my sending you a check for $2500—is that right?
I forget the terms & details, but I think that’s what it was. Neither IFA [International Famous Agency] nor Clancy is aware of these letters between us—except in the most general sense—& I’d just as soon keep it that way. I’ll tell them that weasels deal on one level, & humans on another. And that there’s no real need for them to understand it anyway.
Meanwhile, you vicious Polish bastard, Clancy is dunning me for $3500 in fees connected with this nightmare. I’m sure you’ll get a nice laugh out of that … but what the fuck? The simple fact of the loan puts me in a position where I can’t get righteously angry at you—so we’ll let this one pass.
My only consolation is that the mesa above my house that you could have bought for $50K, more or less, when you saw it, is about to be zoned for 2-acre “ranchettes,” which makes the current price around $500,000….
Jesus
—what consolation is that, for me? All it means is I’ll have to sell my 100 acres & move to Bel-Air.
Ah, Max—there is no victory. Neither fame nor fortune is worth a shit these days—the only thing worth clinging to is a sense of humanity.
Anyway, I’ll call soon—but in the meantime I assume we’re essentially even (I’ll send the goddamn check).
OK,
H
TO ROSCOE C. BORN, THE NATIONAL OBSERVER:
December 6, 1974
Woody Creek, CO
Ah, Roscoe …
How nice to hear from you again … after all these years.
Just a bit more than a decade, isn’t it? Ten years? Eleven? Twelve? You were a “senior editor” then, & now you’re a “Vice-editor.” Jesus, I can almost smell that gold watch they’re saving for you, up there at the Dow-Jones morgue on Wall St.
Which is not the kind of thing I’d normally want to get into with somebody I don’t really know & never liked anyway—& that feeling was always mutual, wasn’t it?
Roscoe, old sport, are you still with me? Don’t slink off; I want to establish the essentials of our relationship before I get into the main gum of your complaint—which was not entirely wrong….
It was like receiving a scolding letter from Hubert Humphrey, or from Richard Nixon’s favorite law prof. at Duke University—establishing a level, as it were, & now that we’ve done that I want to say that I got a fine boot out of the spectacle of a Dow-Jones lifer giving the back of his mossy hand to “freelance” writers …& a “vice-editor” of the Nat. Obs. talking contemptuously about “the periphery of journalism.” Those were genuinely off-the-wall strokes, Roscoe. I was stunned.
Can you smell the rank humor in that spectacle, Roscoe—even though your charges are not without merit? Can you hear me laughing out here in the Rockies, as I write this? Because you are going to remember this dispute, Roscoe—Just like you said in paragraph four of your complaint.
And now to the charges—not necessarily in the order you raised them:
1) That I was never fired because I was never “an employee.” OK. We both know why I was never a formal time-clock employee—don’t we, Roscoe? Right. Because I refused to work in that Silver Spring (Md.) office where you’ve been fighting the good fight in the mainstream of American Journalism for the past 11 years. And we both know—don’t we, Roscoe?—that I was offered & repeatedly urged to accept your style of employment by (then) managing ed. Dan Carter & (then) executive ed. Bill Giles.
And we both know that I refused to work under those circumstances, don’t we? And that I came to lunch with you & all the other heavy editors at the National Press Club & said I’d just as soon continue as I had for the previous year or so in South America—as the Observer’s highest paid non-staffer, but now working out of Colorado & California … as a de facto roving correspondent—essentially the same kind of relationship I’ve maintained with RS for the past few years … and I kind of like it, Roscoe, shameful as it might be in the eyes of people like you to be denied the privilege of punching a time clock.
And as I recall, Roscoe, you were still trying to be a writer, then—why don’t you go back, once again, to your files & count up which one of us had more frontpage pieces in the Observer during the period of my active “free-lancing” …
… as opposed to my “inactive period,” which brings us to your point about the “bitter dispute” that finally ended my relationship with the Observer.
Are you ready for this one, Roscoe? If not, you’d better call on Cliff Ridley—“the editor who worked directly & patiently” with me during this difficult & angst-ridden period—which ended, after 2 good years & one bad one, in a dispute that might not have seemed “bitter” by your corporate standards, but Ridley’s absolute refusal to speak to me under any circumstances for the past 10 years would seem to justify the word “bitter,” in my own context.
But you were right, Roscoe, when you said this “bitter dispute” did not arise directly from the Observer’s refusal to assign me to cover the first flarings of the Berkeley “Free Speech” Movement. That was more an open sore than a “dispute,” because once Ridley made it clear to me that “the Berkeley story” was being taken care of (for the Observer) by a moon-lighting reporter from the SF Chronicle, I naturally let it go—at least for the Observer, although I wound up writing it for The Nation & later for my Hell’s Angels book.
So, Roscoe … (you are right, on that point). The “bitter dispute” that ended my relationship with the Observer erupted at almost the same time as my running argument with Ridley about the Berkeley story, but the real crunch came in the wake of the Observer’s refusal to publish my (very favorable) review of Tom Wolfe’s first book (The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby). This dispute went down by telephone, Roscoe, so your files will not yield it up. I spoke with Ridley from a phone booth in the midst of a Hell’s Angels freakout in Bass Lake, Calif., in the summer of 1965 & was told that my review would not be published because “somebody with leverage” at the Observer had worked with Wolfe at the Wash. Post & didn’t like him—which had already resulted in Wolfe’s being turned down when he applied for a job at the Observer,& now accounted for this rejection of my favorable review of the book.
I recall saying, at that point: “Clifford, we’ve been friends for a long time & I’ve never even seen this bastard, Wolfe—but on the evidence this is stone chickenshit, right?”
He agreed—but refused to tell me who it was in the Observer hierarchy that was blackballing Wolfe on all fronts—from employment as a writer to favorable reviews of his first book.
So I hung up the phone at Bass Lake & went back to the Hell’s Angels orgy at Willow Cove, to work on my book….
But I was pissed off, Roscoe. It was the first time in 3 years that the Observer had actually rejected something I’d written—& I had written a lot of extremely weird things, Roscoe, which thank christ you were not in a position, then, to spike … but this blatant murder of a book review, for reasons that Ridley freely & apologetically admitted on the phone, made me angry.
So I went back to San Francisco—after the madness at Bass Lake—and sent Wolfe a carbon copy of my review of his book, along with a cover letter explaining why the Observer had refused to publish it.
Then I sent a carbon of my letter to Wolfe back to Ridley at the Observer—& it was then that our “bitter dispute” erupted.
Ridley was not happy with me for having told Wolfe why the Observer wouldn’t publish my review of his book; he accused me of willful treachery, betrayal of “our family relationship,” & that sort of thing.
And I just happen, Roscoe, to have a copy of that letter in my files—along with my own reply to Ridley, which turned out to be my last official communication with The National Observer.
And all that happened 10 years ago, right? Christ, I was content to let sleeping snakes sleep, Roscoe—what kind of lame madness caused you to poke them awake?
You have stepped in shit, my man—Herr Vice-Editor—and before you start foaming at that pale slit you call a mouth, I’d suggest a chat with your vice-cohort Cliff Ridley, in order to get yourself properly grounded before you pick up the axe-handle again for another one of those ill-advised free-lancer stompings, on the “periphery of Journalism.”
And that’s about it from this end, Roscoe. What else can I say?
Except that I enjoyed working with Ridley & for the Observer during that time, & I’m also glad that I quit (stopped, failed, ceased, terminated, or whatever word you like) precisely when I did.
Maybe someday, if tragedy strikes, I will limp back to mainline, time-clock journalism. But until that ugly moment, I guess I’ll just have to flit around out here on the periphery of Journalism with all those other neo-serious “free-lancers”—geeks like Wolfe, Mailer, Vonnegut, Halberstam, etc.—who can’t measure up to the standards of big-league newspapers like The National Observer.
Yours in perpetual humility,
&nb
sp; Hunter S. Thompson
National Affairs Desk
Rolling Stone
FROM U.S. SENATOR GEORGE MCGOVERN:
December 11, 1974
Washington, D.C.
Dear Hunter:
I fear that we have struck out on your request for the Gerald Warren press briefing of July 18th in Laguna Beach.
After receiving a tardy interim reply from GSA,22 indicating they were forwarding our request to the White House, the White House Counsel’s office phoned to say that as with each succeeding President, they have no access to President Nixon’s papers. The papers are evidently further under an embargo until the various court cases and final disposition is made.
I am sorry that we were unable to get the transcript for you, Hunter.
Sincerely,
George McGovern
1975
LAST DANCE IN SAIGON, END OF THE WAR IN VIETNAM, CONVERSATIONS FROM THE GARDEN OF AGONY … TOURING THE ORIENT FOR MONEY, SEX & VIOLENCE IN HONG KONG, LAST MEMO FROM THE GLOBAL AFFAIRS DESK …
Buy the ticket, take the ride—Saigon, 1975.
(PHOTO COURTESY OF HST ARCHIVES)
Press corps en route to news conference, Vietnam, 1975.
(PHOTO BY NEIL ULEVICH)
Buffett’s wedding, 1975. Left to right: Jimmy Buffett, Roxy Rodgers, Jane Buffett.
(PHOTO BY ALAN BECKER)
Sign outside the Rolling Stone Global Affairs suite, Hotel Continental, Saigon, 1975.
(PHOTO COURTESY OF HST ARCHIVES)
San Francisco, 1975.
(PHOTO BY EDMUND SHEA)
FROM GOVERNOR JIMMY CARTER:
Fear and Loathing in America Page 81
