Shit, I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m vaguely concerned, among other things, about that “Jesus Freak memo” from the Sports Desk ... if there’s any possibility that it might be published, I want to talk about it first. (Meanwhile, I’ve prepared Sports Desk Memo #2—On the subject of “drug Lyrics in Rock Music.”) The very nature of this format makes the writing a bit heavy. #1 began as a joke—and perhaps it ended that way. I can’t be sure. Whenever I belch out my bias that strongly, it takes on an element of craziness ... and I want to be careful of this. In the past two weeks I’ve received copies of two different books that used “selections” from “Hell’s Angels,” and in both cases I was shocked at what happens to my stuff when it’s printed out of context. All it takes is a few cuts on the Humor to make the rest seem like the ravings of a dangerous lunatic.
Anyway, we can deal with these things when you get here. It’s possible that Noonan will be gone, and if he is you can stay in his house—which would probably be preferable, from your end, to using the guest room here. Which is definitely available—complete with White Sound. But I’ll talk to you tomorrow, before you get this, and get a fix on your travel dates.
OK for now . . .
HST
Letter from HST to JSW, July 30, 1971
7/30
Owl Farm
Woody Creek, Colorado
Jann/
Vegas is emerging from a bad case of stomach flu, combined with a water war that went a lot closer to the edge than I planned on.
It took me 2 days to bring the fucker under control—which included the croaking, tonight, of a “takeover bid” on the Owl Farm by M. Burns. (with [producer Bob] Rafelson)
Plenty of action out here—about 40 defecations a day & 20 vomitings, along with all the rest.
I feel very weak.
Ciao/
H
Undated letter from HST to JSW
Jann . . .
Vegas Two took a great leap forward yesterday; it finally developed a plotline. Only one big chunk still needs to be done—the Drug Conference itself. (Oh yeah—& there’s also the ending.) Last week was totally consumed by the Water War. I won, but it cost me six full days of time & energy.
I figure Vegas will take another week, but let me know if you smell any deadlines I haven’t been told about. October is a long way off, but I want to finish the fucker and get done with The Battle of Aspen.
I also want to decide, very soon, about this Washington gig—mainly because I have to know whether or not my house will be for rent this winter. I’d like to stay here as long as possible, but October 1 would probably be the deadline for getting it rented. In other words, I’d probably have to be out by then. There’s a chance I could stretch that until Xmas by putting the tenant/family in the Iguana house, temporarily, but I haven’t checked this out. Ideally, the Washington thing should be a one-year contract of sorts, from November to November. That would be the most convenient for a house/hq. lease in DC, and also from most other aspects. (Hell, I see where this kind of thing presents infinite complications, so I’ll leave it alone for now) ... but if you give it any thought in the meantime, keep in mind that my main considerations are:
1) Having enough money to move freely—not only in Washington, but also around the primaries (which means a fairly heavy airline/hotel tab for an extended period of time)
2) Being able to rent these houses, out here, so I won’t have to worry about this end.
3) Having a certain amount of autonomy, inre: paying for information & that sort of thing. Dan Greene could provide a vast amount of sub rosa help, for instance, but not for very long unless we paid. (That Randy Agnew contact was a pure accident, resulting from my request that he track down the eyeball man, and he told me about it more on a gossip basis than a story lead.)
Anyway, I’m having dinner with [New York Times journalist] Max Frankel Tuesday night, and I’ll warn him that I plan to be baying at his heels throughout the whole campaign. Actually—given the two-week deadline and some money to put people like Greene and maybe Bob Sherrill on a quiet-stringer basis, I think we could make the “Washington page” (or whatever) a sort of infamous press classic for the length of the whole campaign—not competing with the Fat City press, but riding herd on them; playing the Wolverine, as it were. A sort of Nader trip, focusing on the traditional & inevitable incest that seems to be the basis of the press/power relationship in Washington. Like a self-appointed ombudsman, hassling everybody—not just Nixon & Muskie—in the interest of that New/Dropout vote bloc we’ve talked about. The idea would be to approach the thing more as a lobby-interest than a straight observer—opening a news bureau with the undeclared option of using it, if necessary, as a de facto campaign headquarters. Which it would probably become, anyway, if we can put this Essalen [sic] idea together & come up with a platform.
Ciao,
H
Undated letter from HST to JSW
Saturday
Owl Farm
Woody Creek, Colorado
Jann . . .
Right after I hung up last night I realized you said the award was for “unstapled” journalism—but the word I got was unstable. Which made me wonder why you seemed so pleased. Or maybe I just felt guilty—one of those Freudian misunderstandings. Since I was working on the Las Vegas piece at the time, it figured. “Unstable,” indeed! Those swine. Next year we should demand a Gonzo category—or maybe RS should give it. Of course. “The First Annual Rolling Stone Award for the Year’s Finest Example of Pure Gonzo Journalism.” First Prize: a gallon of raw ether. Second: a Pepper-Fogger, donated by the ELA Sheriff’s Dept. Third: A free trip to the 1972 Mint 400 in Las Vegas to anybody with the balls to go out there and apply for “Rolling Stone” press credentials.
Ciao,
Hunter
Letter from HST to JSW
Monday Aug ’71
Owl Farm
Woody Creek, Colorado
Jann . . .
Here’s the tentatively-finished draft of Vegas II, Section One. I’m not sure it moves fast enough; maybe I need something rude & heavy injected up front ... but right now I can’t make that kind of judgement, so I might as well send this part off and wait a week or so before trying to read it objectively.
This is about 11,000 words, I think. I have maybe 10K more already written & waiting to be typed & chronologically fitted. My guess is that the whole of Vegas Two will run between 25 and 30K words. And that’s plenty. Perhaps too much. The effectiveness of the story depends on its hi-speed pace. We can afford to slow it down a bit once we get to the book stage, but we can’t afford anything slow or sluggish in the RS version . . . or readers will “take a break” & never come back.
You should read the first section with this in mind ... keeping in mind, of course, that it’s actually the middle (in book terms), so the crucial thing in this part is to build to a Climax, which should come at the end of Section Two ... and then use Sec 3 at the Ending. I have a fairly clear notion of where I’m going ... so what you should be thinking about right now is putting Alan on the phone with [Hunter’s agent] Lynn [Nesbit] & Silberman, to work out the book-arrangements. That money is my down payment on the Owl Farm—120 acres & both houses, a deal that we just settled tonight.
OK for now . . .
HST
Undated 1971 letter from HST to JSW
Owl Farm
Woody Creek, Colorado
Jann/
Here’s the rest of Vegas—minus a few graphs, but let’s get it sorted out & cut before I start adding graphs. Otherwise, it will just keep growing.
Great rush & chaos here—the cops have a bench warrant for me—Sandy is vomiting all over the house—seven Dobermans underfoot, no sleep, snowing outside.
Send the $500 at once. I’m down to zero.
Thanx/
H
Letter from HST to JSW, September 14, 1971
9/14—Tues
Jann/
I’m making these final corr
ex (galleys) on the plane to NY—going over it all again & finding typos I missed the first time.
No doubt I’ll miss some on this round, too. All writers tend to read over their own mistakes. So you should definitely have somebody look at this for typos, missing words, etc.
One thing I want to add, up front, in Vegas I is a set of directions on how to read it ... what music to play at top volume, what drugs to eat, (“read only between 2 & 6 a.m.,” etc.)—Just a box, about 250 words, at the start. Do I have time to get this in?
Letter from HST to JSW
10/15/71
Owl Farm
Woody Creek, Colorado
Jann/
My mail today contained a wholly unreadable Xerox of the galleys for Vegas II. Totally worthless—& also totally unnecessary. I can’t even read the fuckers, much less correct them. What’s so fucking difficult about sending me some galleys? And whoever initialed these grey-hazy things should be fired. On G-45, I notice the word “teach”—in big black caps—spelled “TETCH.” Uncorrected & apparently un-noticed . . . which makes me wonder what kind of typo-horrors might be lurking in that fog of grey shit I can’t even begin to read or even see. (Jesus! I see another gross error just one inch down from “TETCH.”
Fuck it—I refuse to search for any more. Only 2 of the 14 “galleys” are even initialed—it looks like even the proofreader gave up. (The “TETCH” pg. is not initialed). Jesus, what a mess. I’d appreciate another set of veloxes ... along with some galleys I can read & work on.
Thanx
HST
MEMO FROM THE SPORTS DESK (UNDATED)
To all employees without exception
Why is the staff so fucking lazy? It’s getting so I can’t even walk fast through the hallways any more without stumbling over some freak on the nod.
Is it drugs? Has it come to that?
If so, by God, we’re going to clean it up pretty damn fast. My attorney has worked out a series of disciplinary measures that will zap this thing where it lives.
Henceforth, anyone caught with narcotics, crazy pills, or other stupor inducing agents, will be dragged down to the basement and have his scrotum torn off ... and, conversely, any offender without a scrotum will have one permanently attached to her.
We feel such measures are necessary, even vital, to the health of this organization. This is the unanimous opinion of the Sports Staff, & as editor, I mean to enforce it.
We will play no favorites. Beginning on the day after Christmas, any employee caught nodding out, jacking off, or otherwise squandering company time will pay the penalty.
This is a business—not a goddamn dude ranch, and any salaried person who feels he/she cannot abide by these new regulations had better get out now.
There will be no second warning. Copies of this notice will be posted in every corridor and they shall not be defaced.
Sincerely,
Raoul Duke
Sports Editor
Letter from HST to JSW, August 23, 1971
82371
Jann:
This thing is so fucking strange (to me) that I’m afraid to comment on it. I showed it to [Hunter’s son] Juan, who’s right in the middle of what Officer Bill says is the “impressionable age” ... and he just smiled and tossed it aside after a quick scan. I got the feeling he thought I was putting him on. Anyway, don’t lose the thing; I may need it later on. It was, by the way, part of Officer Bill’s anti-drug package that I got in Vegas ... and it strikes me as a good sample of the super-shrewd cop wisdom they were handing out there.
OK for now. Send it back if you don’t see any place for it in the Vegas art stuff.
HST
Undated letter from National District Attorneys Association
National District Attorneys Association
211 East Chicago Avenue, Suite 1204
Chicago, Illinois 60611
TO: All Las Vegas Drug Conference Attendees
FROM: Patrick F. Healy, Executive Director
It is my sincere pleasure to enclose your certificate of achievement in connection with your attendance at the Las Vegas Drug Conference.
If the NDAA can ever be of assistance to you, please feel free to call upon us.
Hunter writes to Jann as he nears completion of “Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, Part II.”
Jann . . .
The hole between our talk with the Georgia lawyer and “Back Door Beauty” should be properly and quite adequately filled by Steadman’s art.
The hole between Back Door Beauty and “my attorney left at dawn” could use a slice of art, too ... following the tape transcription.
The central problem here is that you’re working overtime to treat this thing as Straight or at least Responsible journalism ... whereas in truth we are dealing with a classic of irresponsible gibberish. You’d be better off trying to make objective, chronological sense of “Highway 61,” The Ginger Man, “Mr. Tambourine Man,” or even Naked Lunch.
Despite these onerous comparisons, I suspect the point still stands. And the real nut of the problem is that I seem to resent any attempts to tell me how I should write my Gonzo Journalism. I realize that this stance is rude & irrational, but I guess I tend to operate that way now and then.
This gibberish is no more “journalism” than Steadman’s art is “illustration.” Charlie [Perry, RS associate editor] was lamenting the fact—and I agreed—that one of Ralph’s drawings would have been nicer if he’d included a herd of bats. But he didn’t—so I offered to draw them in myself, with an ink pencil. Charlie was horrified. Which was exactly the right reaction. I wouldn’t touch one of Ralph’s drawings—and for the same reason, I can’t work up much enthusiasm for treating “Fear & Loathing” like a news story. No doubt the holes and kinks should be filled, but for some reason I just can’t work up much zeal for the job. Maybe after 12 or 20 hours of sleep I might think differently, but I wouldn’t count on it. Let’s keep in mind that this was never a commissioned work of journalism; it was a strange neo-fictional outburst that was deemed so rotten and wasteful, journalistically, that neither RS nor Spts. Illustrated would even reimburse me for my expenses. So I’m not in much of a mood, right now, to act grateful for any editorial direction. (No doubt I’m wrong and bullheaded on this score, but the way this thing developed has made me feel sort of personal about it; irrationally possessive, as it were—and at this stage of the action I’m not real hungry for advice about how the thing should be handled. It’s been an instinct trip from the start, and I suspect it’s going to stay that way—for good or ill.
Anyway, I’ve worked myself into such a stupor of crazed fatigue that I can’t even sleep—and when I went into the office today Hank [Torgrimson, RS accountant] was ready to have me arrested for Stealing this typewriter. Things seem to be breaking down—after a long run of Good Work. So I think it’s time to go home. I’ll call you on Monday or Tuesday and see how things look then. But my general feeling is that you have a hell of a lot more important things to concern yourself with than perfecting the chronology of Vegas/Fear & Loathing. I have the feeling that it’s a pretty fair piece of writing, as it stands, and I’ve developed a certain affection for it . . .
I like the bastard. So why not get on to more important things? (I’m not seriously opposed to any cutting or editing, but don’t expect me to get wired on the idea of adding big sections that I didn’t feel like including in the first place.)
OK for now. I’m in a massively rotten mood, trying to stay awake until plane time—seeing double, feeling bugs under my kneecaps, etc.
Under the circumstances I don’t feel entirely ethical about billing you for all my SF trip expenses—so maybe I’ll just seize your McIntosh amp & see if that balances—if not, I’ll send a bill, & check for the amp. But don’t cash it until we talk on the phone & I confirm a deposit of some kind. This last month has pretty well burned me out.
Anyway, I’m at the end of my wire—a bit on the wrong side of the edge, as it were. But I think
all the Washington/book contract shit is settled—which is a pretty big step.
Fuck this—maybe I’ll send another chunk(s) of Vegas II when I get back home—but let’s not worry or count on it. We have enough, and 90% of it is absolutely right—on its own terms.
And that, after all, is the whole point.
Ciao,
H
Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas:
A Savage Journey to the Heart of the
American Dream, Part II . . .
by Raoul Duke
November 25, 1971
About twenty miles east of Baker I stopped to check the drug bag. The sun was hot and I felt like killing something. Anything. Even a big lizard. Drill the fucker. I got my attorney’s .357 Magnum out of the trunk and spun the cylinder. It was loaded all the way around: long, nasty little slugs—150 grains with a fine flat trajectory and painted asiac gold on the tips. I blew the horn a few times, hoping to call an iguana. Get the buggers moving. They were out there, I knew, in that goddamn sea of cactus—hunkered down, barely breathing, and every one of the stinking little bastards was loaded with deadly poison.
Three fast explosions knocked me off balance. Three deafening, double-action blasts from the .357 in my right hand. Jesus! Firing at nothing, for no reason at all. Bad craziness. I tossed the gun into the front seat of the Shark and stared nervously at the highway. No cars either way; the road was empty for two or three miles in both directions.
Fine luck. It would not do to be found in the desert under these circumstances: firing wildly into the cactus from a car full of drugs. And especially not now, on the lam from the Highway Patrol.
Awkward questions would arise: “Well now, Mister . . .ah . . . Duke; you understand, of course, that it is illegal to discharge a firearm of any kind while standing on a federal highway?”
“What? Even in self-defense? This goddamn gun has a hair trigger, officer. The truth is I only meant to fire once—just to scare the little bastards.”