Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
Hunter S. Thompson
TO BILL MACAULEY, UNIVERSITY OF NOTRE DAME, CLASS OF 1976:
Thompson was flattered to have been selected as a finalist for the renowned (and Roman Catholic) University of Notre Dame’s Senior Class Fellow Award, an honor each graduating class conferred upon an individual “the majority of the seniors feel closely expresses their understanding of life.”
February 6, 1976
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Bill …
I just got back from two weeks or so on the road to find your letter of Jan 5, regarding the Senior Class Fellow Award … and although I’m still not sure what the hell to make of it, I want to thank you for the letter as well as what I can only regard as a combination of high madness and generous instincts that caused it to be written. The idea of victory in the “final election” is more than I can come to grips with right now … but in the unlikely event that such an awesomely weird thing should come to pass, I wouldn’t want to miss the chance to be part of it.
As for the dates you mentioned, the schedule of presidential primaries that more or less governs my movements this spring seems to leave me relatively free during the last week of March, the later the better, and I should probably warn you now instead of later that I look forward with genuine Fear & Loathing to the notion of “delivering an address” to any senior class, anywhere, for any reason at all … and in saying this I want to emphasize that my reasons for trying to avoid any speechmaking are entirely impersonal, non-sectarian and absolutely across the board, with no exceptions at all … and if I were in the mood to indulge any personal preference I suspect that ND would have an edge on almost any other university, if only because of the generally humane & intelligent response to my only other appearance on your campus;10 which occurred sometime in the spring of 1975, under the sponsorship of the Civil Rights center, or whatever it is that Michael Wise is connected with. If Michael is still around, let me suggest that you check with him on the advisability of conferring this honor on me…. Because he’ll understand all the hooks and reefs and strange implications, and I’ll be inclined to go along with his judgement as to whether this is a good thing for all of us to get involved in …and as a matter of fact, let’s leave it at that: If Michael Wise thinks this is a right & proper thing for me to be a part of, I’ll do it with no worries or reservations at all—and if I do it on that basis, you’ll have no worries, because I’ll definitely do it right.
Indeed, but now we’re getting into the realm of wild and heavy assumption, and that’s always risky—especially since I’m still on the “maybe” list. But regardless of the outcome of the “final election,” I want to thank you for your letter and whatever thinking led you to write it. My only other experience in this realm came last spring when I lost a run-off election against my old buddy M. Ali for the “honor” of addressing the senior class at Harvard. That was my idea of life & reality finding its own level, all the way down to the finest and meanest subtleties … but if you play in that league I guess you have to be ready to win, instead of losing closely and comfortably, but always with grace & style. OK for now….
HST
TO BOB ARUM:
Thompson had designs on the helicopter landing pad in front of former President Richard Nixon’s house in Florida.
February 6, 1976
Woody Creek, CO
Bob …
On the recommendation of the gentleman from Mobile, I’d like to retain you at this time—provided we can come to some agreement on the fee—to handle a job for me in Key Biscayne.
I want to buy the large concrete helipad in front of Richard Nixon’s house on Bay Lane. I was down there last week, making inquiries, but [Bebe] Rebozo wouldn’t talk to me and when I started asking around I got the impression that the natives weren’t entirely sympathetic to my cause…. So I think the transaction should be handled, as it were, by a person or persons not openly & publicly hostile to Nixon and everything he stands for. I haven’t asked Pierre if he has any specific contacts on Key Biscayne who could handle the transaction, but Sandy tells me he’s in England & won’t be back for a while … so I thought I’d go ahead and lay it on you, at least until Pierre gets back.
The opening, I think, lies in the 99% likelihood that the helipad, which sits about 100 feet off-shore from the two Nixon-owned houses he’s been trying to sell for a while, was built with U.S. govt. monies and is therefore owned by the GAO11 and not by Nixon—which makes it govt. property and not subject to any sales-terms negotiated by Nixon with regard to the houses. I couldn’t ascertain this for sure when I was down there, because my interest in the helipad was regarded with genuine suspicion by the few people I questioned. One of these, an attorney/friend of Rebozo’s, had already told me of the numerous efforts (presumably made by Rebozo) to sell the helipad to Dade County, various state of Fla. agencies, local marinas, etc…. and thus far nobody wants it.
Jann Wenner, yr. buddy at RS, has offered to fund the project, but we had only one conversation about it and although he mentioned a figure of $25,000, we didn’t get around to defining any terms, except to vaguely assume it would be a 50–50 deal, with me arranging the purchase and him putting up the money.
At the moment I’m awaiting a call from Washington that will hopefully tell me whether or not the GAO actually owns the helipad; and if the answer is a definite yes, all I’ll have to do is make an official bid on a govt.-owned property … and in this case I think Pierre should do the bidding, provided he can handle it discreetly. Or wants to….
So your own role, for now, is unclear … and for the moment you should just hold this letter as background, until I can call you with a few concrete facts. I suspect, however, that I’ll get no firm answer vis-à-vis ownership (of the helipad) from my initial inquiries at the GAO, and I’m not at all certain Pierre will see enough humor in this gig to want any part of it … so I figure we’ll be talking seriously in a week or so.
Meanwhile, on the gambling front, Sandy says you’re under the impression that you lost $20 each on the playoff games … but according to my own hazy recollections, we broke even. It seems to me that I had Dallas & Oakland with five points each, but there’s always the hopeful possibility that I’m wrong. Did you make any notes on the bets? I did, but I can’t find them … so I can’t say for sure, except that anybody as broke as I am right now would almost certainly not forget two winning bets in a single afternoon … and if I did forget, that’s almost more ominous than actually losing, because it augurs ill for the future. In this case, I’d prefer breaking even to the specter of failed memory. Because that would hint at brain damage, and $40 is cheap if it gets me off that ugly hook.
OK, I just got the call from DC in re: The Helipad—which is owned or at least controlled, apparently, by the GSA, and not the GAO. (GAO is govt. accounting, and GSA is govt. services.) In any case, I’ll know in a few hours if the property is biddable, or even remotely on the open market … and if it looks good I’ll call you right away.
OK for now. I have to write some bullshit for today’s deadline, so no more gibberish….
HST
TO FRANK GANNON:
Thompson had formed an unlikely friendship with former Nixon White House press aide Frank Gannon, but failed in his bid to go along on the ex-president’s controversial private visit to China February 21–29, 1976—the fourth anniversary of Nixon’s historic first trip to Beijing by a U.S. president.
February 9, 1976
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Frank …
Sorry to be so long in getting back to you in re: the deep & lengthy socio/ political conversation we planned, but I have a new idea that might allow us to touch all those strange bases at once, and under circumstances that most people would probably call awesomely weird. …To wit:
I’d like to go along with Mr. Nixon on his trip to China … and if I can work the logistics out with Rolling Stone, I’d like to bring Ralph Steadman along with me … but at the moment I don?
We both know I can’t offer you much in the way of guaranteed blue-chip publicity when I write about the trip … but we also know (or at least we should) that there is nothing in the long history of my relationship with Mr. Nixon to indicate that I’d write or say anything contrary to any agreement or understanding we might or might not arrive at, beforehand. My only valid reference on this score is Pat Buchanan, but I figure that’s enough.
The whole idea of this trip puzzles and fascinates me, for all the obvious reasons…. Which I see no point in detailing here, but if you want to talk about them I’ll be happy to come out to San Clemente for a chat, ASAP.
But in any case, please let me know something in time to make my own arrangements for the trip. I’ve already asked the RS office in Washington to apply for a China visa for me, and I assume you’ll let me know if there’s anything else I need.
Thanks,
Hunter
FROM GROVER LEWIS:
Brown Power activist Oscar Acosta had disappeared from Los Angeles in early 1974. Some speculated that he “went underground” to evade various authorities, but his friends were alarmed, including Thompson and Texas newsman Grover Lewis, a former Village Voice writer and associate editor of Rolling Stone from spring 1971 to summer 1973.
April 17, 1976
Kanarraville, Utah
Dear Hunter:
I’ve heard from several sources that Oscar Acosta is dead, the murder victim of drug traffickers.
For my own peace of mind, I intend to get to the bottom of the matter, find out if the rumor is true or false. Do you know anything about it?
I’d be most appreciative if you’d be in touch with me on this.
Best wishes,
Grover Lewis
TO LOREN JENKINS, NEWSWEEK:
April 24, 1976
Woody Creek, CO
Loren …
You thieving scumbag. I never heard of anybody named John Select and I never even mentioned the idea of recovering that typewriter from Hong Kong to anybody but you … so now that your hench-people have dealt with it in the most obvious kind of HK style, you owe me $200.
Never let it be said that an old Indochina hand like me can’t recognize a classic Saigon-scam, especially when it comes with the imprint of an infamous Tu Do St. moneychanger glaring out from between every line.
You pig. You couldn’t be satisfied to let the thing fall (or drift) gracefully into the hands of your own wife…. No, you have to fall back on the habits of an ill-spent lifetime and sell the bugger for profit to some HK dope addict. One of these days I’ll probably get a thank you note from Denis Cameron, written on my own typewriter from some ugly dungeon in Egypt. I understand Denis had a pretty active TV talk with Sadat.12 Was Rokoff behind the camera?
Anyway, you picked a perfect time to rip me off—because I’ve been sitting here for the past week or so, trying to figure out where to go for my next busman’s holiday, and all of a sudden you just solved my problem.
Indeed, why not Rome? For six or seven weeks … Hang around the better cafés & get a feel for the place, change some money, catch a few diseases, and of course I’d have to spend a bit of time each day in the office, on the typewriter. And the telex. Many phone calls to Doug Sapper in Rhodesia; or to my man John Select at Rolling Stone, making inquiries with regard to the fate of your various articles…. Just the other day, in fact, Wenner was asking me where to send your check, and I told him I’d deliver it personally, just as soon as I finish this goddamn article on the Campaign. At this point, I am sitting on something like $14,000 worth of out/pocket expenses, covering almost everything from all-nite naked cycle rides in Laos to cocaine orgies in the National Affairs Suite that I finally retired (permanently) about three weeks ago—but not before I gave it one last, long run that will not be soon forgotten; nobody ever covered a presidential campaign like I covered the first six weeks of this one. From New Hampshire to Miami, we kicked out the jams and brought not only the style and tone of the Lane Xang and the Continental garden but also the brute substance of both, right straight into the heart of the Campaign Trail … and when I say “we,” I refer to at least two mutual friends from the boom-boom days, but for reasons that need not be mentioned here except to say that Dick Tuck still lives, these people will not be named by me, in print or any other way. But let me tell you it was worth all the rotten, low-life agony that goes with covering this silly campaign to be sitting in the bar of some Holiday Inn up there in the snows of Manchester and looking up to see some wild-eyed fucker wearing a Hong Kong tailor-made jacket with only two buttons and a $2000 gold Cambodian chain bouncing on his chest & a gold Rolex on his wrist and yelling “Fuck All These Bums, Doctor O and his people are holding a press conference in 216 about fifteen minutes from now, and there is definitely no press allowed.”
But that act couldn’t last. Nobody had ever seen an out-front plague of dope addicts on the campaign trail before, and the Secret Service couldn’t handle it. By the end of the Florida primary, most of the loonies had been retired or sent back across the water … and that was when I quit, too. It was not worth the effort. If anybody ever tells you to come back over here and get “promoted” to some shit-eating gig like covering the White House, run like hell for Angola; and if all else fails, go into business with Sapper … or even that filthy degenerate, Tuohy. But don’t let them lure you back here; there is a powerful stench of doom and desperation in the air, and when things get that tense it doesn’t even matter who’s president. All the people who said I’d finally caved in to terminal brain damage when I started betting on Jimmy Carter two years ago are now brushing up on their scripture, just in case the “new Hubert Humphrey” won’t sell any better than the old one did. If I had to make my final bets right now, I’d have to go with Carter to get the nomination and beat Ford—but I’m still not sure what to make of it, except that all the alternatives seem a hell of a lot worse, and I honestly doubt if the outcome of this election will make any real difference to anybody. The die is cast, the fat is in the fire, and if the Grim Reaper wants to come on like Jesus, so be it.
But shit, I guess you read all this stuff in Newsweek, so I’ll quit and get back to work. I have one final article to do, then it’s down to Texas to work on a novel about gun-running and the smack trade … but before I get seriously into a novel, I think I’ll need a vacation.
And meanwhile, just in case that ratbastard John Select shows up in Rome with my typewriter, seize it immediately and have the bastard killed. Or hold him until my agent Semmes Luckett III shows up to handle matters. He is the only person authorized to deal in my name on the Continent, and I expect he’ll be seeing you soon.
Tell Nancy how sorry I am that you saw fit to sell my gift to her, but I guess you filthy journalists are all the same.
OK,
HST
TO JANN WENNER, ROLLING STONE:
Thompson’s article on Jimmy Carter—“Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’76: Third Rate Romance, Low-Rent Rendezvous”—ran in the June 3, 1976, issue of Rolling Stone.
June 16, 1976
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Jann …
Your un-dated letter in re: your decision to pay only 40% of my expenses on the “Carter” article arrived today—but I had a hard time following all the disallowed expenses you referred to, because the “enclosed accounting” you repeatedly mentioned was not, in fact, enclosed. Whether it exists or ever existed is an interesting but academic question at this point, because we both know how useless any further argument would be.
We both know, too, what an immensely treacherous beating I took on the Carter article expenses … and we both know there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it, because our agreement inre: expenses was verbal and not in writing. It was
Indeed. But then we never would have had an article, eh?
Have you tried golf yet?
Anyway, $4000 expenses and a $4500 fee means that effort cost me $1500 and one credit card—which is bad economics for a free-lance writer, but not nearly as bad as it might have been for me if I’d had a leg blown off in Saigon, with no medical insurance….
So I guess I should count myself lucky, eh? I was having such a good time down there in Key West that I guess I didn’t hear you when you were telling me to go back home and write the article because you weren’t going to pay my expenses, but I’m still a bit confused about who sent that Xerox tech-rep over to the Santa Maria Motel to fix my mojo wire so I could keep sending pages to that office in San Francisco.
In any case, you’ve made yourself eminently clear on this matter … and, like you say, “ … that’s that on expenses.”
How many other writers have gone to the pawn shop with that phrase (from you) ringing in their ears?
Hunter
TO BOB RAFELSON:
Thompson sent movie director Rafelson a rough sketch of his ideas for the Texas arms trading screenplay he planned to turn to after the 1976 election.
“ GALVESTON ” MEMO
June 23, 1976
Woody Creek, CO
Bob Rafelson
Outov Inc.
933 N. LaBrea
Hollywood, CA
Dear Bob,
After talking to you earlier today I looked at the 5-page handwritten letter I wrote you from the Trinidad Hilton and found that it related almost entirely to revision and refinement with regard to characterization vis-à-vis the film/plot/story tentatively titled “Galveston” that we’ve been discussing on and off for the past six months…. And since the letter was essentially a wild-eyed, pre-dawn memo to you, it contained little or no mention of the plot or the story itself, and hence would be of little use to you for any purpose except as a tangible reassurance that my head is very much into the project—even while grappling desperately with thieves, thugs, cops, and other bloodthirsty scumbags in Trinidad and Tobago, from which I escaped by a series of incredible maneuvers that still cause me too much pain for any kind of written description at this point. In a quick nut, however, the bastards took my money, my wallet, my credit cards, my press credentials, my acid, my weed, my mescaline, my vacation, my sense of humor and whatever was left of my unsupported and generally unsupportable faith in the “better instincts” of the human race … and then they chased me off the fucking island(s) like some kind of a crippled rat.