Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (81 page)

How about telling me:

1) If it still interests you—in this rough form or some other, but at least the general idea.

2) When (dates) we could think about getting some people together, so I'd have something to say when I call.

3) What you pay participants in this sort of thing—if anything—and again, just so I'd know what to say.

Obviously, I'm not going to start calling around and setting up a seminar in your lodge, but these are things we should talk about if the idea interests you at all—mainly because these are things any potential participant would ask at once. I could do it as a series of interviews, but I think it would go better as an article if it tied in with Big Sur and a seminar with photos—sort of like the piece I did on the Aspen Institute.

H

Jenkins, an aspiring journalist, had written to Thompson for some tips on how to become a big-time reporter; a warm friendship soon developed between them. Jenkins went on to win the 1983 Pulitzer Prize for his coverage of the Middle East for
The Washington Post.

July 21, 1964
Glen Ellen, California

Loren:

I thought the Peace Corps took care of your sort, guaranteed jobs upon discharge and all that, no? Well, this writing is a bad racket to fool around with unless you can't do anything else, which is my case, and if I were you I'd take potluck with the PC placement thing and have done with it.

I don't know how good you are so I can only speak in broad generalities. With a Ph.D. in government you should go to work for Lyndon; after last week's convention I think he is going to need all the help he can get around October and maybe sooner.

Anyway, New York is by far the toughest nut to crack and I guess San Francisco is next, for different reasons. If you hang around New York until you run out of cash you'll probably end up working on some trade paper like
Baker
's
Weekly
. The dailies in general won't touch a man without several years' experience in the trade; that's the way the Guild has it set up and exceptions are rare—like editors' sons, and that. If you are really serious about journalism I'd say the first thing to overcome is the idea that you're going to stay in New York (or any other decent place) and come up with an “interesting” job. I suppose it can be done, but everybody I know has had to go to the provinces first.

The idea is to get clippings and parlay them into bigger and better things. With enough good clippings you can virtually buy a job; I've come to think of mine as currency. A few good clips and a good idea will generally get you an assignment or at least an interested editor. So the gimmick is to get somebody to print your stuff; a good manuscript won't do the trick.

I went to the Headline agency, which came up with five or six offers within ten days, and finally found myself working for the
Middletown Daily Record
until I was fired almost instantly and then went on unemployment with plenty of time to free-lance. Headline is a good bet for a small paper gig, and they can generally come up with one close enough to New York so you can get in now and then. You might call a friend of mine named Bob Bone, who lives on Cornelia St. in the Village, and ask
him about this. He's closer to the job market; I haven't held a job in five years and probably never will again, so it may be that I'm out of touch. Or Don Cooke, 58 W. 25th; he managed to get on at McGraw-Hill with no experience and he may have some wisdom. Gene McGarr might know something about the TV end; he is at 245 W. 104th. They're all in the phone book.

If you're pretty good at putting an article together you might query my editor at the
National Observer
(Cliff Ridley) and see if you can sell him something. Address: 11501 Columbia Pike, Silver Spring, Md. Look at the
Observer
before trying it; they carry almost anything.

I got some good clips by writing for the
New York Herald Trib
travel section; also the
Chicago Tribune
. They don't pay much, but it helps to have clips from name papers.

I'm dealing strictly with the mechanics of this thing because I assume you realize nobody starts out writing editorials for
The New York Times
or lead articles for
The Reporter
. Some people might be good enough to start out that way, but Mr. Charley won't believe it. There is an amazing amount of resentment, among aging hacks, toward a young hotshot trying to bypass the bullshit jobs that none of them could avoid.

In all, the first thing to do is get some sort of writing slot; I'd say a general reporting beat on some small paper, because that would give you the most leeway to pile up the clips that would interest New York editors. It would also give you a base from which to free-lance for things like
The Nation
or
The New Republic
, which don't pay in money so much as prestige. It would also get you into the writing habit, which is harder than most people think, and put you onto little spacing and countless other habits that make a man's copy look like he knows what he's doing. Most editors fear for their jobs and would always prefer to publish a mediocre pro than a talented amateur who might get him in trouble. Editors, by nature, are the sort of people who use condoms.

This is about all I can say for now; all I have is your name, a brief handshake in the Aspen book store, and second-hand info from Peggy [Clifford] that you're “looking for a writing job.” I could probably do you more good if I knew more about your situation, experience, interests and that business. Send word if you think I can do you some good. In the meantime, and in sum, all I can say is 1) don't limit yourself to New York unless you have a good in, 2) avoid San Francisco at all costs; this is a dead end place and if you doubt it, read the San Francisco papers, 3) consider a year or even six months on a small paper that will give you enough freedom to get some good clips, 4) check with Headline and the names I mentioned, register at some of the agencies that handle writing jobs, and generally cast a wide net.

Like I said, it's a shitty business, in all, and unless you think you can put up with it I'd consider just about anything else. Anyway, let me know.

Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
Owl House
9400 Bennett Valley Rd.
Glen Ellen, California

Thompson had just attended the Republican National Convention at the Cow Palace in San Francisco, at which Arizona senator Barry Goldwater was nominated for president
.

August 19, 1964
Owl House
Glen Ellen, California

Dear Daddio:

The report from this end is ugly. Mister Charley is leaning on me for real. The wolves have broken down the door and found me too broke to buy ammunition. I was long gone in funk until finding your old March 7 letter tonight; its leaping tone brought me up short. I most definitely need a jaunt to New York for the purpose of reviewing reality with you and others who've been dealing with other tentacles. I think I must have come to grips with the main muscle. The brute is sitting on my chest and smacking my eyes whenever I try to roll him off.

I went to the Republican convention and put on a bulldrunk that scared the shit out of the
Observer
honchos sent out to put me to work. They got the honest fear and did me in with their reports back to D.C. (Our man in the West is a foaming anarchist, a naked boozer who never sleeps and won't work and thinks Goldwater is a nazi.) So they wrote and told me to straighten up or fuck off—and I still haven't decided which way to swing. On top of that my man at
The Reporter
[Dwight Martin] split with Max Ascoli and his successor is determined to do away with all traces of the old regime, including me. Thus, my income is nil at a time when my expenses are running high and my debts are fantastic. The car is dead, I am two months behind on the rent, they are coming for my phone on Monday, and I have about ten more days before they chop the electricity.

So much for that. I can flee, of course, but that would portend a shift back to that other league. I would have to learn to play the guitar, and bum cigarette butts. At the moment I have slim hopes of obtaining a loan in Big
Sur and making a move to somewhere, but I have no idea where. San Francisco, Montana, Alberta, Mexico, Los Angeles, New York—all possibilities, at least in theory. I don't want to stay here and I can't think of anyplace else; that is the nut of the thing. I was hoping Semonin would have some wisdom in this area, but his one call from Louisville had to do with black nationalism or some such swill and right now I don't feel up to joining a movement. If the idea is to bring down the government, I'm all for it. But you don't do that on a grant from the Ford Foundation.

Hudson has sailed to Tahiti. McGarr is due on the coast in a few days. I am off to LA next week to do a piece for
Pageant
magazine (yeah) on why people are moving to S. California. They wrote and asked for the privilege of publishing me. But at the moment I don't even have gas money to get to San Francisco, much less LA, and before I go I'll have to lay hands on another car. There is a possibility of a truck in Carmel, a real hotrod that will handle the Big Sur road at night doing 100 on the straightaways and 80 on the curves. I've put it to the test, but every time I take somebody along with me they get hysterical. I'll know about that in a few days; take over payments. Yeah. Take over the car and move out like a big hyena.

My shack has been full of people for two months, even including my mother and little brother. Steady visitors for two goddamn months. Two just left, a folksinger from Boston and a doomed young bride from Florida. Another singer due tomorrow, and then McGarr. At times like these I think seriously of British Columbia. I got a $71 phone bill last month, and another $50.24 today. Fantastic. Everybody makes calls and gives me fifty cents, which I promptly spend. Then comes the ticket, the sharp jab, and then severance. My landlady plays the organ. My guns are in pawn. My sanity hangs by a thread.

I think perhaps the only answer is an instant rewrite of The Rum Diary and a quick sale to the movies. My gimmick is an interracial orgy that should stand hair on end from London to Long Beach. The KKK will send goons after me if the thing ever appears. My birth certificate will be removed from the files in Louisville, and burned. Semonin, Dylan and Baez will chip in to have me croaked. And if they send me cash on the barrelhead I will buy a gross of .44 Magnum slugs and do a fine dogdance on Jack London's tomb.

Otherwise, I have nothing to report. Your last card was vague, saying things about “seeking employment” and “going up the Hudson.” What does that mean? Are you on the dole? What action is up the Hudson? If it's real I might check that area myself. My man Kennedy is in Albany; see him before making any rash moves in that direction. Bill Kennedy—
Albany Times-Union
. A fine man with the rum and a christian to boot. I've been sending people to see you but can't say if any showed up. Mostly in
the job-advice area. Now you say you were fired up the Hudson. I trust you dispensed good advice to any who called for it. (“Fuck off up the Hudson, boy, that's where things are happening!”)

I may even seek employment myself, but I doubt it. It would be like lopping off my balls. After five years on the fringe, I couldn't handle anything steady.

Thanks for the good words on the
Reporter
piece. There won't be any others. Probably not many more in the
Observer
, either. This is the end of an era and god knows what the next one will bring. I will try, as always, to get to New York at once. The truck would make the run in two days, but that's still unsettled.

Hello to Judy
³⁰
and keep me posted on any movements or shifts. Did Semonin leave any address? Do I have an address? What's in an address, anyway? “Up the Hudson” sounds good. Or simply “West.” Send wisdom at once.

HST

The Thompsons had left Glen Ellen and moved into an apartment in San Francisco. Eager for cash, Thompson pitched another Big Sur story to an editor at
Pageant.

October 23, 1964
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Willie K.:

Yours of 10/21 got here today and put a bit of egg on my face. Re: my comments on the lunacy of a “Big Sur Service piece.” But the most impressive thing about your package was your correx on my San Francisco to Big Sur distance. I said 150, a lazy generality taken from Telegraph Hill to somewhere around Anderson Canyon, the more or less center of what's supposed to be Big Sur. Your figure of 125 was only two miles off the map distance from the San Francisco city limits to the Big Sur highway sign just north of the village store. The exact figure is 127. And I say that from re-invigorated memory.

Which means nothing at all to our ultimate purpose, but we can't deny that you racked a few good points on it. I'll watch you from now on. You must have a custom-built World Almanac.

(Before I forget, I sent Sundell about a month or six weeks ago a piece on “The Rustic Inn & Jack London & The Valley of the Moon.” It was a pure color job, but a good one, and I'm beginning to think it never got there.
The Reporter
assigned it, then lost my original manuscript, and the ensuing fracas pretty well blasted our relationship. That and the demise of my editor. Anyway, let me know if you ever saw or heard of it. I don't really want to think it's your meat, but it's damn sure somebody's and I want to get it out on the market again.)

Now, as for Big Sur: I liked the preciseness of your comments, but I'm afraid you've swallowed the Big Sur myth. I lived there for a year and I still get down every few weeks and the people I drink with are now in the process of buying up the place, so I've seen both sides of the argument. I've also heard a lot of fascinating “Big Sur stories” that were pure balderdash. I hear stories about myself that put Henry Miller's stuff in deep shade. You say, “Big Sur, in its heyday, had more talent per square inch than Paris in the '20s.” Well, Willie, I don't want to seem churlish, but I'll have a lot of knowledgeable people on my side when I say that simply ain't true. The best to come out of Big Sur is none too good. Miller wrote only one book there. Dennis Murphy wrote most of
The Sergeant
in his grandmother's house, where I lived for a year. I guess Bennie Bufano is the only guy who really produced anything consistently in Big Sur, and even he was a short termer.