Fear and Loathing at Rolling Stone (5 page)

And so much for all that. I can do the piece sooner, or later; I’d prefer sooner, but what the hell? We’re into it anyway, and by autumn a hell of a lot of people are going to be leaving this town: The only question is Who they’re going to be.

Well ... 3 days later now, & I’ve just talked to [
Ramparts
and
Scanlan’s
editor] Warren Hinckle about doing a piece on the Kentucky Derby for
Scanlan’s
. I’m leaving in a few hours for Louisville, so I want to get this off quick.

Right now the political balance looks about 40/60 against us—but that’s without the crazed brilliance that we’ll naturally bring to any serious effort we decide to make. So I figure the real balance, right now, is roughly 50/50—which means, if we don’t make any serious mistakes, we’ll probably control the town & the county by November of 1970. This includes the Sheriff’s race, the (more important) County Commissioner’s race, and also the referendum to change the name of the town to “Fat City.”

Meanwhile, we are being sued by the County Attorney, who claims that Wallposter #1 forced him to quit his job. He wants more money than the Meat Possum Press Ltd. [Hunter’s loose collective of like-minded freaks] can ever earn, so fuck him—we welcome his action. In WP #4 we intend to go for his throat & goad him on to further frenzies.

So that’s it for now; I’m off to the Derby. Let me know when you’d like the Sheriff article—and write the Random Notes Wallposter note however you see fit; we’ll honor it. OK . . .

Hunter

Undated letter from JSW to HST

746 Brannan Street

San Francisco 94103

Hunter:

Aspen story as is sounds great. I would dig it—at length, long really, maybe 5000 words, whatever it is worth once you write it—on the whole thing. Last year’s elections, this year’s, the dynamite things, all the local color and personalities. It sounds superb for us. I would like it in June to run in July or something.
I don’t want to wait until it’s over. I’d like the story while it is still in progress. If you know of a local photographer, then we’d like him on the story as well. If not, we’ll send our own photographer.

The whole thing really moves me, as freakpower or whatever you call it, but the story of how young turned-on people are trying to take over the town in a regular election in Aspen, the Aspen scene in general for a while, the specifics of the election, who is running against whom, the reaction of the local gentry. And registration.

Your story in
RS
should be part of the larger effort to get everyone to register for 1972.

So do it. We can use it as soon as you finish it. Rate is 5 cents a word. Let me know on the photos.

Jann

Rather than plug the Wallposter now, let’s get it with the issue we run the above piece.

Letter from HST to JSW

Owl Farm

Woody Creek, Colorado

June 1 ’70

Dear Jann . . .

OK, back now from the Derby & recovering from a massive fuck-around—with Wallposter #4 due at the (Denver) printer in 4 days, and nothing written. Not even a cover—and my art partner, Tom Benton, is in the hospital for a shoulder operation. So things are jangled here. Selah.

On the Aspen/politics piece, I’ll aim at getting it to you around mid/late June. One of the main problems is that anything I write in
RS
is going to get back here pretty quick, so I have to
consider that aspect before I get it on. Our county commissioner candidate hasn’t been told, yet, that he’s it ... and I want to get him solidly committed before I announce for sheriff. Otherwise, he—and our whole liberal/money gang—will freak right out and leave me running a straight Freak-Power shot; and that won’t work. The dropout Head mentality is a maddening thing to work with; they don’t know Kent State from Kent cigarettes, and frankly they don’t give a fuck. But I’ll get a decent piece out of this scene—for good or ill. Let’s look at June 20 or so.

As for photographs, we have some competent locals but they don’t give a fuck either—but let’s wait a while until you send somebody out. July 4 is always a bitch here: Violence, bombs, bikers, posses with shotguns, etc. So if I can’t root up a batch of good photos by July 1, maybe you should send somebody out who can do this scene with a fresh eye. There are one or two local photogs who could get the stuff pretty easily, but if I can’t prod them out of their lethargy we’d be better off with somebody interested. I’ll let you know.

But frankly I’d just as soon have one of your people come out. Otherwise, I’ll have to ride herd on the local fuckers & do everything for them except push the button. (And in fact I might do that. I used to take pictures for half a living. No reason why I shouldn’t make a run at it this time ... and if my own stuff bombs we can always use one of your people.)

Anyway, the thing is cooking. My only real problem is how to write it without screwing myself to the floor in November. We’ll see . . .

Sincerely,

Hunter

October 1, 1970

Two hours before the polls closed we realized that we had no headquarters—no hole or Great Hall where the faithful could gather for the awful election-night deathwatch. Or to celebrate the Great Victory that suddenly seemed very possible.

We had run the whole campaign from a long oaken table in the Jerome Tavern on Main Street, working flat out in public so anyone could see or even join if they felt ready ... but now, in these final hours, we wanted a bit of privacy; some clean, well-lighted place, as it were, to hunker down and wait . . .

We also needed vast quantities of ice and rum—and a satchel of brain-rattling drugs for those who wanted to finish the campaign on the highest possible note, regardless of the outcome. But the main thing we needed, with dusk coming down and the polls due to close at seven o’clock, was an office with several phone lines, for a blizzard of last-minute calls to those who hadn’t yet voted. We’d collected the voting lists just before five—from our poll-watcher teams who’d been checking them off since dawn—and it was obvious, from a very quick count, that the critical Freak Power vote had turned out in force.

Joe Edwards, a twenty-nine-year-old head, lawyer, and bike-racer from Texas, looked like he might, in the waning hours of Election Day in November 1969, be the next mayor of Aspen, Colorado.

The retiring mayor, Dr. Robert “Buggsy” Barnard, had been broadcasting vicious radio warnings for the previous forty-eight hours, raving about long prison terms for vote-fraud and threatening violent harassment by “phalanxes of poll watchers” for any strange or freaky-looking scum who
might dare to show up at the polls. We checked the laws and found that Barnard’s radio warnings were a violation of the “voter intimidation” statutes, so I called the district attorney and tried to have the mayor arrested at once ... but the DA said “Leave me out of it: police your own elections.”

Which we did, with finely organized teams of poll watchers: two inside each polling place at all times, with six more just outside in vans or trucks full of beef, coffee, propaganda, checklists and bound xerox copies of all Colorado voting laws.

The idea was to keep massive assistance available, at all times, to our point men
inside
the official voting places. And the reasoning behind this rather heavy public act—which jolted a lot of people who wouldn’t have voted for Edwards anyway—was our concern that the mayor and his cops would create some kind of ugly scene, early on, and rattle the underground grapevine with fear-rumors that would scare off a lot of our voters. Most of our people were fearful of
any
kind of legal hassle at the polls, regardless of their rights. So it seemed important that we should make it very clear, from the start, that we knew the laws and we weren’t going to tolerate
any
harassment of our people. None.

Each poll watcher on the dawn shift was given a portable tape recorder with a microphone that he was instructed to stick in the face of any opposition poll watcher who asked anything beyond the legally allowable questions regarding Name, Age, and Residence. Nothing else could be asked, under penalty of an obscure election law relating to “frivolous challenge,” a little brother to the far more serious charge of “voter intimidation.”

And since the only person who had actually threatened to intimidate voters was the mayor, we decided to force the confrontation as soon as possible in Ward 1, where Buggsy had announced that he would personally stand the first poll-watching shift for the opposition. If the buggers wanted a confrontation, we decided to give it to them.

The polling place in Ward 1 was a lodge called the Cresthaus, owned by an old and infamous Swiss/Nazi who calls himself Guido Meyer. Martin Bormann went to Brazil, but Guido came to Aspen—arriving here several years after the Great War ... and ever since then he has spent most of his energy (including two complete terms as city magistrate) getting even with this country by milking the tourists and having young (or poor) people arrested.

So Guido was watching eagerly when the mayor arrived in his parking lot at ten minutes to seven, creeping his Porsche through a gauntlet of silent Edwards people. We had mustered a half dozen of the scurviest looking
legal
voters we could find—and when the mayor arrived at the polls, these freaks were waiting to vote. Behind them, lounging around a coffee dispenser in an old VW van, were at least a dozen others, most of them large and bearded, and several so eager for violence that they had spent the whole night making chain-whips and loading up on speed to stay crazy.

Buggsy looked horrified. It was the first time in his long drug experience that he had ever laid eyes on a group of non-passive, super-aggressive Heads. What had got into them? Why were their eyes so wild? And why were they yelling: “You’re fucked, Buggsy ... We’re going to croak you ... Your whole act is doomed ... We’re going to beat your ass like a gong.”

Who were they? All strangers? Some gang of ugly bikers or speed freaks from San Francisco? Yes . . . of course . . . that bastard Edwards had brought in a bunch of ringers. But then he looked again ... and recognized, at the head of the group, his ex-drinkalong bar-buddy Brad Reed, the potter and known gun freak, 6’ 4” and 220, grinning down through his beard and black hair-flag ... saying nothing, just smiling . . .

Great God, he knew the others, too ... there was Don Davidson, the accountant, smooth shaven and quite normal-looking in a sleek maroon ski parka, but not smiling at all ... and who were those girls, those ripe blond bodies whose names he knew from chance meetings in friendlier times? What were they doing out here at dawn, in the midst of this menacing mob?

What indeed? He scurried inside to meet Guido, but instead ran into Tom Benton, the hairy artist and known Radical ... Benton was grinning like a crocodile and waving a small black microphone, saying: “Welcome, Buggsy. You’re late. The voters are waiting outside ... Yes, did you see them out there? Were they friendly? And if you wonder what
I’m
doing here, I’m Joe Edwards’ poll watcher ... and the reason I have this little black machine here is that I want to tape every word you say when you start committing felonies by harassing our voters . . .”

The mayor lost his first confrontation almost instantly. One of the first obvious Edwards voters of the day was a blond kid who looked about seventeen. Buggsy began to jabber at him and Benton moved in with the
microphone, ready to intervene ... but before Benton could utter a word the kid began snarling at the mayor, yelling: “Go fuck yourself, Buggsy!
You
figure out how old I am. I know the goddamn law! I don’t have to show you proof of
anything
! You’re a
dying man
, Buggsy! Get out of my way. I’m ready to vote!”

The mayor’s next bad encounter was with a very heavy young girl with no front teeth, wearing a baggy gray T-shirt and no bra. Somebody had brought her to the polls, but when she got there she was crying—actually shaking with fear—and she refused to go inside. We weren’t allowed within one hundred feet of the door, but we got word to Benton, and he came out to escort the girl in. She voted, despite Buggsy’s protests, and when she came outside again she was grinning like she’d just clinched Edwards’ victory all by herself.

After that, we stopped worrying about the mayor. No goons had shown up with blackjacks, no cops were in evidence, and Benton had established full control of his turf around the ballot box. Elsewhere, in Wards 2 and 3, the freak-vote was not so heavy and things were going smoothly. In Ward 2, in fact, our official poll watcher (a drug person with a beard about two feet long) had caused a panic by challenging dozens of
straight
voters. The city attorney called Edwards and complained that some ugly lunatic in Ward 2 was refusing to let a seventy-five-year-old woman cast her ballot until she produced a birth certificate. We were forced to replace the man; his zeal was inspiring, but we feared he might spark a backlash.