Frankly, I’d much prefer to do the Vietnam thing—mainly because it looks like a fantastically good story that I could look right into. That’s one I’d really like to do—and I don’t get many of those. But I see the natural advantage in getting it from Herr, if you can ... so let me know, & meanwhile I’ll check with Oscar & see what’s happening in LA.
Meanwhile, I’m still in the foul grip of the IRS & heading for a $3500 showdown on Feb 7—or actually only $1000 on that date, with the rest still hanging while I hassle with Scanlan’s distributor. This is like having the hounds of hell on your neck while you’re trying to think. My American Express card was just seized for expenses incurred on Scanlan’s stories . . . but fuck all that for now. Let me know on the Vietnam/LA-Chicano thing, and also about the Aspen fotos & the idea of running a bit more than just my letter. OK for now.
HST
Letter from HST to JSW
Jan 30 ’71
Owl Farm
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Jann . . .
This comes in the midst of a certain amount of work/priority/message chaos—some of which resulted from those fucking telegrams of yours that got here three days late. Jesus, you should know by now—don’t ever fuck with Western union .
Anyway, the nut of what’s left hanging here is some ideas of consolidating what we have on Aspen, along with some hazy ideas on LA/Chicanos vs. Vietnam (with lengthy notes and samples) ... along with a very definitely double-edged idea about the notion of doing a regular sort of column for RS—which is always a good idea, in abstract, but I remember I agreed to it once for Ramparts, & the idea of filling one page a month was never quite hashed out between [Ramparts editor Peter] Collier & myself—much less with that wiggy bastard Hinckle. But it was a good idea; I never denied that—although it was hard to lock into for $150 or $200 a month. Because what happens to anybody who gets into any kind of forced/regular writing is that he’s bound to make a useless fool of himself now & then ... and it’s hard to set a price on that kind of reality.
But to hell with that for now; at best it’s just a vague notion—maybe born of my continuing frustration at always having to dump about nine-tenths of everything worth writing about, the inevitable freelancer’s compulsion to always fire your best shot ... which kills a lot of fast raps & left jabs enroute to all those classic Kayos . . .
Right ... but let’s not forget that the KO’s are where the main survival/nerve$ live, and we all have to scrape those evil fuckers once in a while, if only to pay the rent. Or maybe the real word is “dues.” Which I suspect you might have a hard time understanding. No fault of your own—or anyone else’s, for that matter . . . just some accident of history. But what the hell . . . ?
Strange Rumblings in Aztlan:
The Murder of Ruben Salazar
April 29, 1971
The . . . Murder . . . and Resurrection of Ruben Salazar by the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department . . . Savage Polarization & the Making of a Martyr ...Bad News for the Mexican-American . . . Worse News for the Pig . . . And Now the New Chicano . . . Riding a Grim New Wave . . . The Rise of the Batos Locos . . . Brown Power and a Fistful of Reds . . . Rude Politics in the Barrio . . . Which Side Are You On ...Brother? . . . There Is No More Middleground ...No Place to Hide on Whittier Boulevard ...No Refuge from the Helicopters ...No Hope in the Courts . . . No Peace with the Man . . . No Leverage Anywhere . . . and No Light at the End of This Tunnel ...Nada...
Whittier Boulevard has not been a peaceful street, of late. And in truth it was never peaceful. Whittier is to the vast Chicano barrio in East Los Angeles what the Sunset Strip is to Hollywood. This is where the street action lives: the bars, the hustlers, the drug market, the whores—and also the riots, the trashings, killings, gassings, the sporadic bloody clashes with the hated, common enemy: the cops, the Pigs, the Man, that blue-crusted army of fearsome gabacho troops from the East L.A. Sheriff’s Department.
The Hotel Ashmun is a good place to stay if you want to get next to whatever’s happening on Whittier Boulevard. The window of no. 267 is about fifteen feet above the sidewalk and just a few blocks west of the Silver Dollar Cafe, a nondescript tavern that is not much different from any of the others nearby. There is a pool table in the rear, a pitcher of beer sells for $1, and the faded Chicano barmaid rolls dice with the patrons to keep the jukebox going. Low number pays, and nobody seems to care who selects the music.
We had been in there earlier, when not much was happening. It was my first visit in six months, since early September when the place was still rancid with the stench of CS gas and fresh varnish. But now, six months later, the Silver Dollar had aired out nicely. No blood on the floor, no ominous holes in the ceiling. The only reminder of my other visit was a thing hanging over the cash register that we all noticed immediately. It was black gas mask, staring blindly out at the room—and behind the gas mask was a stark handprinted sign that said: “In memory of August 29, 1970.”