Right now I have to get to bed. It’s 6:30 a.m. & I have to get up before noon, in order to buy a bed & a TV set. (Today is Saturday.) My private phone number just got activated yesterday: It’s 726-8161. Don’t give it to anybody; not even on the master Rollidex [sic]. The RS number is 882-2853 and rings here in the house, and that should be enough for all but the critical few. The point is that I want to have one phone I can always answer, without fear of being fucked around by lunatics . . . and the first time I start getting hassled on that number, I’ll change it. So don’t give it to anybody except [RS investor] Max [Palevsky], [Jann Wenner’s secretary] Stephanie Franklin, etc.
What I’m doing at the moment is feeling my way around & trying to cope with all these unexpected reactions to my gig. The problem, oddly enough, is that things are working out better than I expected . . . but at the same time I’m swamped with vicious little details. The phone man, for instance, got here at 10:00 & left at 4:30. He’s just back from Vietnam, & for a number of reasons that need no explanation it took him six hours to drill through a stone floor & then a stone wall, in order to put two phones in the Fear Room. And then he came back this morning: (to check the phones, he said, but what he really wanted was a copy of #95. Not for Vegas 1, but because of that story on Sly [Stone].) “I’ve been wondering why that sonofabitch is always late,” he said . . . and then he said he’s been reading “the Stone” for 2 yrs in Nam. I figure he’ll be around again—which is okay, I think, because in a city that’s 72% Black it might be nice to have a sharp black friend. When the bastard came back today he was wearing a hat that would have freaked even Sly.
And that’s it for now. Hopefully, I’ll get a column in by Tuesday—but I’m not optimistic about its potential coherence or heaviness. If it looks bad I’ll simply hang it up and make the nut with something else. Don’t worry, either way. This is going to be a good & extremely active gig, but I’ll have to get grounded first. (I assume, by the way—based on the schedule you sent me—that the real deadline for VORTEX #1 is Dec 1, instead of Tuesday 11/22. Is that right?)
Send word,
HST
Undated letter from HST to JSW
Jann/
Can you put me on a list for all new records (at the Rm 1369 address)? That would give me some gravy to lay on Prisendorf for the office rent—for an album a day I can get an actual office, with a desk & a studio couch. Very cheap. He won’t agree to anything that might hang him up—but if we keep it loose & informal, I think it will work . . . & a steady flow of “review albums” will make the nut.
Also, could Stephanie drop a note to the Cellar Door (the main Folk/Rock club here) & say I’ll be a regular visitor. I’ve gone there twice & it cost me $28 the first time, $17 the second (Doug Kershaw & Al Cooper [sic])—I think a letter from the main office would cancel those rotten tabs. It’s kind of a latter-day, high-powered Matrix, & I figure to stop there fairly often . . . & a letter from Hq. could save me $100 a month or so.
Thanx/
HST
Letter from JSW to Cellar Door
November 22, 1971
The Cellar Door
1201 34th Street, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
Gentlemen:
We have recently stationed a correspondent in Washington, D.C., Hunter S. Thompson, who is in the regular employ of Rolling Stone.
We would appreciate any and all courtesies, including admission and access to the backstage area, that you can provide.
Sincerely,
Jann Wenner
Editor
P.S. It is my understanding that there has been somebody in the Washington area claiming to be Raoul Duke, saying that he works for Rolling Stone too. There is, in fact, a real Raoul Duke who does work for us, but he is in semi-retirement in the Virgin Islands at the moment, and should anybody by the name of Raoul Duke claim admission to your club, you might as well just call the police.
cc: Hunter S. Thompson
Letter from JSW to HST
December 13, 1971
Hunter: Please return forthwith the various pre-recorded cassettes you stole from my house or else I’m going to give Acosta a first class ticket to Washington, D.C. and a huge quantity of ugly, bad LSD, plus your private number and your home address.
Yours,
[unsigned]
Undated letter from HST to JSW
You crazy dope addict bastard! Don’t give me any more shit about “stealing your cassettes”! I did a lot of rotten things out there but I didn’t steal your fucking cassettes. The next time you mention this thing, I’ll put [HST attorney and longtime friend John] Clancy on you.
—& while we’re into bummers, you should know that Lee Bailey just offered me a big chunk of stock in “Gallery.”