![who wrote fear and loathing in las vegas who wrote fear and loathing in las vegas](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/ttLXSOQM44o/maxresdefault.jpg)
So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark-that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back. We all had the momentum we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. There was no point in fighting-on our side or theirs. Not in any mean or military sense we didn't need that. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.Īnd that, I think was the handle-that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda.You could strike sparks anywhere. There was madness in any direction, at any hour. History is hard to know because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes ot a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time-and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened. Maybe it meant something Maybe not, in the long run.but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch the sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era-the kind of peak that never comes again. Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas.
Who wrote fear and loathing in las vegas tv#
I walked over to the TV set and turned it on to a dead channel-white noise at maximum decibel, a fine sound for sleeping, a powerful continuous hiss to drown out everything strange. But they're real And, sweet Jesus, there are a hell of a lot of them-still screaming around these desert-city crap tables at four-thirty on a Sunday morning-still humping the American Dream, that vision of the Big Winner somehow emerging from the last minute pre-dawn chaos of a stale Vegas casino.
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Who are these people? These faces? Where do they come from? They look like caricatures of used-car dealers from Dallas. Now off the escalator and into the casino, big crowds still tight around the crap tables. No, this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs. Most acid fanciers can handle this sort of thing.īut nobody can handle that other trip- the possibility that any freak with $1.98 can walk into Circus-Circus and suddenly appear in the sky over downtown Las Vegas twelve times the size of God, howling anything that comes into his head.
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But after a while you learn to cope with things like seeing your dead grandmother crawling up your leg with a knife in her teeth. A thing like that could send a drug person careening around the room like a ping pong ball. He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.