"Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six?
It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era--the kind of peak that never comes again. San
Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it
meant something.
Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can
touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. What-
ever it meant. . . .

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 to 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….

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or
down 101 to Las Altos or La Honda… You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic
universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . .
And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil.
Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no
point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high
and beautiful wave. . . .

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."
(excerpt from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, 66-67)

It was a painful waking on Monday.. red, bloodshot eyes, greasy hair, dirty laundry, no shower in three days. Break a couple of toes en route to buzzing alarm clock. Paper due soon, had nothing but a few chicken scratches jotted down. Naturally, I do what's best in such a situation, and ignore this fact.

10 minutes later.. Floored. Hunter S. Thompson, my hero, shot himself Sunday. I couldn't believe it, the revered Dr. of Gonzo.. dead. I mourn for a moment, finish the paper, buy two gallons of coffee and go to class.

Chemistry, 12:00 pm. I break the news to Meghan. She is distraught.

Meghan: "Shit Sonja, let's get some acid and go to Vegas."
Me: "......... ok."

So, by 5:00, we hit the road for Vegas, leaving around 4:00 am the next morning and making it back in time for Chemisty...

The Circus Circus in all of its fluorescent eye-burning glory..

Two decadent and depraved strung-out crack-whorish girls reminiscing an old friend..

Sadly, no women fucking a polar bear. Oddly silent casino.. Inhabitants swallowed up in the fucking reptile zoo that most likely ensued right after the news was broken.

Getting ready to pour out the tequila in honor of Dr. Gonzo.

Tucsonites

Tosh and Bootycall passed out on the drive home..