"Our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything that was right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country -- but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that." Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas ----------------------------------------------------
It’s lunchtime midweek, a bright sunny day in Los Angeles sitting outside at a Denny’s diner in Inglewood, west of the city, a dark funk has settled over me.
An endless stream of gleaming American motors whizz by on the two-lane freeway almost drowning out (but not quite) Whoregyna’s machine-gun patter as she talks down the phone to our friend V-nasty. “Get your ass up to Vegas bitch,” she screams twisting her hands manically and making the waitress rattle the coffee pot as she gives me a refill. I smile nervously. Whoregyna continues.
“We’re on a mission from God don’t you see. You wanna defile the honour of the greatest American patriot of the last 100 years? No way are you pussying out…Britcoq won’t ever speak to you again…” And on it goes.
A mission from God. Where is God these days, anyway? I haven’t seen him for a while. I know there are those who claim he never strays from their side and that for the last eight years, to the eternal detriment of the human race, these paranoid wrecks have been at the helm in America, using faith and patriotism as blunt tools to smash shit out of anyone who gets out of line.
I take a mouthful of egg and muffin and swig on my coffee. What the hell am I doing here? Sitting in the parking lot a rented Chrysler Sebring convertible we can’t really afford. We just got off a flight from New York (which we also most likely can’t afford), the place we dreamed up this plan.
I’m the Chrysler’s designated driver (I’m also Britcoq, because I’m British and I have a cock). We’re taking the shiny white convertible, top down across the desert to Las Vegas, the savage heart of America, to register the homeless and get high.
Somehow we’ve decided the two things are not mutually exclusive, and maybe they’re not. Hunter S. Thompson certainly didn’t think so. He took a lot of drugs and still managed to write one of the best works of political journalism of a generation, “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72,” the product of a year spent on the road in the “eye of the eye of the hurricane” following the Nixon-McGovern race for the White House.
He’s also the reason we’re here.
Just 72 hours ago and we were safely ensconced inside a Brooklyn brownstone in the heart of liberal America. Whoregyna, a loud-mouthed New Yorker (is there any other kind?), was screaming murder that the Republicans might actually get in again after the unholy abortion they’ve made of government for the last eight years.
The subject of Thompson came up. What would he have made of it all? The possibility of a black man in the White House; Sarah Palin’s crimes against the English language and common sense; the bile of misinformation directed against Obama.
In a hash and wine-coated surge of patriotic fervour we decided to do something about it. Fly out to LA and rent a car for Las Vegas, sample some Fear and Loathing in Sin City, and drive on to the ski town of Aspen, Colorado, where the originator of Gonzo lived and once ran for sheriff (solemnly promising his electorate that if voted in, he would not to eat Mescaline while on duty). Along the way we’d reconnect with Thompson’s America; register the freaks and homeless to vote in Vegas and Denver, insist they did have a part in the democratic process, however flawed that process might be. The audacity of hope.
Now we’re out here, I don’t feel anywhere near as confident. No time for pussying out now though. Must maintain.
I settle the bill as Whoregyna comes off the phone. Our friend V-Nasty has bailed on us. “It’s just you and me Britcoq. Think you can handle that?”I don’t say anything and we climb into the Great White Shark and pull out into the afternoon traffic. At a red light Whoregina turns to me grinning archly: “Now how about some drugs?”
An endless stream of gleaming American motors whizz by on the two-lane freeway almost drowning out (but not quite) Whoregyna’s machine-gun patter as she talks down the phone to our friend V-nasty. “Get your ass up to Vegas bitch,” she screams twisting her hands manically and making the waitress rattle the coffee pot as she gives me a refill. I smile nervously. Whoregyna continues.
“We’re on a mission from God don’t you see. You wanna defile the honour of the greatest American patriot of the last 100 years? No way are you pussying out…Britcoq won’t ever speak to you again…” And on it goes.
A mission from God. Where is God these days, anyway? I haven’t seen him for a while. I know there are those who claim he never strays from their side and that for the last eight years, to the eternal detriment of the human race, these paranoid wrecks have been at the helm in America, using faith and patriotism as blunt tools to smash shit out of anyone who gets out of line.
I take a mouthful of egg and muffin and swig on my coffee. What the hell am I doing here? Sitting in the parking lot a rented Chrysler Sebring convertible we can’t really afford. We just got off a flight from New York (which we also most likely can’t afford), the place we dreamed up this plan.
I’m the Chrysler’s designated driver (I’m also Britcoq, because I’m British and I have a cock). We’re taking the shiny white convertible, top down across the desert to Las Vegas, the savage heart of America, to register the homeless and get high.
Somehow we’ve decided the two things are not mutually exclusive, and maybe they’re not. Hunter S. Thompson certainly didn’t think so. He took a lot of drugs and still managed to write one of the best works of political journalism of a generation, “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72,” the product of a year spent on the road in the “eye of the eye of the hurricane” following the Nixon-McGovern race for the White House.
He’s also the reason we’re here.
Just 72 hours ago and we were safely ensconced inside a Brooklyn brownstone in the heart of liberal America. Whoregyna, a loud-mouthed New Yorker (is there any other kind?), was screaming murder that the Republicans might actually get in again after the unholy abortion they’ve made of government for the last eight years.
The subject of Thompson came up. What would he have made of it all? The possibility of a black man in the White House; Sarah Palin’s crimes against the English language and common sense; the bile of misinformation directed against Obama.
In a hash and wine-coated surge of patriotic fervour we decided to do something about it. Fly out to LA and rent a car for Las Vegas, sample some Fear and Loathing in Sin City, and drive on to the ski town of Aspen, Colorado, where the originator of Gonzo lived and once ran for sheriff (solemnly promising his electorate that if voted in, he would not to eat Mescaline while on duty). Along the way we’d reconnect with Thompson’s America; register the freaks and homeless to vote in Vegas and Denver, insist they did have a part in the democratic process, however flawed that process might be. The audacity of hope.
Now we’re out here, I don’t feel anywhere near as confident. No time for pussying out now though. Must maintain.
I settle the bill as Whoregyna comes off the phone. Our friend V-Nasty has bailed on us. “It’s just you and me Britcoq. Think you can handle that?”I don’t say anything and we climb into the Great White Shark and pull out into the afternoon traffic. At a red light Whoregina turns to me grinning archly: “Now how about some drugs?”
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