Speaking of a one Hunter S. Thompson...

It has been suggested (in the comments) that my picture makes me look like Hunter S. Thompson. Seeing it after thefact there is a similarity I suppose. I took it as a compliment of sorts. I love the book (Fear and Loathing in las Vegas) like everyone else. Not because I hoped to emulate the journey, but because it was funny as hell.

The "transfering Rum and Ice" line had me pissing. "She was clearly looking for violence" brought me to tears. The afore mentioned "coconut husks" from the comments page is one of the funniest things I have ever read and "we must have bass" well that was just great.

So as much as I love that book, and as much as I love Vegas, I have always wanted to do a bit of a pilgrimege.

Small problem...that town uses Arby's menus as history books. Most of the locations are gone.

I visited the famous Carousel Bar on my third trip through town. Sober as a judge Circus Circus is a trip, a toilet and a fucking dump all wrapped up into one. ADVICE, never stay there, sure its a name place, but time has passed it by. The saddest part was the Carousel is still there, but the bar was closed (I don't know if that was temporary or what, but I couldn't get a drink there, I hope you can). I have been through the Tropicana and stopped by what I knew where other places in the book (Flamingo etc.), but I was still curious as to where were the big locations?

I did a bit of research and found some of the locations, or what happened to the locations, but for the most part it was hard to track everything down.

Then I stumbled on another fan who wrote a piece for people like me, looking to pay homage to a great fucking weekend. I have since lost his article, but my notes remain. I will spend some time looking for the story (I have read at least three in the past 10 years that were similar) so to the author, this is all you, I just don't know who you are.

UPDATE: Story Found (see in full at the bottom of the page)

Here is the abridged version for people interested in visiting the hot spots from the book.

http://www.lasvegassun.com/dossier/misc/loathing/mescaline.html

PRINTED WITHOUT PERMISSION (nice url.. addict). Same story as the Onion, I like it and don't want to lose it. Ask me to take it down and I will. My problem is that with the realities of the Internet these stories dissapear, never to be seen again. The Internet and Vegas have a lot in common. Porn, gambling, flashing lights, sports and things get forgotten and torn down (deleted) with no fan fare. So that is why I am posting the full story again. It will help me and it will help you so fuck off.

The City: In search of Thompson's Vegas
By F. Andrew TaylorVegas.com

Fear and Loathing at the library...The stench of humanity and the nerve racking clackclackclack of flapping microfiche...Damn the historical accuracy! Full speed ahead!...The dull crack of shotguns and tracks in the desert.

It's 8:43 p.m. on a fine Las Vegas evening and I'm scanning through old papers stalking my elusive prey: Hunter S.Thompson's 1971 Vegas. It's an alien yet oddly familiar town I'm prowling through. Both the Manson and the Lt. Calley trials are underway, a pre-congressional, pre-tattoo Sonny and Cher are debuting at the Sahara and some crazed politician wants to turn Fremont Street into a park.

I've been poring through this stuff for hours, occasionally losing control of the microfiche machine and creating a hellish racket as the loose end of the reel slaps repeatedly against the aging guts of the machine. This is not entirely a bad thing as the cacophony keeps indigents and their overpowering bouquet at bay.

Nonetheless, when the dust cleared I had managed to track down the last remaining settings of Hunter S. Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". The difficulty, of course, with trying to track down the locales mentioned in the book is that H.S.T. has been known to shuffle the particulars of a story in the name of art. Also, the city is not kind to its history. We have developed some sort of ruthless Darwinian philosophy about the place: produce or be imploded.

For those unfortunate souls who might not be entirely familiar with the work I'll provide this brief synopsis. H.S.T. and his attorney drive in from L.A. to cover the fourth annual Mint 400, an off-road motorcycle and dune buggy race. Instead of actually covering the race they rampage around Las Vegas in drug-fueled orgy of "bad craziness" until they decide to cover the National Conference of District Attorneys seminar on Narcotics and Dangerous drugs. Then they get really nuts.

We begin our tour at the Fabulous Mint Hotel, sponsor of the race. The Mint's owner, Del Webb, got out of the casino business some time ago. His corporation is now the driving force behind a couple of obscure planned communities. What was the Mint is now the western half of Binion's Horseshoe, so you can start your twisted tour and get a free picture of yourself in front of a million bucks at the same time.

Thompson claims that they stayed in room 850, but when the Horseshoe took over they changed all the numbers and no one's kept track of where the old numbers were. For that matter, this is just the sort of minutia that he would have just slapped a random number on when he was writing. This won't stop me from making an educated guess based on clues in the book. If your Fear and Loathing experience won't be complete without staying in the same room I suggest you book room 818, and book it early. Binion's Horseshoe is a busy place these days.
Be forewarned, the big electric snake that menaced them from out their window has been replaced by a gargantuan electric thunder serpent that strikes every hour on the hour and a few measly pistol shots aren't even going to slow it down.

The duo spend a lot of time cruising the Strip and Paradise Boulevard. The "Topless and Stopless" sign they see on Paradise was almost certainly at the Crazy Horse, on the corner of Flamingo, but this is nearly impossible to prove.

Later, while attempting to catch the Debbie Reynolds and Harry James act at the Desert Inn they accidentally park their car on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance. While said sidewalk is still there, I do not recommend you try to park there. Trust me, it wouldn't be as fun as it sounds. Instead, walk into the showroom and shout, as H.S.T. and his attorney do upon being confronted by Debbie Reynolds singing "Sgt. Pepper", "Jesus creeping shit! We've wandered into a time capsule." The crowd will love it.

As an added bonus, Debbie is still here. My research confirms that she was indeed playing there the weekend of the race. Pop by her casino and offer her some mescaline. I'm sure she could use a little pick-me-up.

For those of you with a serious death wish there's the dubious thrill of trying to recreate the dreaded Okie drag race. Start in the center lane of the strip at the stoplight at Spring Mountain. Have your passengers antagonize the Okies in the car to your right. Don't worry if they aren't actually from Oklahoma. All tourists are, deep down in their heart and soul, Okies. Make sure you really get their dander up. H.S.T.'s attorney, Oscar Acosta, achieved this by yelling "Hey there! You folks want to buy some heroin?" Unfortunately, these days that ploy probably won't work. Try selling them something more offensive, like Chris Farley videos or a time share in Laughlin.

At this the point you put the hammer down and fly up the strip at breakneck speed or at least that's the theory. In practice the traffic on the Strip never gets above a congested, smog-belching crawl. Just for the sake of the argument let's say that through some fluke you've got the room to run with it. Slam on the brakes at Convention Center Drive, hang a right, and barrel past the Debbie Reynolds Hollywood Hotel-Casino. Take a right after her parking lot and get lost in the maze of parking structures.

Midway through the book they switch hotel rooms to cover the D.A.'s convention at the Dunes. This is, as you all well know, rubble now. My best guess is that their room at the Flamingo shares that fate. There is no room 1150 there and the book doesn't provide sufficient clues about it. You could still stop in there though and try to imagine what Thompson and Acosta would make of their desert penguins.

The real story becomes a little hard to keep track of at this point anyway. The race was on Sunday, March 20th - 22nd, 1971. The D.A.'s convention didn't start until Monday, April 25th, so all the linking sequences, the escape from the Mint, the encounter with the Highway Patrol, the Phantom Hitchhiker and even Savage Lucy are somewhat in doubt.

Through a bizarre stroke of luck, the setting for two of the more memorable scenes in the book is still intact and virtually unchanged since 1971: The Carousel Bar at Circus Circus. It is unlikely, however, that Thompson could last three minutes inside the present day Circus Circus. In his own words, "this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs. Reality itself is too twisted." I myself have not personally ingested anything more mind altering than an "Electric Rodent" for years. (An Electric Rodent is a noxious combination of Jolt cola and Fat Weasel ale). And yet within seconds of entering the moppet infested confines of the place the fear swamps over me. My advice is run in, suck down a cold one at the Carousel and flee before it's too late.

Incidentally, the "three Korean Kittens" he mentions in his description of Circus Circus really did exist. They were the stars of "Topless Models '71" at the Hacienda.

There's only one place that Thompson stomped through that still has the true 1971 ambiance you're looking for: The Mint Gun Club, site of the start and finish lines for the Mint 400. It's now the Las Vegas Gun Club and is far enough off the beaten track that you're not likely to run into Ma and Pa tourist and their pack of squalling brats.

Just head up 95, past the Santa Fe Hotel-Casino, and follow the signs to Floyd Lamb State Park. Just before the park you'll see the turnoff to the Gun Club. A narrow road snakes in among the off-road vehicle scarred hills to the small, unassuming club.

Admittedly, it's not much to look at: a long, low block house with a bar and short order cook. On one wall hangs an aerial photo of the club and the surrounding territory. In it, you can clearly see countless dune buggy and motorcycle tracks heading straight out from the shooting range.

So throw back a shot of Wild Turkey and blast a few rounds with the shotgun in honor of your favorite Doctor of Journalism. Don't get too crazy; in the '90s, friends don't let friends skeet drunk.