In 200 acid-enhanced pages, an era, a generation and a city were encapsulated, satirized and embalmed in a timeless sign of the times, Vegas the lurid landscape upon which it all takes place. ![]() The trapeze artists also remain - an aerialist in a bedazzled blue get-up tucks her heels behind her ears on a Thursday evening, pretzeling her body above the poker tables below.įifty years ago, this place, these scenes, were immortalized by an ether-addled journalist and his sidekick, a Samoan lawyer who wasn’t really Samoan, in a pair of Rolling Stone magazine articles that became a fever dream of a book: “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.” The merry-go-round, though, is still here - even if it goes round no more, idling on the casino floor of Circus Circus, filled with Jumping Jalapeno penny slot machines in place of painted horses. The blood they spilled on the carpet of the Desert Inn is long gone - along with the hotel itself.
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