Unhinged Curiosity | Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

I'm skimming over my bookshelf of both favorites and unread books minutes away from my trip through Central America. 

Do I want something new I may not like? No.

Will my choice have influence on my travels? Yes.

What sort of energy should I bring visiting somewhere new? Unhinged curiosity.

Enter Hunter S. Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas"

My copy differs from the current 50th anniversary edition you can find by Knopf. It's a traditional paperback, also with art by Ralph Steadman but a color gradient from red at the bottom to light orange at the top as if to mimic the hot weather "Raoul Duke" and his attorney drove through in the Nevada desert.  

"No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride . . . and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well . . . maybe chalk it off to forced consciousness expansion:..."

This one's for anyone who's kept their ears covered and their eyes closed most of their life.

I don't mean that in any negative way. I'm just trying to imply that this book is the opposite of playing it safe. 

Not just a rambunctious story, but a non-fiction piece of writing that chronicles Rolling Stone writer, Hunter S. Thompson as he's put on assignments in Las Vegas with his personal attorney. This book simultaneously acts as a sort of autobiography as well as a giant fat finger to the "cool kids" of journalism. 

If strong language and vocal opinions from the early 70s (think about it) sounds offensive to you, well then, this book is sure to offend. 

Inhale some ether, drop some tabs of acid then open up Kerouac's tame, "The Road" and try to read it. You'll quickly find yourself flushing down a book in flames covering one version of the American dream while pissing on it and pulling the toilet tab to put it out. 

As I sit here writing poolside in a Panamanian hostel in the late hours of the night, I can feel the eyes of the reptilian party-goers, swaying to the music, on me. Let them snicker under their Panamanian hats drinking their $1 beers. I'm going to sneak another Chivas Regal shooter out of my golf shoes I picked up and hit publish on this thing.