Hunter S. Thompson's Las Vegas Legacy

by Leah Bailly | Feb 21 2008

Two years have slipped by since the death of Hunter S. Thompson: gonzo journalist, drug aficionado, American hero. A spiteful decade has occurred since the release of his cult classic film Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. And 37 years have passed since the first publication of his book, still revered by critics and junkies alike. If alive today, Dr. Thompson would be 70, probably choked and drunk and firing something into the sky, and probably writing about it. What is left of Thompson’s legacy is the echo of his fear and loathing, our generation's lingering, insatiable desire to launch our own journey to the heart of the City of Sin.

Thompson reveled in it, the neurotic pandemonium of Las Vegas. When his persona, Raoul Duke, and his Samoan attorney, Dr. Gonzo, arrived in Sin City in 1971, they sought to "check it out." But what they found was an inferno. It was terrifying, his "caricatures of used car dealers from Dallas, humping the American dream in the predawn chaos of a Las Vegas casino." When he embarked on his spastic mission to Vegas, he arrived in a city where counterculture ruled, a city where every conservative, middle-class American had access to hookers and Blackjack. It was too easy. A town where a pint of ether and a head full of acid were all a journalist needed to reveal the hilarious and sadistic side of the nation's personality.

The Foul Year of Our Lord

So what is left of Thompson's Las Vegas? No city in America has grown as fast or changed as much in the past 40 years as Sin City. Gone are the Desert Inn and Howard Hughes. All we have now are their avenue namesakes. The mob has vanished, along with Bob Hope and lounge shows like Debbie Reynolds. The last remaining Rat Pack member is dead. What’s left of Freemont Street has been "revitalized," leaving such relics as the Cortez to such humiliations as the $5.99 steak dinner and televised poker. 

But we can imagine Las Vegas in 1971. The '60s were over. The drug culture was switching to downers, reeling from too much LSD. The population of Clark County teetered at just over 300,000. Elvis arrived at the Hotel International five nights a week. The Strip stretched as far as the Tropicana and then petered into a handful of motels. That year in Vegas, the Silver Slipper hired Vegas' first female card dealers. Jerry Lewis shone from giant billboards in his plaid Bermuda shorts and sinister smile. And the Republicans were winning. Nixon was president. California's hippie vision had melted, and disco was on the horizon.

Rude Vibes in the City of Sin

Meanwhile, the lunacy of Las Vegas was taking flight. Circus Circus, with its big-top spectacle and gaming was a mere 3 years old. Thompson's visit to the big show, under the influence of ether, crystallized the volatility and psychosis of the American cash-grab. Between the flying trapeze, four muzzled wolverines and the nymphets performing for gamblers young and old, Thompson insisted that "Circus Circus is what the whole hep world would be doing Saturday night if the Nazis had won the war." Still in action today, the famed Slots-A-Fun are the cheapest tables on the Strip. The smell of the place, like foul hot dogs and unfiltered smokes, bowls you over from the sidewalk outside. 

In 1971, the Flamingo was considered the nerve center of the Strip. The giant pool and designer suites were a high roller's paradise. Duke's suite was typical, with its swirling decals and mirrored ceilings. It was an ideal environment for hallucinogenic drugs. Now, the sagging waitresses and chipped paint would result in a savage trip indeed. What's left of the once glamorous Tropicana has also fallen tired and faded. Between the synthesized band, polyester uniforms and burned carpet, a true tripper would fear impending doom, a hint of terror in all that decay.

Back to the Future

But where would Raoul Duke and his 300-pound Samoan attorney go now? In a city of mega-mall casinos and theme-park resorts, Duke would be lost in a torrent of rude vibrations and savage hallucinations. Would he joust a bartender from the Excalibur with a cocktail-sized sword? Would he swan dive into the Venetian's canals? Or prostrate before the giant stucco sphinx outside the Luxor pyramid? My imagination has him fleeing security agents during boisterous Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath my Wings," with his voice crying out across the cavernous theater. 

But perhaps he would be moved by Vegas' retro side. Maybe he'd drift to North Vegas to the whores and washouts. Maybe he'd try a trashy casino like Terrible's or the Eureka to work a low-stakes Craps table for the free Singapore Slings. Or perhaps, he'd loiter around the sports book at the Bellagio, order a Reuben from his leather wingback and then skip the tab. No question, his Samoan attorney would discover the titty bars. There would be mescaline, thong underwear and another last minute ditch to the airport, under an assumed name.

Requiem For a Dream

There are moments where it almost appears that Thompson is still here in this great swirling city of light, noise and adrenaline rushes. No one walks through Circus Circus without the simmering dread that they are stuck in some sixth Reich commandant's wet dream. The bling-bling lunacy of the casino floor reminds us of his head full of acid, the reptiles in the hotel bar and the American flag doused in ether, lying across his convertible's floor. 

If his word is true, that indeed, "This is how the world works, all energy flows according to the whims of the great magnet," then we are all pulled somehow magnetically to the giant city in the desert. At last count, Las Vegas received more pilgrims per year than Mecca. Its visitors seek that rush of winning against odds, if only to "check it out."  And despite Thompson's revulsion, America's Generation of Swine is still lured by the get-it-quick appeal of the American Dream. And where else could the dream appear in its true twisted form than a city as fearful and loathsome as Las Vegas.

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