I've been a bit lazy writing up on this book, as I actually finished reading it at the end of April. In any case, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is great tale, one that purports itself to be true, but you find yourself hoping that it really isn't. I found it to be laugh out loud funny in places, not sure whether that is an indicator of my character or not.
I found it to be a great read, and one that I was looking forward to reading on the subway journeys to and from work. I also found myself reading it outside of these travels, another sign that this is a book that I really enjoyed. This is an adventure that I would love to have one day, possibly without quite all the drugs, but the experience seems to be exhilarating; I'm thinking particularly of the hotel maid tricked into thinking she could be a police informer, the reporter check-in at the poolside bar and the girl with the paintings.
It's quite hard to sum up, and I think almost fruitless to do so, given that most people have heard of this book and will be able to judge accordingly if they would want to read it or not. So I will content myself with saying that I would like to re-read it again one day, and reproduce two of my favourite passages below.
My attorney shook his fist at them. "We'll be back," he yelled. "One of these days I'll toss a fucking bomb into this place! I have your name on this sales slip! I'll find out where you live and burn your house down!"
"That'll give him something to think about," he muttered as we drove off. "That guy is a paranoid psychotic, anyway. They're easy to spot."
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About ten minutes later, when she brought the hamburgers, I saw my attorney hand her a napkin with something printed on it. He did it very casually, with no expression at all on his face. But I knew, from the vibes, that our peace was about to be shattered.
"What was that?" I asked him.
He shrugged, smiling vaguely at the waitress who was standing about ten feet away, at the end of the counter, keeping her back to us while she pondered the napkin. Finally she turned and stared... then she stepped resolutely forward and tossed the napkin at my attorney.
"What is this?" she snapped.
"A napkin," said my attorney.
There was a moment of nasty silence, then she began screaming: "Don't give me that bullshit! I know what it means! You goddamn fat pimp bastard!"
My attorney picked up the napkin, looked at what he'd written, then dropped it back on the counter. "That's the name of a horse I used to own," he said calmly. "What's wrong with you?"
"You sonofabitch!" she screamed. "I take a lot of shit in this place, but I sure as hell don't have to take it off a spic pimp!"
Jesus! I thought. What's happening? I was watching the woman's hands, hoping she wouldn't pick up anything sharp or heavy. I picked up the napkin and read what the bastard had printed on it, in careful red letters: "Back Door Beauty?" The question mark was emphasized.
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