When The Going Gets Weird, The Weird Go To Vegas

This is not a good town for psychedelic drugs. Reality itself is too twisted.

—Hunter S. Thompson, Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas

In two days, Stacy McCain will be jettin’ himself over to Crapsville and driving back and forth to various points out West.  He has originally planned to drive, but:

…that was before life got complicated and the weasels forced me to spend a whole week blogging about their sordid ObamaCare scam — about which, the less said, the better.

Among the unfortunate side effects of that disaster, however, was the catastrophic scrambling of my travel plans because I needed an extra day or two to finish up arrangements in Washington before leaving, and because the drive time from here to Nevada is 38 hours, the cross-country itinerary wouldn’t work out if I was going to be there to pick up Ali Akbar at Las Vegas McCarran International Airport for the trip to Searchlight to catch the start of the Tea Party Express III tour.

And if any of that makes sense to you, you need more drugs. That makes two of us, but don’t worry. Gonzo is a pre-existing condition and, thanks to Bart Stupak, now we can bill taxpayers for our heinous chemicals.

It seems Stacy will be all set in Occupied Fascist America.

He needs some more money to finance the trip, so, if you can hit his Tip Jar, please do so.  If you’ve read anything he’s written from the road, you know your money will be well spent.

Like most of the others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles – a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other – that kept me going.

—Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary