Self holed up in the apartment, reading. She canceled the pedicure at Roget Resca. What for? It is cold. No one wants to go around in sandals in such weather.
Luckily, Hunter S. Thompson is extremely entertaining. Just the ticket to while away self’s last few hours in New York. At the outskirts of Vegas, Thompson stops at “a neighborhood pharmacy” and purchases “two quarts of Gold tequila, two fifths of Chivas Regal and a pint of ether.” Thompson tells the sales clerk that the ether is to remove “tape” on his legs, but before he even finishes with the explanation, the clerk has “already rung the stuff up and bagged it. He didn’t give a fuck . . . ”
“I wondered what he would say if I asked him for $22 worth of Romilar and a tank of nitrous oxide. Probably he would have sold it to me. Why not? Free enterprise . . . “
Thompson hurries to the parking lot with his loot. He is supposed to be on assignment, covering a four-day National District Attorneys’ Conference on Drug Enforcement.
“The idea of going completely crazy on laughing gas in the middle of a DAs’ drug conference had a definite warped appeal. But not on the first day, I thought. Save that for later. No point getting busted and committed before the conference even starts.
I stole a Review-Journal from a rack in the parking lot, but I threw it away after reading a story on page one:
AFTER EYES REMOVED
Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.