— The Super Bowl in Las Vegas: What Would Hunter S. Thompson Think?
The casino where Mr. Thompson found psychedelics almost irrelevant now begs for anti-depressants. It’s the kind of place where room rates start at $25, the pit boss’s suit is three sizes too big, and the air this week carried a scent of cigarettes, perfume and despair.
A man named Daniel, with his wife and two children tucked away in their room, sat vacantly at a slot machine late one night on the Circus Circus casino floor nursing a beer and staring blankly across the room. He was down a couple hundred bucks, hoping his luck would turn.
Nearby, a woman named Hazel, with fake Chinchilla boots and an obscene T-shirt that was far too small, lamented seeing a homeless girl win $500 and then proceed to tap away on the same machine until she was down to 56 cents. “If you got lots of money, you enjoy yourself in Vegas,” she said. “If you’re like me, with a couple hundred bucks, you’re here.”
Las Vegas is a depressing place.