Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas Pt.1 |
large, stocked with every bit of yee-ha attire you can imagine.
A hands-on fifty something female shop assistant (Cowgirl?
Cow-woman? Cow-cougar?) showed us around. Saddles, shirts,
jeans, boots, spurs and lots of hats. The Norwegian tried on most
of the hats and insisted on me appraising every single one for
style, fit and “American dream-ness”, before buying one. I think
he already has a gun at home. And then off to the airport in our
economy saloon car, Norwegian in his hat, me in the only pair
of jeans I own, looking like a pair of rejects from a Brokeback
Mountain casting couch.
Houston to LAX airport. Two hours lost (gained?) and humidity.
For not very much money Hertz will rent you a Mustang. Mine
was a white Cabriolet, a V6 engine mated to an automatic
gearbox that sounded (I imagine) like the Cow-Cougar woman
having an oversquare poo. Exiting the airport we got a bit
disorientated and drove through a suburb called Compton,
which I recall from the an NWA track “Straight outta [sic]
Compton” which includes the lyrics “crazy mother*****r named
Ice Cube”. Mr Cube should call NHS direct; they can do wonders
for those suffering with mental health issues, I’m told. I put the
roof up. Happily we never got to meet Mr Cube or any of his
ilk, and went up the coast and listened to someone talk about
their wonky oil rig instead. Then, to an English Pub for bottled
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