I was somewhere outside of the T-Mobile Arena when the drugs began to take hold.
My proposal had been simple and innocent: travel to Las Vegas for the ridiculous Floyd Mayweather-Conor McGregor boxing match on Saturday.
And before the fight, partake in a little of Sin City’s latest indulgence:
I’d keep it low-key. No fear. No loathing. I asked my Journal boss if it’d be OK.
“I’ve assumed you were smoking something whenever I’ve read pretty well anything you’ve written,” he said. “Fine with me.”
Friday night, upon arrival, I made th…