On February 2, 1972 three of us went to the Cinema 1 theater in NYC’s East 80s to see the premiere of “A Clockwork Orange”. It was me, Nancy Lambert and my roommate Robert Robertson (NOT “Robbie”, which would have been cool) , and the three of us were just plain tanked to the tits on acid. Had smoked a few bowls of hash in an alley just to take the edge off before we got on line (NOT “on-line”) to get tickets for the first show.
You gotta picture it: about 5,000 square feet of theater filled with a horrific horde of drug-fueled, Upper East Side, liberal pseudo-intellectuals with just enough of a smattering of ignorantly self-loathing Yuppies to initiate a gag reflex in me and my friends.
And we’re all there to see a movie considered so violent at the time it was banned in many English and American cities for a period of time. They even checked our IDs to make sure we were eighteen, in response to which I pointed out that the main character in the film was younger than us.
Might I remind you – “just plain tanked to the tits on acid”?
Liz and I just got back from our every-other-week shopping at WinCo up in South Sacramento. 200,000 square feet of every discounted food item known to man, and several hundred of California’s middle class denizens.
I was at the professionally prescribed, therapeutic level of both Effexor and Clonazepam in my blood system, had a cigarette before I went in to brace me for the onslaught.
That experience was harder to make it through than the LSD-laced Manhattan premiere of Stanley Kubrick’s “ultra-violent” masterpiece.
And Alex and his “droogies” in The Master’s bleak view of a future Britain were better behaved than the assholes roaming the aisles in this big-box grocery store.
For those of you who don’t believe man descended from apes, check out WinCo sometime.
For those of you who don’t believe we still carry some of the DNA, check out a Super WalMart.