We loaded into the Datsun and headed for a theater.
About halfway there it became clear that time was of the essence because the mushrooms were definitely spreading their magic across the old blood-brain barrier.
By the time we made it to our seats Les Psilocybe were in full song.
The lights went down.
The film came on.
It is difficult sitting here so many years later to describe how profound ‘Planet of the Apes’ appeared that night.
Charlton Heston was me!
The monkeys were the Republican attendees of the convention I had just covered!
Nobody understood poor Charlton – just like nobody understood poor me and he was trying to escape from the oppressive monkey government and they were persecuting the shit out of him – just like the Republican government in power in Washington, D.C. was persecuting the shit out us hippies.
After the movie was over – as we walked out of the theater into the fetid August Miami night – we had a dim understanding that we were still under the influence of our mushroom-grape shakes but we couldn’t let go of the notion that out in Hollywood there was a stoned studio head sitting up there in a canyon somewhere who really got it – who understood us.