A little Greaser’s Palace never hurt anyone over an Independence Day holiday.

I have to hump it uptown to Grand Central in order to catch a 3:24 pm train to Stamford and then pick up a rental car, etc. Perhaps another posting or two from on the train, but in a few hours the main order of business will be listening to live music and doing a little beer-guzzling at the Georgetown Saloon. Things always ease down during the 4th of July weekend.

There’s a fascinating article in the August Vanity Fair (i.e., the Angelina Jolie cover) about the early days of professionally-supervised LSD therapy among the Hollywood elite, with samplers including Cary Grant, Sidney Lumet, Esther Williams and Betsy Drake, beginning in 1958.

This was two or three years before the Harvard University LSD experiments with Timothy Leary and Richard Alpert, and seven years before various rock stars (including the Beatles) first began to drop, and nine or ten years before LSD began to catch on with adventurous middle-class youths in the cities and well-to-do suburbs.

It’s a carefully sculpted, touchingly written piece (particularly with quotes from the first-timers’ experiences, which in some cases were quite illuminating and even profound). The article doesn’t appear to be an excerpt from a book. The authors are Carl Beauchamp and Judy Balaban. Consider the opening four paragraphs:

“Our story is set in the years before Mad Men, when Eisenhower was in the White House and America had only 48 states. Our stage is Beverly Hills, still a small town in 1958, where movie stars and other entertainment-industry figures led active but traditional, even somewhat constrained social lives.

“There was a zone of privacy in that time and place we can’t begin to imagine today. Money, emotional traumas, and personal doubts were simply not discussed, even by the closest of friends. Appearances were accepted as reality, so people kept very busy making sure every aspect of their lives looked correct.

“That didn’t mean having the most lavish house, the heftiest jewels, or the largest private plane, as it came to in later decades. It did mean dressing, behaving and speaking appropriately; appearing to be happily married, in love, or looking for love en route to marriage; not complaining about one’s career or annual income; and being enormously ambitious without evidencing any ambition whatsover.

“Evenings were just as circumspect. Dinners were small A-list gatherings at Chasen’s, Romanoff’s, Don the Beachcomber, or poolside barbecues at private homes. The most visible scandals arose when dancing partners who were married — but not to each other — indulged in excessive caresses or when someone (almost always a man) drank too much, though boozy belligerence and even outright drunkenness were rare to invisible.

“Almost everyone smoked carton-loads of regular cigarettes, but a ‘joint’ was a body part of a lower-class dive. If people were ‘doing lines,’ you’d have guessed they were writing screenplay dialogue or song lyrics. And if you mentioned ‘acid,’ you’d mean citrus juice or a stomach problem.

“Nobody in Hollywood — or almost anywhere else in the United States — had ever heard of LSD, or lysergic acid diathylamide. Timothy Leary wouldn’t even pop his first mushroom until 1960. So it was very out of character that against this background a group of more than 100 Hollywood-establishment types began ingesting little azure pills that resembled cake decorations as an adjunct to psychotherapy.”

Call this a nice paycheck gig for a lot of people who didn’t let pride stand in the way. Christina Applegate and Fred Armisen have actual acting roles, and I gather that Michael Clarke Duncan, Neil Patrick Harris, James Marsden, Bette Midler, Roger Moore, Nick Nolte and Chris O’Donnell voice animals. Is that right?

How deaf are the people who made this film and particularly those who are planning on seeing it? Deaf to God’s symphony, I mean. One time at a party some drunken friends and I gave a golden labrador two or three bowls of beer and got him stinko. He was losing his balance and rolling around on the floor. The same instinct (i.e., to laugh at animals coping with human bullshit) resulted in this film.

Does anyone remember Robert Downey, Sr.‘s Pound (’70)? Just asking.

The Movie Godz would like to be gracious, but they’ll never look kindly upon a film that kills off a cute kid and then returns him to earth as a ghost. They just can’t. Even with the respected James Schamus** having co-written the script, it seems too manipulative, too Lovely Bones, too give-us-a-break-already. Especially with Zac Efron in the lead.

That said, the most significant piece of information that I got from this trailer is that Efron’s face has filled out — he’s no longer boyish. He’s obviously “acting” and trying to expland his chops, and that’s always to be commended.

Charlie St. Cloud was directed by Burr Steers from a script by Schamus, Steers, Craig Pearce and Lewis Colick. It’s based on a Ben Sherwood book called “The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud.”

** Schamus is not, per the WGA, a credited writer on the project, although he did work on it.