Twenty-five years ago this week, Los Angeles was burning because of Rodney King’s beating at the hands of the fuzz, and I had my shoulder sliced open by a doctor in order to repair torn ligaments. My shoulder hurt more than Rodney’s ribs. I know that because I saw him, on TV, get up and gesticulate freely after having been whacked rather hard by four cops. I didn’t lift my arm for months. Lesson to be learned: it’s better to be beaten by four police officers than to run into an ice wall at high speed while skiing with snow blindness.
Forty years ago last week, there was better news: Studio 54 opened its doors, changing the Big Bagel’s night-time culture for ever. The club was founded by two friends of mine — they became friends after a rocky start — and to get in you had to do physical battle under the giant marquee with the ‘deplorables’ that lay siege to those of us who were given the signal to enter upon arrival.
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