STS-105

8.3.2k1

When Page and Plant left the restaurant I was sure they would be playing the TNSC secret show the following night in San Francisco. They were the ones doing the convincing; Robert owed me a big favor. A few years back – while I was still living in Chicago – I bumped into him at the Addison L station. He was rummaging through his pockets and looking thoroughly disgusted. It was hard to miss him, what at over six-five … and that hair! Well he was patting down his pockets and spitting out some great English swear words (I’m a sucker for English slang -- ask anyone). As he was standing right next to the turnstile I knew immediately that he couldn’t find his token. “Hey Robert,” I said, “you lose your token?” He looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Oh, hey Josh. Yeh. I can’t find the foking thing anywhere. I had a whole bleeding army of them earlier.” I had just bought a new roll, so I peeled off two and handed him one. “Oh no, mate, I’ll just call me driver,” he said. “Oh jeebus, Robert. It’s the least I can do, what with Custard Pie and Ramble On.” “Thanks, mate. I won’t forget this.” We shook hands. “My pleasure, Robert Plant . This gets you back for When the Levee Breaks.” “Okey, then,” he chuckled.
So when he called me last Wednesday and said he was sending a car over I didn’t think that the car would be taking me to the airport! I had a few pops at the Admiral’s Club then jetted to JFK. He met me at the gate the next morning. “Sorry about the red-eye, old man.” Nothing to it, I told him. “Look, I brought you here to talk about making good on that favour I owe you. A friend of mine has agreed to help.” “You just said ‘favor’ with a ‘U’ in it, didn’t you,” I kidded. “You’re a bloody comedian, you are. Come on.” We drove into Manhattan and wheeled up to a curb in front of a familiar-looking deli. I asked him: “Doesn’t Marty Scorsese get Reubens here?” “In twenty-five seconds you’re going to know why he does,” He said. He was right.
As if cued by me finishing my pickle, Robert says, “Ah. Here’s my friend.” Jimmy Page hisownself walks in. “Hi Jimmy,” I said. “Hello Josh, it’s been a while,” he said, referring to the time I bailed him out of a tragic lost bus pass on Sunset in LA. “God, what was that? ’89?” I said. We laughed.
I said, “So what’s up?” Robert said, “That nice turn you did for me deserves a little payback. I’m chatting with Jimmy last week and your name comes up and he says he owes you a favour – excuse me – a “favor” too. He then cooks up an idea to play a show for you there in San Francisco, as we’re going into studio to record there next week. I thought it was a smashing idea so we brought you here to chat about it. What do you think?” I thought it was swell. “What do you need me to do, fellas? I’m in. I know a mess of lovely people that would get a kick out of you guys playing a show.” “That’s great. Really. That’s wonderful,” Jimmy says. “I’ve been trying to think of something for years. You can help us set it up, though.” “Oh, of course! What do you need?” I said. “Just find a small venue that has a P.A. We’ll do the rest.” “I’m on it,” I said. “Give me a call tomorrow.” “Cheers,” they said, and left.
Only a few calls from the seatback phone on the way back to ‘Frisco locked in the stage at Make Out Room. The bartender there is a doll and she agreed right away. I didn’t say it was going to be two rock Gods playing live, but the promise of a great act was all she needed. “The Mothertruckers stank the place up last night,” she said, “the place needs some good juju.” I then phoned Robert with the good news and hung up and began trying to get a little shut-eye, getting comfy with a half-moon-shaped neck-pillow thing. Just as I was nodding off, a flight attendant touched my shoulder and said there was a call coming in for me and asked me to pick up the seatback phone. It was my best friend Phil! Here’s what he said:
“Yeah, I've got a venue announcement for you: Thursday, 5:38pm Pad 39A Kennedy Space Center. I know it's short notice, but take off Thursday and Friday. We'll watch Discovery launch, throw down a few at the beach, light some fireworks, and watch some baseball with your Dad over the weekend. I’ll plan your itinerary.”
This being a once-in-a-lifetime chance, I said: “I’ll be ready to leave tonight. Let me know the airline and flight number.” He said, “Roger. I’ll call you back.” He talks funny like that.
When I called Robert back to tell him I got a better offer, Jimmy answered his phone. I told him what was up. “Oh wow, mate, that’s fantastic. I don’t blame you. Get down there and see it. I’ll tell Robert. He’ll understand too. We’ll ring you some other time. Cheers!” he said and hung up.
So there you have it. I almost got you lovely list members a secret show last week. I guess we’ll have to wail till next time.

For now: The El Bobo

News: Thanks to Moss for his Pinch Hit Venue announcement. Or announcements. I had about five in my InBox. Lessee … Gary is new to the list. I’m probably forgetting someone … Oh yeh! Freshy and Bobo provide new addresses. Great!
The venues for the next two Thursdays (8.4 and 8.5) will be the same venues that were featured 8.4 and 8.5 Y2K. See the archive for specifics. Reason being: Excellent things happened at those places.

Comments: tnsc@therein-lies.com


TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Find the reference!

Last Week’s Contest Results: Well it wasn't quite last week but the winner of the last contest was Mary Haring. She correctly found the reference: "Zingaro" is the Italian word for deadbeat. Yey Mary. She will enjoy a prize.

TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: Last weeks secret show! Cake plays Cake. Whoever went plays the audience.

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Amy Shuba. It takes me singling her out these days to get her to meetings.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Beaver & Buttcheeks

Do you like booze? I know I do. The El Bobo has booze. C'mon out. Bring your friends. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!