My boss often asks me, �so, what did you learn today?� Well, if I took that question and applied it to our latest journey, my answer would simply be this: Although I�m generally a peace-loving person, there are certain circumstances that could possibly make it appropriate for a man to punch a woman in the face. But enough about that later�
With the second leg of Robert Plant and the Strange Sensation�s 2005 North American Tour coming to a close, Mike and I took one last look at our calendars and decided that a two-day trip to L.A. for the October 1 gig at the Wiltern Theatre would our last opportunity to catch the guys in action this year. So, with Mike well into the first semester of his doctoral studies at the University of Nebraska and my globetrotting lifestyle coming to a season-ending close, we booked the airline tickets and grabbed a pair of standing-room only general admission tickets for well under face value on eBay. After all, I was holding an airline ticket that started in Colorado Springs and headed to Reno, Madrid, London and Las Vegas, so what�s an extra stop in L.A. for the weekend on the way home?
The last minute decision to go coupled with our demanding routines left little time to plan so we arrived in L.A. late Friday night with nary an idea of where to stay. We�d have to deal with that later as our first order of business was to head over to the Sunset Marquis in Beverly Hills, the hotel that Robert would be calling home for the next few days. After dealing with the posh and snooty W hotel in Beverly Hills a couple of months earlier when we saw Robert at the Greek, we weren�t expecting much luck, especially on a Friday night.
A quick call to the hotel taught us that unlike the W, entrance to the whiskey bar on the premises wouldn�t be restricted to the contents of a highbrow-filled guest list according to the barkeep, so we headed over hoping to run into Robert and the boys that evening.
Upon arriving at the Sunset Marquis however, a manned velvet rope left us with little hope of entering. Hope that was further suppressed when the doorman pulled out a slip of paper and asked us if we were on the list for that evening. I assured the fellow that I had just spoken with the hotel and was informed that reservations would not be needed. The man let down his guard and welcomed us in.
Once inside the dimly lit, ambiance-filled bar complete with velvet couches and nicely dressed attractive types, we opened up a tab and claimed our spot in the corner. I wasn�t expecting much success that evening, but was genuinely enjoying the relaxing surroundings with an amplified sense of comfort after three weeks on the road.
Then, after an hour and two beers worth of waiting, we called it an �early� evening at 12:30 and took to the streets to find an ever-so-oxymoronic affordable Beverly Hills hotel. We drove up Sunset until we reached the West Hollywood border where an uncharacteristically non-crackwhoreish Days Inn beckoned. A quick duck inside revealed a $120 a night rate, a clean lobby, and the promise of a free continental breakfast. Hoping the rate was enough to deter some of the riff-raff often found in this particular area, we checked in and laid our plans for gameday.
We had a couple of different options for Saturday. We could spend the entire day trying to meet Robert, or we could put our general admission tickets to good use and spend all day standing in line to assure ourselves of a spot front and center. We agreed to the latter.
The walls that separated our room from the one next door were as thin as the kitschy wallpaper that covered them and every word uttered by the �couple� in the adjacent room could be heard.
Mike and his earplugs fell asleep quickly, but my jetlag-induced insomnia provided me with the non-pleasure of staying awake to hear what I envisioned as a Mr. T look-alike slap around his �stupid, punk-assed bitch� (his words, not mine). Her response: �I want my $375 you asshole.� This sort of flirting went on throughout most of the early morning hours and I eventually succumbed to the sandman and caught a few winks before awakening to similar dialogue at 4:00am. Thoughts of calling security never materialized and I again fell asleep to the soothing sounds of drug dealer vs. prostitute part II.
When morning finally greeted us, we choked down the American version of a free continental breakfast and headed out.
At 10:30am, we made our way up Wilshire Blvd. to the Wiltern Theatre where surprisingly only three people were waiting in line. Confident that we could return a couple hours later and still be in good shape, we decided to abandon and revert to plan B. It was back to the Sunset Marquis.
Once there, we took a seat at the poolside restaurant and anted up for two cups of $5.00 coffee. It was good, but to this day I swear it wasn�t any tastier than a $4.00 cup.
So there we sat and waited. And waited. Then, after 90 minutes or so, we finished waiting. After little action we decided to head back to the Wiltern and plant ourselves in line.
It was 1:30 by the time we arrived back at the Wiltern and there were only a dozen people in line. We ditched the car, grabbed our chairs and walked up the block to the corner of Western and Wilshire to claim our spot in line.
Breaking the ice to the folks we would be spending the next ten hours with, Mike shouted �Is this the line for Carrot Top?� Content with our spot in line, we unfolded and sat for a really long time. Luckily enough we sat next to a nice family of four from Flagstaff, Ariz. and had the entertainment of a bus stop in front of us and the residents of nearby Chinatown passing by.
There�s not much to tell about standing in line for six hours except that it was for the most part uneventful and boring. Every so often a beggar would come by and ask for money. The thing that bothers me about this is that everyone that approaches almost always begins dialogue with some elaborate story of why they need money. This really insults people�s intelligence and I�d much rather a bum just approach me and say �Hi, I�m Phil. Can I have some money.�
After a few hours in line though, guitarist Justin Adams passed by and recognized us. He stopped for a couple of minutes to chat before heading down the street. It was our first brush with one of the guys on this trip.
As the clock approached 7:15, the time at which the doors were to open, the usual rejects that try to cut in line crawled out of the woodwork. �Can we get in line of front of you, please,� one gross fat woman with a miniscule amount of fabric covering her tits begged. �It�s my Mom�s birthday and she really loves Robert Plant.�
Then, when we refused her request, she complained loudly. �Well, I�m a nice person and if I were you I would let my Mom and me in!� Ironically enough, I think what she meant to say was �If I were you, I would have done exactly what you did and got in line earlier.�
The way the Wiltern is situated is that there�s a small pit section directly in front of the stage that holds the first 200 people. Behind that are elevated �standing room only� sections separated by steps and rails. Sitting 13th and 14th in line, Mike and I were assured prime spots, but it all depended on the efficiency and order of the staff upon entering the venue.
Once the doors opened at 7:15, the line advanced in an orderly fashion and there was little trouble descending to the pit and receiving our wristbands that denoted the people that had nothing better to do on a Saturday than stand on the street corner for hours on end.
As Mike and I secured our spots front and center, a shitfaced woman who never would have survived under the theories of Charles Darwin took her place directly behind me. �Can I stand in front of you?� she asked.
Now I�m generally a nice and easygoing person, but believe it or not there was actually a specific reason why Mike and I stood in line for six hours. That reason was directly related to the spot in which we were standing. So of course I said no. Even if she was a nice, sober, attractive woman, I probably would have said no. But since she looked too much like Jabba the Hut and slurred her words with poor diction, I didn�t even give it a moment�s consideration. Sadly she didn�t get the point and began to get hostile. Then, she proceeded to pull out her cell phone and make a call only to go on and on to whomever she was talking to about how much of an asshole I was and that she couldn�t see because I was too tall.
In certain scenarios of conflict and disagreement, I usually try to put myself in the other person�s shoes in an attempt to determine if a person has a valid point, but in this case I quickly decided that if I was the 20th person through the door and the stage was 30-people wide, I almost certainly would not have stood directly behind someone a foot taller.
In the end, the only explanation was that the cellular structure of this woman was so severely compromised to the point that the cells responsible for keeping courtesy and common sense intact had been eaten by those that promote ignorance � much like the way they had also destroyed her fat burning cells.
The opening band, The Sights soon took the stage as the woman turned to using my body as simply a means of maintaining her perpendicular relationship with the floor. She was so wasted she couldn�t remain standing without constant tripod-like contact with my body � head directly in the center of my back and an arm on each of my hips. I really wanted to give her a serious elbow to the gut but only two certainties would have resulted. 1) Newton�s third law would have kicked in and the action of me plunging my elbow into the gratuitous ring of fat around her waist would have resulted in the equal and opposite reaction of my arm bouncing off and possibly striking the steel fence in front of me or 2) She would have puked on me.
�Kill her with kindness,� Mike told me.
I begrudgingly obeyed, but after The Sights had finished their set and the wench began intentionally flicking the back of our heads, it occurred to me that she most likely grew up as an unloved child that craved attention. The rest of the evening I ignored the whale as she eventually drifted away from me and further out to the sea of people, leaving Mike and I to enjoy the rest of the evening unfettered.
A second opening act followed and Robert took the stage. A reworked setlist was a departure from the earlier shows we saw on the tour and presented some welcome changes and additions.
The band closed with the usual Whole �Lotta Love and after the group took their last bow, bass player Billy Fuller recognized Mike and came over and handed his pick to him before exiting the stage.
As the masses exited and the roadies began to tear down the set, the six setlists taped to the floor in front of each of the band members were tossed out to the remaining crowd. Mike caught one and I dove over the barrier for another. I guess we�re whores for memorabilia like that.
Following the gig we headed back to the Sunset Marquis with little hope of bumping into Robert as usually in Los Angeles the band opts for some post-concert party elsewhere instead of the hotel bar, but we decided to give it a try if just to have a beer and chill out with the �in� crowd of SoCal.
Luckily the man guarding the velvet rope recognized us from the night before and led us into a packed whiskey bar after midnight on a Saturday night. We stayed for about an hour before deciding to call it a day.
Before heading out that morning, I thought about asking the hotel to switch our room so that we wouldn�t have to come back to the same coked up neighbors as the night before, but I figured they�d only be there one night. Wrong.
Although it was quiet when we fell asleep, I was awoken at 4:00am to shouts of �Where�s my cocaine! What the *&%# did you do with my coke bitch!� Then, I think they had sex.
I listened to that for an hour or so and fell asleep again before awaking to one of the 62 Mexican radio stations in L.A. The 8:30 wakeup marked the beginning of our final day in L.A. and afternoon flights meant that we had the morning to blow exorbitant amounts of cash on breakfast at the Sunset Marquis.
We checked out and stopped to return our chairs to K-Mart before heading over to the ritzy Beverly Hills getaway one last time.
We claimed our spot at the same poolside caf� as the day before, but this time ordered food. And while I was eating my $15.00 breakfast burrito, and Mike was eating his $16.00 eggs benedict, it suddenly occurred to me. Instead of staying in bottom of the barrel shitholes like the Days Inn in West Hollywood and paying a 2500% markup on food and coffee, why didn�t we just spend the $300 a night for a room at the Sunset Marquis and eat at Denny�s?
Drummer Clive Deamer was the first of the band members we saw and said hello to as he exited the hotel with his usual satchel slung over his shoulder. And wanting to dress up our otherwise bland looking setlists we got from the night before, Clive happily scribbled his name on each.
Later, Billy and guitarist Skin Tyson and keyboardist John Baggot emerged from the elevator on their way out to breakfast. They stopped to chat, recognizing us from previous encounters and also added their names to the setlist.
While the five of us were standing in the doorway talking, an elderly man with a baseball cap entered the hotel with a young woman on his arm helping him along. As he passed John, who happens to shave his head bald, the elderly man looked directly at John, took off his cap, pointed to his head and yelled �Baldie!�, obviously proud to have something in common with a man 50 years his junior.
Mike and I sat for a while longer with the hopes of eventually catching up with Robert, but unfortunately time was not on our side. It had struck 1:00 and a 2:30 flight was on the schedule.
So we had the opportunity to chat with everybody in the band but Robert. But after seeing the Strange Sensation in action nine times this year it�s evident that the other members of the band have an equal influence upon the sound that makes it such a great band. That said, it�s always fulfilling to meet the other musicians as well.
Oddly enough, everyone in the band, other than Robert and Justin, is considerably younger than we are, which adds a touch of depression the situation if you think about it. It�s sort of like watching the Rose Bowl when you�re 23 and realizing that everyone on the field is younger than you.
So what did I learn other than that hitting a girl may be socially acceptable in some cases, crackwhores dig verbal and physical abuse as long as there�s a rock in it for them and money can be better invested in comfortable accommodation than eggs? Well, nothing.
Thanks for Reading,
A.L./M.T.