Happy Birthday Planty

It’s Robert Plant’s birthday today. This milestone in the life of the former lead singer of Led Zeppelin will forever remind me of a milestone in my own life: getting married. More precisely, it will remind me of my honeymoon in Tahiti, where Lizzy and I had a lovely, chance encounter with the legendary rocker in a beach bar on the island of Bora Bora.

I’ve told the story many times in the years since. Of course, the very first person I told was my son, Andrew, who was 14 at the time and a huge Led head. I bemoaned to him that my biggest regret was not snapping a picture of us with Planty, because no one would believe that I’d met him. In his characteristically laconic manner, Andrew responded, “Dad, Robert Plant is a pretty random celebrity name to come up with. I don’t think you’ll have that problem.” And then he smiled and said, “But it’s still pretty cool.”

And he was right. It was. Perhaps the coolest celebrity encounter I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some pretty cool celebrity encounters.

Like the sunny spring day in 1986, as I idly watched a three-card Monte game near the corner of 8th Street and St. Mark’s in Manhattan. A guy was standing in front of a makeshift table, hypefocused on keeping track of the red queen among the three cards a dealer was whipping around. The guy seemed to be doing well; he won a few rounds, lost a few, but mostly came out on top. After his last win, he laughed, collected his money, and retreated back into the small crowd. Then the card hustler turned to the rest of us and entreated someone, anyone, to “step right up.” When he got to me, I just smiled and shook my head as I walked away.

“Smart man.”

I turned and saw two guys walking behind me—one tall, with a big, frizzy pouf of black hair and milky white tortoise shell glasses, and the other short, wearing a suit and tie and a big grin on his elastic face. It was the short guy who spoke.

“You just saved yourself from getting conned.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, slowing down to fall into stride with them.

“Yeah, it’s all rigged. That guy who was playing and winning? He was a shill, working with the dealer, making it look like anyone can play the game and win. But the minute you step up, they’ll take you for whatever you’ve got.”

As the short guy spoke, I was thinking that maybe I knew him. He looked familiar and I was thinking maybe I’d met him at a party or something.

“Trust me,” the short guy added, “I have a lot of experience in this area.”

“Hang on,” I said, in sudden recognition. “Aren’t you that magician? You and that other guy have a magic act.”

“Penn & Teller,” he said, with the tiniest bit of impatience at my not recognizing him. (In my defense, this was 1986, and though Penn & Teller had been on television, they were really just emerging and hardly household names.)

“Rightttt,” I said. “And you’re Teller, right? You’re the one who doesn’t speak. So, where’s Penn?”

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” the tall guy said.

I blinked a couple times at him, and then, well, of course—Penn. But, without the slicked back ponytail and round, wire-framed glasses, he looked remarkably different. I said as much, and he told me that the other look was part of the act, that he dressed differently offstage.

Penn & Teller said that they were going to the nearby Village Voice offices to receive an Obie Award for their Off-Broadway show, but were killing time checking out the street magicians and con men that frequented the East Village. In a wholly uncharacteristic move on my part, I asked if I could buy them a couple beers. They looked at each other, shrugged, and said, sure, why not?

At a nearby tavern, Penn declined the beer (he doesn’t drink), but Teller had one and then wouldn’t let me pay for it. Onstage, Teller’s a mute, but offstage he was the more talkative of the two. He told me about their show and a little of their history together—they’d known each other since high school. Penn said he’d started his career as a juggler and a musician. I told them I was a struggling actor, had just moved to New York from Florida, and had just been hired for a play back in my home state. They listened. We laughed. They were friendly. And cool.

Very cool.

Almost exactly ten years later, I strolled down a random street in the West Village and noticed a couple leaning against a red convertible, furiously making out. Their hands, tongues, legs—every part of their bodies—prodded, sucked, fondled, and squeezed each other in full view of God and everybody. At one point the guy lifted the girl up on the trunk and I swear I thought he was going to unzip and have at her right there. But just as I passed, they came up for air and I instantly recognized the leathery skinned, bug-eyed Lou Reed, and the spikey-haired pixie Laurie Anderson.

I also noticed that the back seat of the convertible was filled with luggage, including a beat-up guitar case. I stopped, open-mouthed, and stared; I’d just bought, and was in the process of wearing the virtual grooves off, Reed’s latest CD, Set the Twilight Reeling. Just then, the lyrics of “NYC Man” swelled up inside my head:

New York city, ooohhh, how I love you
New York city, baby, blink your eyes and I’ll be gone
Oh, how I love you

Reed and Anderson were oblivious to me and my rude, star-struck stare, and after a final smooch and a grope, Reed jumped into his classic red convertible, and in the blink of an eye, baby, he was gone.

Very, very cool.

But neither of these encounters held a candle to the coolness of the encounter Lizzy and I had in a beach bar at the Hotel Bora Bora in Tahiti.

If they had beauty contests for islands, Bora Bora would certainly be a finalist. She is a luscious, sexy, sparkling beauty queen, dripping in emeralds, turquoise, sapphire, and jade. It is about 20 miles in circumference, and Lizzy had the idea that a fun honeymoon thing to do would be to rent bikes and ride around the island. The entire island. Though I really wanted to be lying on a beach somewhere, I did not want to disappoint my new bride, so I reluctantly agreed.

It started out okay, but ended up a miserable slog. The roads were pockmarked with treacherous potholes, and there was a rather steep hill—some called it a mountain—about halfway around. On top of that, the ten-speed they gave me was just awful. At the slightest provocation, it would suddenly jerk out of gear, dangle its chain on the roadway for a few seconds, and then lurch back in. The bike was so small and low to the ground for my 6-foot frame that I resembled a Shriner on a scooter. I’m also fairly certain that the seat was constructed of little shards of glass and rebar protruding from a triangular wedge of concrete.

Still, on we pedaled, mile after potholed mile, with burnt skin and parched lips, and my body an experiment in pain. About three quarters of the way around, I began to glare malevolently at the smiling Tahitians whizzing by in their trucks, hating their annoyingly affable faces, and wishing that they and all of the Society Islands, but particularly the island of Bora Bora, would suddenly sink beneath the waves, and we’d all be thrust into the lovely, cool ocean, to drown in its slickery wetness, until a friendly whale swam up and bore us on its soft, wet back to a delightfully cool, shady bar where bare-breasted Tahitian waitresses served us chilled drinks in tall, frosty glasses next to an ice-cold piña colada pool under a mai tai waterfall.

I even tried giving up at one point, but Lizzy would have none of it. We had stopped to rest and down the last of our warm bottles of water, and I whined at her like a petulant child. I begged her to let us catch Le Truck (which, for those of you who don’t speak French, means “the truck”), a mode of Tahitian public transportation not entirely unlike a bus.

“You can catch a ride if you want,” Lizzy said. “But I’m not giving up.” She rose then, mounted her bike and took off, leaving me sweating like a stuck pig and absolutely ashamed of myself—pissed as hell at her, of course, but ashamed nonetheless.

So, I got back on my bike and limped after her, and, what with one thing and another, we finally made our way around the rest of the island to the bike shop where we’d begun our hideous journey. As a reward for this epic adventure, we decided to treat ourselves to a nice dinner at the Hotel Bora Bora, which was renowned as the exception to the rule of bad hotel dining in Tahiti.

The hotel is a gorgeous, sprawling affair on the water, and was apparently the place to stay for celebrities and visiting dignitaries. Unfortunately, the restaurant was closed when we arrived, but we were told that the lagoon bar was open and served food. Exhausted and hungry, and dying for a cocktail, we decided to give it a try.

Before proceeding, a note about the Tahitian hotel and restaurant service industry: it is notoriously friendly, and notoriously terrible. I hate to be the annoying American I loathe in others, but really, when you’re at a 4-star hotel, shelling out the enormous sums we were, you expect to be fawned over and pampered and served a new drink before you even have time to notice that you need one. Oh, and here’s a piece of advice for you Tahitian waiters: when I sit at your table, come over immediately and serve me some manner of liquid refreshment. If it’s breakfast, I want coffee. Lunch, beer. Dinner, scotch. Don’t just smile politely and continue to criss-cross the restaurant with no seeming purpose. Once you’ve served me my beverage of choice, you have bought yourself at least another fifteen minutes of whatever non-service-like activity you are currently engaged in. Just don’t leave me jerking my head expectantly this way and that, trying to get your attention, like a goddamned dog begging his master for scraps at the dinner table.

And so it was that the lone bartender at the lagoon bar of the Hotel Bora Bora smilingly ignored us for fifteen minutes. Mind you, there was only one other couple, and they had drinks, so I knew that concept was a possibility. Taking the bull by the horns, I walked over to the bartender, blurted my drink order, and pointed to where Lizzy and I were sitting. She nodded, and I returned to my seat. At that point, the bartender returned to doing diddly squat and another fifteen minutes passed where we still had no drinks. I’m afraid I lost it.

“Excuse me,” I yelled across the bar. “I ordered drinks fifteen minutes ago and I’m wondering if they’re going to be coming anytime soon. We’d also like to order food. And if you don’t mind, we’d like to do it before fucking hell freezes over!”

Ok, so I didn’t really say that last bit, but the bartender got the message anyway and went off to find a couple of menus and to make our drinks. I sent an exasperated smirk across the bar to the other couple, and the man—an older, long-haired, hippie-looking type—smiled wryly back.

“You shouldn’t worry, mate,” he said with a charming British accent. “It’s called Tahitian time.”

I smiled back at him in solidarity, and privately corrected my initial observation: he looked more like an old rock-and-roller type, with his wild and curly graying hair and wrinkled, ravaged skin. He had piercing blue eyes and a sardonic smile and he looked damned familiar.

“That guy looks damned familiar,” I whispered to Lizzy, who checked him out covertly. She whispered back that she didn’t think he looked familiar at all, but she did note the disparity in ages between him and his very attractive companion. Hmm, I thought: old rocker, young girlfriend, Bora Bora...hello, he had to be famous.

The bartender showed up just then with our drinks and kindly informed me that I really needed to relax, that I was in Tahiti, and asked why I was in such a rush. I didn’t think it necessary to go into all the reasons why a cool, refreshing cocktail a half hour ago would have been just the thing, but I did relax and set about trying to figure out who the hell that guy across the bar was.

As we sipped our cocktails, the four of us conversed in a casual, general way. He was charming, witty, candid, and observant. I told them that Lizzy and I were on our honeymoon, and even regaled them with the tale of our treacherous bike trek around the island. He and his girlfriend both cooed sympathetically and agreed that they would never in a million years do something like that on their vacation. I glanced triumphantly at Lizzy, who rolled her eyes.

I turned back and the mystery of who he was tortured me. His identity was just on the tip of my tongue but I couldn’t make the final connection and so I decided that I would, through subtle examination and astute inquiry, get it out of him.

“So, what do you folks do for a living?” I blurted.

So much for subtle inquiry.

It’s such a boorish, classically American question, isn’t it? Since the job seems to be the most important aspect of American life, we feel that what people do for a living puts them in a context we can understand, and can be a launchpad for conversation. To most Europeans, however, it can imply an insulting focus on class or social status, and is far too personal, akin to asking them how much money they make.

I don’t think most Americans intend it that way, and I certainly didn’t. In my case, if the man across the bar had said he was a certified public accountant, I would have realized I was on the wrong track and pursued a different conversational line.

But the man graciously played along. He smirked, winked at his girlfriend, and drawled slowly, as though looking for the perfect words to answer me, “Let’s just say that I’m ... the caretaker of an old idea.”

Aha, this is good! I thought. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew I was getting somewhere.

“Oh you are?” I drawled back, attempting to match his tone.

“Yes,” he went on. “Have you ever seen the movie Cocoon?”

“Cocoon …” I mumbled. I was stumped by this one. Let’s see, Cocoon, starring, um, wait, Steve Guttenberg? Hang on, this guy wasn’t Steve Guttenberg, who’s brief, inexplicable success depended, apparently, on the public’s inability to remember how horribly he’d stunk in his previous pictures.

“Let’s just say,” he continued, “that I’m the janitor of a musical old folks home.”

And that’s the one that did it. Old rocker, British accent, blonde, curly hair, twinkling blue eyes.

“Well, this all sounds so very mysterious and metaphoric,” I said, as though we were just the most droll, witty things.

“Does it?” he smiled, a lilt in his voice.

“Yes,” I said, smiling back. “And I think I know who you are.”

“Oh dooo you?” he cooed.

“Robert?” I asked, though of course I knew.

“Yessss,” he said triumphantly, pleased that I’d finally figured it out and enjoying it as much as I was. In fact, I think he loved the idea that I hadn’t recognized him, which meant he could relax and stop being ROBERT FUCKING PLANT! A god of rock and roll, whose screeching, high-pitched voice was the soundtrack for so many of my fumbling teenage sexual encounters! ROBERT MOTHERFUCKING PLANT, ladies and gentlemen, was sitting across the bar, in Bora Bora, Tahiti, swilling Hinano beer and bantering with the likes of me!!!

All of that was in my head as I tried to play it cool and officially introduce myself and Lizzy to him. He introduced his girlfriend, Jessica, and then we had to start all over again with this new information. And, well, really, we just had the most wonderful time. Lizzy and I joined Bobby and Jess on their side of the bar, and we ordered the first of many rounds of drinks.

Planty talked about music, and about being old, and about how much money he had, and how no one thought of him now as anything but the lead singer of Led Zeppelin and, God forbid, not as an artist in his own right, and how no radio played his stuff except as a golden oldie.

I dared to tell him that he was full of crap for complaining, and I put my arm around my new bud and told him that my 14-year-old son and his friends didn’t care that he was old enough to be their grandpa, that they just dug his music, and, oh, by the way, my son could play “Stairway to Heaven” on the guitar.

Then Bobby told me that Pagey was really the one keeping the Zeppelin flame lit (omigod, we’re bantering about Jimmy Page!), and that Bobbo was there for the money, of course, because it was still great money, even after all these years, tons of money really, just lots and lots of money. But money really wasn’t the point because he had a DAT recorder in his bungalow and was writing ten hours a day (although I suspected he spent at least that same amount of time out at the bar).

And then Robby said he was coming out with a new album soon and would leave the whole Led Zeppelin thing behind, and I ignored all his whining and really just wanted to ask him what the hell he’d been thinking during the whole “Sea of Love” period, and to please not go down that road again.

But I didn’t, of course, and instead looked over at Lizzy, who was getting along famously with Jessica, and I had this quick flash of the two of us hanging out and snorting coke with Robert Plant and maybe Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones and John Bonham and having mind-blowing orgies with their beautiful young groupies, and, well, I was having the time of my life!

Before I knew it, and long before I wanted to, we had to leave to catch the last boat to our hotel. We all shook hands and Planty gave me the number of his agent in New York, saying that if I was doing anything fun, to give her a call and tell her all about it and she’d let him know and maybe he would come, if he could make it. I nodded, dazed and star struck, and the very last thing my new best friend Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin said as we walked away was:

“Goodbye, Andrew and Lizzy. Really lovely to meet you. Elect yourselves a new president, all right?”

(This was September of 2003, toward the end of George W’s first term.)

Lizzy and I returned to New York from our completely awesome honeymoon, and a couple months later we threw a big catered party at our house, to which we invited all the friends and family we couldn’t invite to our wedding. I even called the number Planty had given me for his New York agent, and left the following voicemail message:

“This is a message for Robert Plant. Bobby, it’s Andrew. You know, from the lagoon bar in Bora Bora? Lizzy and I loved hanging with you and Jess, and we wanted to let you know that we’re throwing a big party, and if you don’t mind slumming it with the starving artists in Brooklyn we would love for you to come. Hope to see you there. Ciao!”

I never heard a thing from my buddy, Robert, but it was all good. I figured he was busy turning all those bungalow DAT recordings into a Grammy nominated album, which is pretty much what happened a year or so later.

Happy Birthday, Planty…we’ll always have Tahiti.