Plugged Out: The Night I Almost Tilted on Deadline
July 1992. Opening night of “Tommy” at the La Jolla Playhouse in San Diego, where it enjoyed its theatrical world premiere. I’m there to write a feature story for a local daily where I was on staff. Joining me that night is my friend, Who-freak and fellow staff writer Gary. I do a few pre-show interviews. We sit not far from the Who’s Pete, Roger, John. Must file by 9 p.m. Show starts late. Two-thirds through, I want to see more but I must file. I must write and send or it won’t run. I must leave the theater. Will Pete notice? I get out quietly, oh so quietly, scramble for a place to write. I happen on the box-office door and it’s open and strangely, there is nobody inside. I sit on the floor and start writing on — old-school journalists will remember — a Radio Shack Trash 80, as we called them.
I finish the story, and must plug into a wall phone jack to send. Sweating, crawling, trying to plug in. Trash 80 takes forever to send. Come on, send. I hear a tap on the box office window. Tap, tap. I stay hidden on the floor. Will I get busted? Come on, send! Tap, tap. Aargh. I stand up, startling the tapper. I find myself looking into the face of the window tapper and … it’s the actor John Cusack. We stare at each other. Excuse me, sir, he says, I’d like three tickets for tomorrow night. I don’t work here, I say. I’m filing my story. I hold up the Trash 80 as proof. It unplugs from the wall. Story not sent. John is confused, but polite. He walks away. I plug in again. I send story. Finally. I return and watch the end of the show. We go to the post-show party. Our names are not on the list. Dude, we’re not on the list. Up walks the Beat Farmers drummer, the late, great showman Country Dick Montana. Recognizes Gary. Country Dick Montana does what he can to get us into the Who’s post-show party. Surreal.
Six weeks later: I’m on a plane to NYC to do some interviews. It’s almost empty in coach, where I’m sitting. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, walking through the curtain from first-class is Pete Townshend. He’s walking toward me. Looking at me. Oh, no. He sees me. He’s mad because I left the show early? Doesn’t he know I returned? Doesn’t he know I had a deadline? Will he swing his guitar into my head? Pete walks to the seat six inches from my knee and bends down to talk to the guy sitting in front of me. He knows the guy. He’s here to talk to that guy. Relief. Pete looks at me and I look at him. He nods. I nod. He walks back to first class. I stay where I belong. Panic subsides, pulse rests. Epilogue: One year later I’m on my way again to NYC to interview “Tommy” director Des McAnuff, as the show moves from San Diego to open on Broadway. Final dress rehearsal, and the show just ended. We’re sitting in the St. James Theatre. Des remembers I was at the La Jolla opening night a year earlier. Doesn’t seem to know I crawled around his box office, sweating, and confusing John Cusack, who simply wanted to purchase three tickets. I begin the interview, looking at my watch, wondering where the St. James box-office door is…
