“Bob, my legendary friend, take my freakishly large hand and let me lead you to the sanctum sanctorum.”
“Sizzler?”
“Not yet, Bob. We’ll stop at Sizzler on the way home, I promise.”
“I’m holding you to it.”
“I speak of a holy place, perhaps even quasi-mystical. A space of plans and dreams and the worst-looking feet you’ve ever seen in your life. Did you ever see The Red Shoes?”
“All over the place.”
“Not actual red shoes. The movie.”
“Ah. Was that the one with Peter Boyle?”
“Forget The Red Shoes, Bob. Grasp my prodigious paw and I will take you to a land of pure imagination.”
“Y’know, Bill, I’ve been in a dressing room once or twice.”
“Not like this, my esteemed prophet. The smells alone will have your nose reapplying for grad school. The camaraderie! The esprit de corps! The joie de vive!”
“Are those French for ‘dong?'”
“No, they’re in addition to the dong. Sweet Molly McCracken’s teats, we are gonna see some dong.”
“All right.”
That term “Rip City” originated on February 18, 1971, when we were at the Capitol in Port Chester.
I’m glad Bobby got to finally experience the frustration of sitting behind Walton at a show.