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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Monday, October 12   >>

THIS IS WHAT MUSIC DOES T'YA, MAN

Saturday morning I bought tickets to that night's Jason Mraz show at the Bowl. Upon pre-screening the seller (I am a very thorough pre-screener) I learned he is an "Israeli anarchist." Transaction: Complete.

After arriving at our local departure spot for Park-N-Ride to the Bowl, there didn't appear to be a bus. A Ticketmaster operator had me on hold for 25 minutes only for him to tell me, "Uh, there's no Park-N-Ride today." I ended up having to drive to LA in 6 p.m. Saturday traffic.

Parking was upped to $19 -- $4 more from the last time I drove to the Bowl, which was a long time ago because I discovered Park-N-Ride (a.k.a. bowl booze bus).

We had bought a lot of booze prior to arrival. And, in a state of shock, we saw "NO ALCOHOL" electric signs for construction posted all over the block. This has never happened before. This is the mecca of booze and music. Not last Saturday night, though.

During security, we had our bottles temporarily confiscated until the end of the night.

We were seated in a group that had a typical "girls' night out, y'all!" They were college girls, already hammered, and obnoxious, and horrible at singing along to music. So pitchy, dawg. So pitchy.

They also wouldn't shut the fuck up about being from the bay area. Proud bay area natives are about as annoying as NYC natives when it comes to home-dropping.

Then, as if all that shit weren't bad enough, I learn at that moment G Love and Special Sauce are opening. You have no idea how much I resent that backwards-cap, faux-rapping white-boy frat rock fuck. He is the ULTIMATE hack. Imagine 45 minutes of this shit:



I've hated this man's work for as long as I remember getting into music. What a load of trite shit.

Another couple had sat down next to us. Typical Hollywood/trust fund assholes: while playing with their phones all night, they wouldn't shut up. It was becoming a nuisance.
HUGO: Hey, man, can you keep it down? I didn't pay to hear your voice all night.

ASSHOLE GUY: WHAT. ARE YOU FUCKIN' SERIOUS, BRAH?

HUGO: Yeah, I am.

ASSHOLE GUY: wwwoooOOWWWWW... I thought this was a SOCIAL event...

HUGO: It is. But it's a concert, not a fucking forum.

ASSHOLE GIRLFRIEND: HEYYYY TAKKEEE ITTT EEEASSSSYYY!!!
"Asshole Guy" -- I shit you not -- was mimicking my every physical move through the entire. fucking. night.

I got up, he got up. I clapped, he clapped. I put my arms around my bitch, he put his arms around his bitch. It was meant to provoke me, but I'm not one easily provoked unless I feel indefinitely threatened. I mean, listen, I was dealing with a 27-year-old local Jew armed with a Blackberry. Oh, how I trembled.

And even after all that shit, the Mraz set was absolutely lackluster. And the fucker didn't even play the song that I wanted to hear.

Until the very end of the set, when he played "Butterfly" -- the raunchiest pop song our ears have had in a very, very long time.



And that very performance of the absolute final song of the night after all that bullshit, my readers, is why Saturday night was absolutely awesome.