Cliché Cliché

Sunday night was one of those Los Angeles clichés, but not Los Angeles as it is now.

Instead, the night – or at least 20 minutes of it -- screamed of the stereotypical LA of television and movies from the butt end of last century. It was a 3D cliché of why everyone comes here, and what they do once they’ve unpacked and figured out whose couch they’ll sleep on and where they’ll wait tables or tend bar.

You know what I’m talking about. Earnest artistic vision that thinks itself unique, transmitted through a lot of effort and a wisp of ability. Don’t even get me started on talent. I have none, so I’d prefer not to complain about anyone else not having any. At least I don’t get on a stage and expect people to pay attention to me.

These two were young. They were not particularly attractive, although the female had very nice boobs on display. He played guitar and sang. She sang and waved a plastic tambourine while the ghosts of Davy Jones and the littlest Partridge girl laughed and wept. (Yes, the actress who played her is probably still alive. Don’t be picayune. It’s poetic license.)

I couldn’t understand the lyrics, some were obscure and some were just indecipherable. Drugs, recreational or prescription, may or may not have been an issue. If you wanted to parody the performance, you wouldn’t have to change a thing.

In their own way, they were likeable and really enthusiastic. I keep telling myself that. Enthusiasm is good. Youth can be good. They had lots of both. That adds up to good, right?

Wisdom: If you’re going to listen to what amounts to angry-poetry-with-guitar on a blisteringly hot evening, make damned sure the place has functional air conditioning.

I should’ve run away the minute the guy at the door said, “Leave it open, we need the fresh air.”