First off, I’d like to thank Chris Homsley for writing a real review of the Aerosmith show at The Hollywood Bowl. My piece will not be complete as I visually experienced only three songs of this show. Why? Karma. Shark Week. Fatness. Humidity. Hollywood.
I should explain.
When you take your friends voluntarily and purposefully to Miceli’s, karma will get you every time. And I’m not talking about the fav hot spot for those orange kids on Jersey Shore.
I believe because I dragged my poor friends to this Craptastic Italian “Food” Waiters Sing to You in That Hysterical Way Tourists Straight From Universal Haven on Cahuenga… I was asking for it.
It’s like one of those character spots at Disney like Goofy’s Kitchen, only the kids aren’t dressed in costumes, they are draped in the desperation of Making It. Insert old Fame soundtrack of your choice here.
I think it’s the heat because on a normal day I would never dream of taking anyone to this place. If you’re from Butte or Opp or Norway, you might not mind it so much. It’ll be quaint and charming to you.
See, my thinking was… it’s close to The Bowl. We can eat and then skip up the road and… How long have I lived here? I should have known better. It’s been like 7 years since I’ve been to this place. And that skip up the road, which is roughly about a half a mile, took a half an hour.
Doug, Ian and Chris didn’t seem to mind Miceli’s at first. I think everyone was too hungry to care. After battling the metallic, toxic wildebeest that is L.A. traffic, you’ll think an am/pm is an oasis.
But once sated with food that can best be described as Marriott Without the Taste, we truly began to reluctantly absorb then wince at the onslaught of the singing waiters. I’m sorry pilot season didn’t work out for you, honey, but please don’t kill me with your over reaching version of Defying Gravity from Wicked. You’re seriously making us all sterile.
Then there was Shark Week. Shark Week is what my friend Jenny calls what I used to call Aunt Flo. It’s really much more accurate than the other nicknames I’ve heard. I apologize to all of those who are squeamish about menstruation although that’s just the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Your Mom had thousands of Shark Weeks and if she didn’t have one, you wouldn’t be here.
Still, you probably didn’t want to read about some chick’s period or think about your mom’s when you were just looking for some information about Aerosmith. Trust me, though. It happens more than you think.
The third thing that prevents me from writing a real review is my out of shapeness. Is that a phrase? It’s a nice way to say that I’m husky or just American. Not Kirstie Alley blobby but about 30,000 miles from that bony ass Kiera Knightly.
Parking at the Bowl for any event is not for the faint of heart or amateurs. It requires patience and probably alcoholism. Add a little humidity, an uphill walk and you’ve got me shvitzing like Shelly Winters trying to get to the bottom of that overturned ship.
We parked way down the hill at Highland and Franklin in a lot run by meth addicts who charged $40. For parking. The Meth is slightly more. The walk from the lot to the Bowl is on a slight grade. Easy enough for those of you who do stuff like stand up and walk around but for those of us desk types, that slight grade translates into The Alps for Fat People. This climb triggered a series of events.
The steady walking in the humidity triggered Shark Week thereby making me root around in my bag for Advil that was not there thereby making my traverse up to of our seats in a section I like to refer to as Space a bit slow going thereby making me have to clamp down on all of my compulsion to face slam the chick behind me who couldn’t have been more tone deaf than Name Any Star With a Perfume Line into the wooden seat until she stops squawking Love In An Elevator. From Wicked to Stupid… I had to get out of there.
After three songs, I took my sweaty achy body to the nearest beer stand and then sat with Ian in the food area amongst bored Bowl employees. We heard the concert from there. And even without seeing it, I have the same opinion that Chris Homsley did in his review. They sounded kind of beat.
It would be cool to say they were drunk or high, cause it’s a hometown show for them and they were partying with Jim Carrey and Gary Busey and the like. But no, they just sounded like the tired labias that they have become.
I missed hobo Cher/Johnny Depp coming out to “play” his guitar but when Chris texted me that the little feller was indeed on stage, I puked a little in my head. Oh, Johnny, you silly bitch. You know it’s not the 90s anymore, right? Don’t you own an island? Can’t you go there and play rock band so you only horrify the 30 locals who work there? And please don’t make out with Winona in public if y’all get back together.
If you love Aerosmith and are in better shape, then you’re right, I am a dick. But… I think it’s more than that. Never take anyone you care about to Miceli’s.