Wednesday evening’s hours at the LA Opera’s production of Tosca was, if not supremely performed, then supremely enjoyable. Such a story of rape and murder, hypocrisy and deceit, mis-identities, and the epiphany of death cheated (with the obligatory suicide) all make for a boisterous night, set against an ever-flowing, imaginative set.
People-watching constitutes a legitimate sport here in “Hell-A”, as Bill Hicks calls Los Angeles. It is an odd crowd that inhabits the Los Angeles cultural terrain – neither bohemian nor crusty; grounded, yet with a sprinkling of nouveau riche. I have never seem so many geriatrics simultaneously leaning against urinals; perhaps they otherwise stand little chance of balancing themselves, much less make it back to their seats for the second act. I was so not tempted to utter a “May I help you with that?”
Writing this in Seattle’s Online Coffee Co. seems negligent, an abuse of time and disrespectful of the city that awaits exploration.
