Mars Mails It In
As a music-festival veteran and Napa local, I've yet to miss a full day of great live music at my hometown's biggest party since BottleRock's inception. When they throw a party at your place, you gotta be there, yeah?
Most important, though, is the excited and warm positivity attendees bring, from near and far, young and old. And all have at least some level of expectation that the performers, ostensibly doing what they love while being paid by us, give us all they got.
Too much to ask? I say no. And until this year's grand finale by Bruno Mars, a show that a whole lot of cash-paying music lovers expected to blow us away, all performers have delivered.
I'm just not sure how Bruno Mars justifies mailing it in on Sunday night. He was 20 minutes late, but that did not temper our mass expectation, and shit happens. But to complain that we, his fans and paying customers, were "just not ready to party" and to treat us to a beautiful 10-minute keyboard solo (really?), then top off the full diva effect by walking offstage 20 minutes early, is not acceptable.
Math has never been of interest to me, but I bet there are many with math skills, with more time than me and the same feeling of being taken for granted, who could come up with what Bruno owes us for his petulant and abbreviated set.
Shining a Light
Great article ("Napa Sunset," May 30). Thank you to Jonah Raskin for writing and to the Bohemian for featuring this well-written feature story.
Have we not been down this road before? This pain that strikes us to the core . . .
To our children, we're forever bound, but, now, no comfort to be found.
In our memories and in our dreams . . . Cannot put to rest these silent screams.
Their storied lives spent . . . the laughter . . . the tears; so much joy and so much fear—
will not be told this very day, for they no longer come to play.
Their fiery spirits that once burned so bright; now scattered embers to a darkened night.
Grief-stricken faces turn from the sun; the words all spoken, the hymns all sung;
Under skies of blue, wooden boxes on grass, the tear-stained countenance of sorrow will last . . .
An eternity and more won't replenish our souls; as the breath becomes short, the earth becomes cold.
We find your answers to questions unreliable; the rudeness of your responses, undeniable.
Write to us at firstname.lastname@example.org.