Unbe___lievable.

What an amazing week. I saw a few more shit holes which I may potentially call home in the near future. One smelled like shit, and the other smelled like shit with dung topnotes. They all featured luxurious no-name electric ranges, stall showers, vile floors, signs that said "ROB ME!" (in the form of cheap locks) outside, and of course the general filth one would expect when living in on the low in a high-rent area. I KNOW that whichever I choose, I'm going to have to set aside a couple large (that's card-shark mob speak for thousand) just to clean and paint. Blah blah. So much more to this freaking drama, but I'll just say that it sucks and I wish so bad I could fast-forward a couple of months (years?).


Thursday. Holy shit. Went to CBGB's to a music industry showcase my sister helped put together. I was excited to go, not just for my sister and the band, but because it may very well be the last time I would be there before it closes for good. (March? August? Halloween? I heard different responses from each of the people I asked who worked there. Halloween came from a "reliable" source who heard it from a "reliable" source.) So many great memories. More on that in another post.

The band she's repping was very talented. Not what I would listen to personally, but more than sufficient for the Aerosmith set. One of the guys was a famous guitarist from some other famous band I've never heard of. Or maybe vaguely heard of. He played yoga-guitar. The first song had him slinging his guitar around his neck and playing it upside down and backward, behind his head. Devil fingers!! We stuck around and drank gin and tonics with A&R guys and chatted up the homeless peeps outside, who we slipped drinks and cigarettes to. Basically, everyone was waiting around because the Rolling Stones' roadie band was playing later.

I discovered that the requisite for being a roadie for a band like the Stones is to be a skilled musician in your own right. These cats can PLAY. And they played. And played. And... you get the idea. I met some straggler Stones' fans who informed me that it was common for them to A) play very long songs for a very long time, and B) have some famous names pop in for support. Hmm. I was starting to get bored watching the roadies' roadies scamper around on stage putting out all the little small fires that happen during a high-profile set, but this new information renewed my interest. But not for long. The jamming started jamming my brain: time to go.

On the way out: brain fart. FUCKING MICK JAGGER?! I turned to the door guy, thinking I might be a little buzzed and seeing things: "Is that who I think it is?"

He smiles a very suspicious smile, shakes his head, "nah."

"Fake" Mick Jagger was then promptly escorted down the front stairs with his entire fake entourage and I was left thinking that maybe I should stay. Nah. I left.

I went straight to the other, and possibly the only GOOD, bastion of live music in this area: Maxwell's. I missed all the bands and nearly missed last call. Thank goodness for friends. Hung out for a while and sparkled all the way home. What a night.

This weekend, more of "the talk." Fighting. Sadness. Temporary truces. Ugh. My stomach is in knots. Heard about a friend who is going through the same thing. Stopped into a certain little coffee place to pacify my afternoon latté addiction and overheard a man and woman (friends, apparently) talking about their very similar situations. Both of them. Luckily, the line was long, so I got to hear all the juicy details. I am freaked out by this. Like a sign of some sort. I am reminded that I am not alone, even though sometimes it screams from within me. Lots of people feel it. Or don't, which of course is the problem. Sigh.