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B-List Rockstar before/after
So apparently I have a B-list rockstar staying at my house until Tuesday.
This is fine by me. I really don't care who stays at my house, as long as they clean up after themselves, don't smell righteously bad, and don't eat my food.
I was seated on the couch, half naked, watching t.v., hoping that life would mercifully allow me to graciously slip off to bed undisturbed.
Roomie tromped in, pretty well sauced, with his erstwhile girlfriend and pseudo-rockstar in tow.
Roomie:"And this is Garret. He's a rockstar."
Argentum:"Hey."
Roomie disappeared with his chick, and I shook the rockstar's hand. Big guy, his meaty hand felt like a paw.
We talked about music for awhile, and he managed to slip a mention of his band's name by me, to see if I recognized them, or perhaps to see if I would poser along.
Of course, I am no good at this. "Huh?" and "Who?" always reveals my critical lack of savvy regarding the b-list band circuit.
They're based in San Diego, and are playing the weekend here, I believe. I have no idea where.
As ever the world whirls past me, and I'm just happy to have regular bowl movements.
Proud, in fact, although I tell no one about it. Then the conversation level in my life would really degenerate.
"You take pictures for playboy? Wow. I had the best shit today."
He was a good guy. Social.
When I got up this morning, he was sleeping, sitting straight up with his head tilted back on the couch, snoring like a motherfucker.
So this weekend will be interesting. More vistors to come.
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