Nothing ever seems to go right whenever I go to Williamsburg. Yet I continue to believe that one day this lame excuse for a section of Brooklyn will produce a reason for it’s pointless existence. Two weeks ago I tried to see a conceptual performance by Aaron Rose and the Sads. About 50-something people sacrificed freezing their nosehairs to catch a glimpse of the San Franscisco band do something besides strum the songs from their MySpace page. Instead, over 40 people crammed into the tiny studio space to listen to them play songs through a limited amount of headphones accompanied by a movie projection. Julie and I must have been the 41st and 42nd without an outlet to hear what was going on. This was the one time sharing a set of earbuds with someone would have seemed reasonable and not cheap. But the headphone nazis weren’t having it. Instead, the bar around the corner had an earful of mildly-tolerable obscure rock music, and plenty of cloudy glasses for everyone to drink from. About 20 minutes later, I was told, the Sads were deep, and moving, not more than what I expected from a band high off of trying to keep up with Stanley Kubrick. I hardly think so since exiting stage left, all I could hear were foul sentiments from my inner monologue stemmed from Williamsburg hatred. Oh, if you’re that curious, I suggest earmuffs for the squeamish.