Now this is the kinda week It's My Party was made for. First off, let me set the record straight: It was not Melody Unit--as was erroneously claimed in the Seattle Weekly's Metro Gnome--who trashed the flashy hotel room provided for them by the Mephistophelean publication as partial payment for playing the Weekly's recent NXNW party. The culprits were, in fact, members of Carissa's Wierd, who did an estimated $5,000 damage in a fabulous display of rock star fuckoffery. Damn! All you CW guys did when you were living in Seattle was sit on your feet at the Cha-Cha while displaying occasional looks of mockery and chagrin. Of course the whole incident has turned into an explosion of poopy-pants Seattle music-scene politics, with threats of "You'll never play in this town again!" (much-loved publicist Julie Butterfield, now the Weekly's promotions manager, took the fall for the stunt), and from Melody Unit, the defiant cry, "This town sucks--we're movin' to New York!" I, for one, am revived by such controversy, and it's only serendipitous that two of the Carissa's Wierd members involved in the fracas just happen to be employed at The Stranger's sister publication, the Portland Mercury. Hee!

***

Speaking of the Cha-Cha: There I was, walking my dog Mamie down Pine Street on a Monday evening, when all of a sudden she flew into the Cha-Cha and made a beeline for the stylish gentleman seated at a table with Alien Crime Syndicate frontman Joe Reineke. Working her undeniable charm, the gentleman was reduced to giggles as Mamie flirted with him and pushed her way onto his lap, and Joe introduced the man simply as "Tommy." Reaching out a hand, I recognized him to be none other than former Replacement Tommy Stinson. Right here in our fine city. Tommy told me he was in town with his mother, celebrating his birthday by going to EMP at her request. Ever the proud parent, Mom suggested her baby boy call in his rock-star cred and request that EMP give them the royal treatment--including a free hotel room--but tasteful Tommy demurred. As for the museum, Stinson said he liked it (especially Bo Diddley's guitar), but begged to differ with a few of the facts in the display dedicated to the Replacements: "I was standing there with this group of people as our story was being told and I was tempted to say, 'Actually, what happened was...' but I was afraid no one would recognize me." Local gadabout and Presidents drummer Jason Finn, whose radar for celebrity is astounding if not unconscious, wandered up to the table oblivious of its star power, but soon saddled up a stool and contributed to the music-biz reverie. Stinson's quote of the night: "I've been pretending to be in a band for 20 years."

***

Until recently, it took a lot to make me cry. In past years, I'd look over at former Stranger music editor Everett True and snort as he bawled during sets by artists he was emotionally affected by--all the while fearing my heart truly had shrunken Grinch-style, as I'd been told more than once. Apparently, that's not the case anymore, because I cried myself a river at the Paradox last weekend during Damien Jurado's exceptional, spare set. (All right, I cried during Rocky Votolato's opening set, too.) Mid-show, Jurado admitted that with Ghost of David (Sub Pop), he'd purposely tried to make an album that wasn't marketable, and was astounded by how well it's selling. No surprise there. If you haven't heard it, and are in need of a good cry, pick up a copy and let the tears and toilet paper roll.