I nearly lost a house over a Bare Naked Ladies concert.

We were living in an apartment in Washington, DC at the time, on the hunt for our first house up and down the streets of Glover Park, Cleveland Park, and Cathedral Heights. One day our realtor, an early Calista Gingrich cyborg prototype, was driving me around in her big-ass Caddy when we made a wrong turn onto a dead end street and spied a “For Sale by Owner” sign in front of a red brick row house. She arched her perfectly shaped eyebrow and slammed the car into park; if it was this well hidden, maybe no one else had seen the house either.

Inside: a newly renovated, charming and airy space, freshly painted, snug in all the right ways and selling for at least 5% less than anything else we’d seen. We had to jump if we were going to beat out other bidders.

Fast forward to three nights later, when the owners were due to give us their response to our bid; O-G Calista told us we had to wait by the phone at our apartment, in case we needed to counteroffer.

The Bare Naked Ladies tickets for that night’s concert were sitting on my dresser. And I spent a good 10 minutes staring at them and thinking, “I like that house. But I really want to see this show.”

Thank goodness I gave in to the inevitable, because let’s face it: the rowhouse became the linchpin in what is now our vast empire of real estate holdings. Oh, wait, that didn’t actually happen; we’ve just taken to trading up to bigger mortgages with each move. But it was a perfect house for a two people. I dream of returning to it some day when the kids move out- small enough that it only took 20 minutes to clean top to bottom, with an efficient kitchen and a sunny back yard. And while some people might think that being able to hear the neighbors on either side sneeze was a flaw, I took it as reassurance that they’d hear me and send help if I ever screamed for it.

And to think I almost let it go over a band that sings, “You Can Be My Yoko Ono.”

I was thinking a lot this week about concert cancellations and best laid plans going awry. In December Morrissey of the Smiths pulled a fast one and cancelled his December show, so I took my refund and bought tickets to see two shows: Gomez, as selected by the Midlife Mixtape Facebook fans, this coming Saturday, and Ian McCulloch of Echo and the Bunnymen in March.

Turns out, however, that the Bay Bridge that connects Oakland to San Francisco will be closed this weekend, which means that getting to the Gomez show in San Francisco would start with a 20 mile drive north and an extra bridge crossing and toll before looping south to get into the City. That is just too much work and too late a night for someone no longer capable of sleeping past 6:54 a.m.

And then I got a notice that Ian McCulloch had cancelled his March appearance.

What is it with these ’80s bands and the cancellations? Never mind, I think I know – they probably were told they had to drive 20 miles and cross an extra bridge and decided it was too much bother, what with them being unable to sleep in anymore.

Either way, my apologies for not bringing you those reviews in the coming weeks. But I have a couple other tricks up my sleeve for shows, don’t you worry.