Not long ago, I spent a pleasant evening in the East Village with a lovely young woman who I’d known, in one capacity or another, for several years. We had hung out only infrequently over the course of that time, and though our relationship was platonic, there was always a chemistry between us that (at least in my estimation) cried out for me to make a move. And that’s exactly what I did that night, seeing her off with a kiss before she got on the train to Brooklyn.

Plans were made for the coming weekend, and I was genuinely excited about the possibilities. My friend was both smart and beautiful, and as far as interests went, we shared common tastes in music and literature. Sure, she counted the likes of M. Ward and Nick Zinner among her personal heroes, frequented Williamsburg bars like Night of Joy and had recently returned from a trip couchsurfing across the Midwest—but so what? I also dig the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and friends would certainly attest to my love of Brooklyn bar-hopping. Besides, there was something about her bookish, Deschanelian vibe that I found very endearing.

With my kiss, I hoped that I had dispelled any platonic stigma around the nature of our relationship and signaled my intent to take things further. But come Saturday, as I eagerly awaited the date that lay ahead that evening, I received a text.

“Reeeeally tempted to go to that Dinosaur Jr. anniversary show tonite. Just curious, is rescheduling for tmrw a possibility?”

For those of you not intimately familiar with the American alternative rock canon (though this is The New School and I’m sure plenty of you are), Dinosaur Jr. is a seminal indie band that got its start in the 80s and went on to become one of the most influential groups of their era. The band’s second and arguably best album, “You’re Living All Over Me,” had been released 25 years ago that month. To celebrate its anniversary, they had scheduled an anniversary show at Terminal 5 that would guest star indie icons like Johnny Marr, Frank Black and former members of Sonic Youth. As a music connoisseur myself, I could almost forgive her for blowing me off.

But I can’t lie, it was a major turnoff. I couldn’t reschedule; finals were right around the corner, and the latest issue of this very publication was slated to come out in a matter of days. I had papers to write and stories to edit and besides, I didn’t want to go out the following night—I wanted to go out that night, and I didn’t appreciate being stood up for a bunch of aging punks from Western Massachusetts. So that was that.

Now, I’m not naive. I recognize that in all likelihood, my friend realized that a night out with me simply wouldn’t have been as interesting or memorable as catching the Dinosaur Jr. anniversary show, as sad as that may sound. Furthermore, life is short and love is fleeting, while art lasts forever.

And yet, she would have been mistaken. Because other than informing me that I could never compete with the likes of J. Mascis, this person also gave up an evening of food, drink and mind-blowing sex in favor of reliving teenage memories with her favorite rock stars. I ask you, would it not have been more fun and convenient instead to go to dinner, get mirthfully drunk on cocktails, have the mind-blowing sex and then spend the rest of the night listening to “You’re Living All Over Me” in my bedroom? I dare you to claim otherwise. Hell, we could have listened to “Daydream Nation,” “Doolittle” and the entire Smiths discography while we were at it, and basically recreated the entire show right there. Except with mind-blowing sex.

Which is why from now on, whenever I meet a girl who claims to share my tastes in post-punk or creative nonfiction or the films of Jim Jarmusch, no longer is the first thought in my mind how beautiful and smart and compatible this person is, but rather how she would probably prefer an evening reading “The White Album” or watching “Stranger Than Paradise” over spending time with me. Or worse, how she would prefer an evening with Jim Jarmusch himself.

But that’s fine. Because while she may have all the wondrous cultural artifacts of the Western world on her side, at least I have mind-blowing sex on mine.