I know I’m not alone when I say I have trouble staying in the moment.

It’s a challenge to enjoy things for what they are rather than what I want them to be, and to just generally be okay with what’s right in front of me instead of letting my mind wander around the corner to what’s coming up next.

I say I know I’m not alone because in this age of high-speed everything we’ve become media-addled victims of choice. And really, that’s what’s wrong with NEMO.

But it’s not NEMO’s fault. What doesn’t work about the conference is part of a much larger picture.

Writing about the BMA ceremony last week, I found myself appalled at how rude people can be when it comes to supporting the arts. It seems we’ve forgotten how to show a basic amount of respect for performers – especially at an industry event with a local focus. I can rail on till I turn blue in the face, but the concept that we’re privileged to be able to see as much live music as we do is likely lost forever.

In thinking it over during the days that followed, and in discussing it some with The Rudds’ Tony Goddess at Johnny D’s last night, the picture suddenly began to come into focus – we’re spoiled. Goddess is from Delaware, and he commented that when bands came to play that market, people came out of the woodwork, and partially because they didn’t have the option to be entertained like that every freakin’ night.

Here in Boston, we’ve got between six and ten gigs to choose from nightly, and that’s just music.

It’s overkill.

And trying to squeeze three hundred bands into thirty venues over a three day period isn’t going to work all that well on such a desensitized audience. Especially not on a weekend where we’ve also got Thomas Dolby, Tool, Lamb of God, the Raconteurs, and Massive Attack in town.

Tied into the oversaturated market problem is that NEMO asks too much from people whose attention spans are already frighteningly short. It’s just like being at a festival with three or four stages; throughout each performance, the disconcerting notion that you might be missing something better elsewhere looms large in the back of your head.

It’s tricky to know when to quit while you’re ahead.

Leaving Johnny D’s before Borges was done and running to Middle East, attempting to catch the end of Be Your Own Pet’s headlining set, proved fruitless – they only played for a half hour and when I arrived the show was over.

None of this is to infer that Boston would somehow be better without BMA’s or that NEMO should find another home.

But the events need to be scattered over a week or ten days. Venues need to avoid booking other distractions in the festival’s path (put some NEMO music in the Orpheum and wait the extra week for the summer sheds to close).

That way, journalists covering NEMO events will have a second chance to wear the right shoes. And Boston can do a better job of suiting up and showing up to show their support.

Arriving at Johnny D’s felt like coming home after summer camp… maybe some gifts waiting, a feeling of warmth and familiarity.

I should’ve gone over there hours earlier. It would’ve been easier on my feet, too.

We all have those local indie bands we’re rooting for, and The Rudds are in my top three.

What’s not to like? Old school androgyny, slick riffs, solid playing and good humor – but not so silly to qualify as a futureless novelty act. Plus you can boogie to it, and rather unselfconsciously at that.

They should’ve won the ‘BCN Rumble this time ‘round. Campaign For Real Time is definitely up to something fresh, but nothing would’ve perished in making the band wait another year to bring home the gold.

Having a dance floor at Johnny D’s made the biggest difference in the mood, which was loose, but not in that frustrating ultra-sloppy lampshade-donning collegiate way.

Rudds front man John Powhida looked his lanky best in what could only be described as a mid-length black polyester housecoat and white Jackie-O sunglasses – the fashion police know better than to pick on J-Po. Somehow, having bassist Tony Goddess’ sturdy presence alongside with Andrea Gillis jamming on the tambourine between them sets the balance just right.

Their gig at TT’s just before Halloween promises to be a one-off treasure; Powhida is threatening a Hall and Oates tribute in addition to the band’s regular set… don’t ever doubt him.

The Somerville crew was so unaffected and laid back, as if to say “See? This is what you really wanted all along, right?” And it was.

Sarah Borges and the Broken Singles provided an interesting parallel to having seen Grace Potter earlier. The two have some similar qualities, but for all of Potter’s organ-driven soul, Borges’ bluesy swagger is unsurpassed – who’d have believed such aching authenticity could come across from a gal out of Taunton Mass?

Like Potter, Borges and her band have pretty much been on tour for the last eighteen months, taking more chances with their arrangements, and the resulting synergy has the Broken Singles burrowed that much further into their musical element. And you can FEEL the humidity in their tunes seeping through Mike Castellana’s pedal steel.

Now that she’s picked up her BMA for Best Local Female Vocalist, it’s time for a new disc.

People are really annoying when they don’t behave the way you want them to.

The T came like magic when I came bounding into the newly-renovated Kenmore Square station (new to me, anyway…I walk everywhere when I’m not on a schedule).

When I get up to Paradise, there’s an exceptionally long line at the will call window, later explained to me as some sort of Ticketmaster-related train wreck. The result is a lot of really fussy gals huffing, puffing and stamping their feet (all I can think is how much pressure that relentless stamping is doing to their cramped little footsies, suffering like impoverished children in unreasonable five-to-a-bed conditions), as if Grace Potter herself should come out and “handle” the poor folks at the window since they’d bothered to slap on their cumbersome shoes to grace Grace with their presence.

The mood in the main room was more sedate than on Lansdowne, and Lowell Thompson got on stage around 9:15 to shower us with barroom rockers.

I’ve seen Thompson perform before, though I can’t remember where. No matter – his music is undeniably generic, but it’s a relief to be in a more natural environment (if I had hair, I’d let it down… I knew a time would come where I’d regret having cut it all off earlier this summer – I guess now is that time).

The spot I’d hoped to rest my own swelling feet in is chained off for personal guests of the band, and I find myself alternately lifting my boot-clad hooves off the floor and holding them, crossed at the knee, for minutes at a time to provide temporary relief.

The room is about half full as Thompson, dressed in an Elvis Presley tee and jeans, leads his twangy quartet through a fairly forgettable set, though their closing cover of Neil Young’s “Everybody Knows This is Nowhere” is a redeemer. At one point he says, “This is such a great night – we’re having a ton of fun up here,” and it sounds so forced… who’s he trying to convince, us or himself (or both)?

Potter runs over a half hour late – doesn’t she realize I have other places to be?

When she finally comes out, the room is plenty full and overheated. “What a beautiful collection of people we have here tonight,” she says, sounding entirely more genuine than her opener.

Beautiful to look at from her perch, perhaps. The foot-stamping “me-me-meeeeeee” crew from the will call line have now taken their places (seemingly right around me-me-meeeeeee) and are finding other obstacles to keep them from enjoying themselves.

The gal next to me was having an absolute fit about the photographers who had the audacity to block her view (we’re at the Paradise for crying out loud). She becomes so inconsolable and difficult, her meat-necky boyfriend is forced to confront the shutterbugs, who’re out working for a living (she doesn’t seem to understand that little detail). I can’t help but grin from ear to ear when the photographer turns around and smiles, apologetic but firm in stating that he was sorry, but there wasn’t much he could do for them.

The boyfriend seemed at a loss for how to handle the situation as his beloved angrily quipped, “I want room to dance!” Realizing they were missing a photo opp, she snapped and clapped at him until he was shoving his big guns in front of everyone else’s face to get cell-phone quality shots of Potter seated at the organ.

Someone really ought to put that little tart out of her misery. Then she’ll have all the room to dance in the world.

It’s hard to say which show was more entertaining, but Potter and her hard-working band have come a long way in the year since I last saw them in an opening slot for Assembly of Dust.

The Nocturnals rocked it harder than their major-label reissued “Nothing Like the Water” would have you believe possible. Scott Tournet’s guitar playing has grown more righteous and fluid, and guy-smiley drummer Matthew Burr gives off plenty of contagious positive energy. I couldn’t see bassist Bryan Dondero all that well from my spot, but he provided ample support for Potter’s organ playing, which is the main ingredient in her distinguished sound.

While Potter moved between her guitar and keyboard in tight jeans and a sheer Indian print top the idiot quotient multiplied exponentially, the tell tale signs of public drunkenness manifesting throughout the room in the form of inarticulate cat calls. Time to go.

I beat this gal in fishnets to the door of a cab on Comm. Ave, leaving her kvetching into her cell phone about me, her lip curled up like something smelled really bad.

When I get to the red line in Central Square, two prepped out guys in cotton cable-knits try and jump in the cab as I’m exiting. The cab driver has instructed me not to let them in, but the more self-righteous of the two grabs the door, saying in a rather forceful “don’t-be-a-prick-about-this-buddy” tone, “Thanks for NOT closing the door.” I grin again as I see the cab drive off leaving them on the side of the road, miffed.

Ahhh the joys of the city on a Saturday night when school is in session…

As I waited impatiently for the train (I refuse to pay for a cab all the way to Union Square), and review the behavior I’ve witnessed in the past ninety minutes, it occured to me that I can’t control Potter’s tardiness, the train, the cabbie, my swollen feet, or any of the people around me, so I may as well just stop trying.

Since assuming the daunting task of working for myself, any semblance of rising at a specific hour and/or primping to become presentable for the world has gone out the window. It’s all just a big date with my monitor; maybe my phone will come along as a third wheel. Neither of them particularly cares whether I’m looking my best.

But faced with a big NEMO night out, some snappy dressing might be in order.

All was moving along just fine until it came time to pick the shoes. Rock and Roll events call for Rock and Roll shoes, no?

Perhaps I should clarify that I’ve never been one of these big shoe people. In fact, there was a time in my life when I had only two pairs and one of them wasn’t really wearable. So I guess that’s really just one pair.

In the summer I’m all about sneakers and sandals, but when the fall hits it’s time to bust out with the boots…Rock and Roll boots… the engineer boots. NEMO is definite cause for engineer boots. “Your shoes are clicking,” my roommate informs me as I hurry out the door. How satisfying.

Of course, I seem to have this faulty memory about what those damn boots do to my feet. They’re fine for short distances, but not so much for an evening out, especially not one where I’m going to attempt four venues in six hours. Seemingly, I go through this harsh realization all over again every fall. Some of us only learn from our mistakes after repeating them a dozen times.

My feet are already hurting by the time I get to Avalon for what turns out to be new wave college night.

When I walk in, Brazil’s CSS (Cansei de ser Sexy) has just taken the stage. Though I can hear a lead vocal coming from somewhere, there’s nobody hovering close enough to a mic to actually be singing. That’s when I realize that oversexed front gal Ana is busy writhing on the floor – literally.

She’s jumped down into the meager crowd and she’s got a circle of enthused dancers wiggling and giggling around her, all jamming to the blended mix of live and canned beats. Ana looks something like a Eurasian cheerleader in heat, only perhaps not the perfect physical vision normally associated with short skirts and pom-poms, giving her whole image a revved-up punky something-or-another.

Six CSS members is silly… I feel the same way about the British “band” Hot Chip; you’re left wondering how it is that six people are necessary to make the volume of sound you’re (not) hearing…three guitars, plus bass? Two of them doubled up with keyboards? Sounds like too many people feeding off the same meal ticket to me. Still it’s pretty cool to see four axe-armed gals lined up at the stage front while the only guy in the band is relegated to the back seat behind the drum kit.

When she’s done writhing, Ana informs us that its, “Good to be back in Boston with a bra. Last time, we didn’t have a bra” – her unintentional use of the ‘royal we’ is hilarious and quite charming.

CSS is a blast of new wave hyperactivity tempered with bubble-gummy hooks that lodge mercilessly in your brain; if you don’t like them at first, you’ll be smitten by the time they’re done with you. Ana carries the weight of entertaining the crowd on her own, making the others seem sullen and bored. But with titles like “Art Bitch,” “Let’s Make Love and Listen to Death from Above,” and “Meeting Paris Hilton,” you know there’s a sharp sense of humor in there somewhere.

They must’ve been entertaining, because by the time I turned to look back at the room again it was full. Offbeat college-age beauties all done in vintage dresses drooped off the arms of skinny misfit boys wearing their “fashion don’ts” like badges of courage.

Ladytron’s set was somewhat intriguing, and the four-piece Liverpud’lian band expanded to six players for touring purposes .They used the Moody Blues’ “Forever Autumn” as a clever introduction, and their equipment stacks were decorated with bug zappers that glowed neon pink.

The Ladytron sound is synth-pop at the base with bits of gothic and industrial flavors thrown in to spice up an otherwise bland broth. Each track has a similar brooding under-pulse that’s startling at first but loses its power after the fifth or six tune.

The combination of the two bands reminded me of being a high school student in the 80’s, one in a sea of over-privileged kids who wore lots of black and associated themselves with a musical movement that they didn’t completely understand. Perhaps the biggest difference between then and now is that the new bands revitalizing the sound aren’t attaching themselves to any idealism in particular, letting the music stand alone. Whether that strengthens or weakens the aesthetic is up for debate.

Either way, the stroll down memory lane brought me back to a time in my life where I’d have endured the pain from my boots come hell or high water – it’s all about a pose and a posture, which made me look at the Avalon scene in a different light… and ultimately made me glad I don’t live like that anymore. Bummer - it was way too late to run home and grab my sneakers. Maybe this time I’ll “Live and Learn.”

The biggest problem is that NEMO is like a big, unwieldy, United-Nations-of-rock-all-you-can-hear buffet. There are just too many bands, spread out over too many venues to see. And Boston just doesn’t have enough people to see all the bands. Not a single show I went to on either Thursday or Friday night was at capacity - most were less than half full. It’s hard to complain about too much good music from a fan’s perspective but for a band that traveled hundreds of miles to play showcases to 19 people, NEMO can be a letdown.

I partly blame Jack White for this. The top two shows on my “Must See” NEMO list - Leroy Justice and Fancey - got bumped because they overlapped with the Raconteurs show. Jack White, his crew and their sublime, guitar-trainwreck of a show siphoned off a thousand fans like me that would have otherwise been exploring.

But NEMO needs to take some blame - I know, again it’s ridiculous to complain about too much good music, but maybe you’ll see my point in a minute.

Most of the people at the Mid East Downstairs on Friday were waiting for the night’s big name, Kool Keith, and ignoring the quality local MCs. TT the Bear’s drew the same weekend crowd it does with any band. And the Abbey Lounge was a disaster.

The Abbey is the little-venue-that-could. With 20 bands a week, the tiny club is often packed with regulars who don’t care who they see as long as it’s fresh and loud. But last night it was dead. Shotgun and Jaybird - a fine Canadian indie band who likes Television, the Feelies and the Talking Heads the right amount - traveled all the way from Nova Scotia to play for 19 people (12 of which looked like they were from other Canadian bands on the bill) for 20 minutes. If the band had played last weekend, the foot traffic would have brought in another 50 people and they would have probably dug the tunes and been invited back in six months. Coming for NEMO may have actually hurt their chances of playing Boston again.

I’m an idiot, a complete idiot, to whine about all this great stuff. I just wish it could be over five days, not three. Is that too much to ask? Think about it NEMO.

Of course I’m the guy who always gets full at the buffet after a single bowl of sweet & sour soup, two veggie eggrolls and a wonton. Naturally, I’m hungry a half-hour later. As I mentioned. I’m kind of an idiot.