"She was screaming as she fell, but I never heard her hit."

This last weekend I saw folk-punk (or insert your own favorite descriptive musical sub-genre here) veterans Violent Femmes at the downtown Louisville entertainment complex Fourth Street LIVE! Really, I have to write it like that - Fourth Street LIVE! - or the local Chamber of Commerce will kidnap me, erase my memory, and make me live in a godforsaken Kentucky town that doesn't allow alcohol sales.

I had seen Violent Femmes several times in the late 80s/early 90s, but the concert was free, the weather was tolerable, and the Happy Hour drinks were cheap.

After seeing the opening act, I made a career decision. I'm going to form a band that only opens for hugely popular groups, and call my band Get the Fuck Off the Stage. That way, as we perform our unknown songs it'll seem like the audience is chanting our name.

Drunk audience member: "GET THE FUCK OFF THE STAGE!"

Me: "Thank you. We'll be in Cleveland Thursday, opening for U2."

I'm also going to start spinning records under the name DJ Play Something We Can Dance To.

I can happily report that the Violent Femmes played with as much passion as they did fifteen years ago. The sound system was pretty weak from the upper level of Fourth Street LIVE!, but at least I was surrounded by drunken idiots.

Being a head taller than everyone in a crowd is good for seeing over people who aren't really interested in the music, but it also encourages said people to engage me in inanities.

For example, an attractive drunk girl mumbled at me for a few seconds and then stumbled off. This brief exchange set in motion what I've dubbed "The Douchebag Chronicles". Two guys standing next to me, about my age but MORE SO, if you know what I mean, witnessed my two second conversation with the hotness and decided to chime in.

douchebag 1: "Guy, you dropped the ball. If she asks a question, you answer with a question of your own. Then she has to talk to you."

douchebag 2: "You need to work on your game."

Keep in mind these guys are disarmingly good natured, but getting social advice from men who tuck in their t-shirts is just more than I can take. Their witless banter may work on cocktail servers angling for a nice tip, and the girls from the escort service undoubtedly laugh at their golfing jokes, but I don't think the real world is as kind to them.

The guy who did the most talking, the alpha douche if you will, was balding, so I said to my friend "I guess he would have put baby oil on his head and rubbed it all over her body." The guy didn't hear me, or pick up on the fact that I was mocking his used-car-salesman-cadence, and that's just as well. Eventually a shiny object diverted their attention and they walked away.

Oh, but the moronathon was just getting started, folks. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to see a young guy with a Fidel Castro beard.

"You're really tall," he said in a tone that suggested he was amazed at the originality of his statement.

I muttered "Yeah, I am. Good call."

Here is a man whose prison is his own stupidity and he's never eligible for parole. I should have told him his face looked like a cunt with teeth, but I just let it go. I did say a silent prayer asking God to infest his beard with deer ticks, but I kept my mouth shut.

The indignities I suffer for the sake of rock and roll....