You knew it would happen sooner or later. Call it a mathematical inevitability. There’s got to be an equation that proves that the number of concerts I attend and my tendency to really want to pound gig clowns into the floor would eventually equal me, totally losing my shit at a show.

I swear Mr. Bouncer, I didn’t hit her. I just touched her harder than I should have.

On Saturday Brian and I headed to Champaign, Illinois, to catch The Bottle Rockets. A show that will be available on DVD in a few months, no less.

I don’t know what my deal is with Champaign, but I think I need to stay away from that town. Perhaps the U of Illionis blood that runs through the town can smell my U of Missouri rival blood and has it in for me. I didn’t even graduate, for God’s sake, so lay off of me, Champaign.

Last time I was in Champaign, I was stupidly weepy and sad at a Jeff Tweedy show.  This time, well, I finally had enough. I had had enough of people being inconsiderate, rude, and unable to disconnect for thirty fucking minutes.

I was surrounded by two yuppie couples at the show. The women – who I would love to physically describe, but I won’t because that’s not fair to anyone. I’m sure there are lots of people in their forties with bleached, straightened hair who wear giant sunglasses on top of their heads and carry shiny, metal-encrusted purses the size of my luggage who aren’t jackasses. Just like I’m sure there are many sports-obsessed men with giant heads planted directly onto their shoulders, clad in Ralph Lauren button-downs and shorts to keep it casual, who aren’t jerks.

Okay, so these folks don’t look like most people at a BRox show. That’s fine. Takes all kinds. And sure, it wasn’t exactly polite when the women butted in front of me. If I wanted that sliver of space in front of me, I should have stepped into it earlier.

What got me was the talking. The constant, incessant talking. The women, inches from me, spent the first half of the show with their heads together, yapping. The men, to my side, paid attention to the show at times. Mostly, they followed the Bulls game on a cell phone/computer/teeny TV/penis-replacement-machine. Every few minutes they’d reach over my head to share the phone with the women, who would then turn to the men and discuss the game.

Similar discussion consisted regarding the women’s beverages, when they needed refills, and what shade of pink the drink should be.

Now, I’m an extremely talkative person. Some people are quiet in real life and use writing as their primary means of expression. Not me. I write because I can’t get everything out by talking without destroying my vocal cords and the minds of every single person in my life. But holy shit. I am so sick and saddened by how many people in our society can’t shut the hell up and just listen for even 15 minutes. What’s so important that it requires constant commentary? Are the Bulls going to lose if you disconnect from the game and give your attention to the human beings on stage 20 feet in front of you?

What the hell is wrong with shutting up, turning off the devices, and paying attention to what the other humans in the room are doing? It might be pretty fucking awesome.

I asked them to stop and was ignored. So I told them to cut it the fuck out, which pissed them off. Next thing I know, all four of them were in my face, screaming at me. I have no idea what they were screaming, as I tuned them out.

I probably should have verbally fought back instead of bottling it up because when the women turned around after their shriek-fest, I decided I wasn’t finished talking to them. So I tapped on of them on the back. I blame the fact that she weighed 80 pounds and I … don’t. It could be classified as a push, maybe. Not a shove. Certainly not a hit.

“She hit me! She hit me! She hit me! She hit me!”, the woman started screaming.

Sweetheart, that wasn’t a hit. If you’d like to experience a true hit, I’d be more than happy to oblige.

But I didn’t. I was once again being screamed at, particularly by one of the men who was easily a foot taller than me. “So what if we’re talking? There are no fucking rules here! We can do what we want! There are no rules!”

And then he went to the bouncer to tell on me.

Oh, the urge to say, “Well, since there aren’t any rules I’m sure you won’t mind if I beat the ever-living shit out of this gal, now, do you?”.

I’m not proud that this got physical, and I was the one who started it. I don’t like seeing adults behave in ways that would land my five-year-old kid in time out. There’s no justification for it and I fully admit that I lost control of my actions, which I shouldn’t have done.

The bouncer was such a treat. Real reasonable guy. Smart, too, explaining to me how it’s impossible for four people to talk enough to distract from a 75-decibel band. Thanks, Mr. Science!

What gives me the right to touch another person? Well, what gives them the right to bump me every 30 seconds with that giant purse? Or the right to suck all the show’s energy out of our space? Or to come to a show to do everything put actually participate in the show? Or talk incessantly? Or keep passing electronic devices over my head like I’m not even there?

He threatened to call the cops on me for battery. He told me I needed to be at least 30 feet from the assholes. Really? That’s my punishment? Let me through, then!

Seriously. I told him I’d gladly move to the other side of the venue. Instead of letting me pass, he kept me cornered against the table, surrounded by the yuppies, still threatening battery charges and informing me that he couldn’t let me out of his sight until the situation was resolved.

Dude. Then let me fucking move.

So Brian and I moved to the other side of the venue, where we had a better view of the band and were surrounded by people who were singing, dancing, screaming, jumping – engaged in the show and thrilled to be a part of it.

I’ll repeat that I am sorry I got physical. That’s never the right way to handle anything. Aside from that, I only had one misgiving about my actions. I’ve recently become friends with a sweet, sweet person who happened to be at the show. I was mortified that she might think I’m some violent bar-brawling hothead. That’s not me.

Well, that’s only been me on two occasions – Saturday night, and five years ago at a White Stripes show when some guy thought it wise to brace his hands on my shoulders and pogo. I still don’t take responsibility for shoving that guy in the face because, 1) it was self-defense, and 2) I was pregnant and the fetus made me do it.

Brian and I bailed at the end of the show. As fantastic as it was, and even though we had lots of people we would have loved to see, I was so fed up with humanity that I just wanted to go back to the hotel.

I talked to my friend on Sunday morning; she called to thank us for coming to the show. As much as I hate confronting my own mistakes and weaknesses, I thought it would be better to tell her what happened instead of pretending everything was fine or, worse, letting the gossip mill do its thing. After that, I felt fine and free to marvel in the hilarity of requiring five adults to contain me and my ferociousness.

Because you know there’s nothing scarier in a bar than a 36-year-old, 5′3″, overweight mama who’s ready to put you in time out, Motherfucker.

I will ripe you to shreds.

Just as soon as I take my tuna casserole out of the oven, fold these socks, and drop my kid off at pre-K. Wait right there. I’ll be back.

I’m bad. I’m nationwide.