I Blame it on Fake Axl

On Friday night, after about four glasses of good wine and twenty-odd good songs on the Boyf's iTunes cache (Journey, mostly), I decided it would be a great idea for the Boyf and I to join two other couples and attend a Guns 'n' Roses cover band show in Times Square. Now, as a teenager, I was what people consider "uncool," so my knowledge of Guns 'n' Roses is limited to the following two facts: 1.) the lead singer of "G and R" is named Axl Rose and 2.) he does a dance called the Snake, but ever since he gained weight, he can't really do it anymore.

"Are they going to play 'Pour Some Sugar on Me'?" I asked the Boyf in the cab ride there.
"Ummmm...," the Boyf said.
"Wait, that was Def Leppard," I said.
"Yep," the Boyf said.
"Damn," I said.

And so they played. And I drank several beers. Out of the twenty-odd songs they played, I recognized four. But that didn't stop me from giving the horns sign and head-banging to "Paradise City." Hell. Yeah.

But I think my crowning achievement of the night was when, as I was deep in my booze-fueled haze, some frattish dude clocked me -- hard -- in the right arm as he and his girl were shoving their way to the front. So I did something I have never, ever done before: I fought back.

"HEY!" I screamed at what felt like 100-decibel-level volume in Frattish Dude's ear.
He turned around, stunned (or so I remember, anyway). "What?" he said.
"An 'EXCUSE ME' would have been nice," I shouted at him.
Now, what happened next is a little hazy, but I do remember he leaned in toward me and said, "It's a little early to..."
And I ignored him and looked away.
"What was that guy's problem?" the Boyf asked, as he was standing right there.
"Just some douchebag," I said. And I continued drinking.

Now, don't get me wrong, I am probably more proud of myself than I ever have been for actually calling out bad behavior rather than being too stunned to say anything and thinking of 30 different comebacks an hour later while standing at Duane Reade drugstore looking for shampoo. But I am flummoxed as to what, at 1 a.m., he thought it was too early for me to be doing. Yelling? Starting altercations? Drinking god-knows-what's-in-it B.B. King beer? Despite that snag in the story, though, I think it's important to recognize this:

Drunk out of my mind, I started a fight at a Guns 'n' Roses concert.

Some might call it worrisome or, if you will, "alcoholism." But for this well-mannered Midwestern girl, this experience is something to f*cking celebrate.