Gut of the quantifier

Tonight I was reading Andrea's comments at Minneapolitan Music about putting up with with drunks at shows - or, as she puts it, the "prototypical drunk guy who is at every concert", and it brought to mind an experience I had watching Robyn Hitchcock play in the 7th Street Entry long ago. There were two guys directly behind my friend and I - and by that, I mean directly behind us, because the room was jam-packed. These guys may or may not have been drunk, but they were on a loud, never-ending talking jag, going back and forth with one another about everything under the sun as those of us around them tried to tune them out and focus on the show. Granted, the music was loud enough, being that it was the Entry and all, and we were within sneezing distance of the action on the stage. But the two jabbering, self-important guys seemed to increase their volume and intensity with time, and it became close to unbearable. Finally, something in me just snapped, and I did something that I still wonder about to this day. I'm not an overly aggressive type, and I'm anything but intimidating in the flesh (meaning if someone had a notion to challenge me, I doubt I'd seem like much of a threat), but before I knew it, my left elbow shot out behind me and rammed into this guy's gut - or maybe it would have been his ribcage, since I remember being a little taller - and time as we know it came to a complete standstill. My arm slowly retreated as I realised what I'd just done, and there was nothing but dead silence behind me. I mean, the show was still going on, but I actually have a recollection of being bathed in complete silence for the first few seconds after I hit him. Either he was absolutely stunned at my action, standing there slack-jawed and unable to speak, or he was sprawled out dead on the scummy 7th Street Entry carpeting, or he was winding up to knock me silly. I never found out, though, because I was completely unable to turn around and look. Suffice it to say my friend and I didn't hear another peep from either of the two guys behind us for the rest of the show, and consequently - when I got over my amazement at what had transpired, and my anxiety over what might be yet to come - we managed to enjoy the rest of the show, being, as we were, big Robyn Hitchcock fans at the time. It helped that we'd been comped in the door as well, which was the general state of affairs for me at that point in time. And I bear that guy no malice anymore - I just hope he doesn't show up on my doorstep to knock me senseless someday.

Now, I was either going to comment about Minnesota Governor Tim Pawlenty's harebrained scheme to reign in "illegal" immigration in the state, or I was going to post my thoughts about Susie Bright's obit for Andrea Dworkin, which I just happened upon again. Instead, I think I'll just go to bed.