PSA: Too Much Estrogen is Dangerous.

Here's a little setting that may excite some of the male readers in my little group of followers: A room with about 900 people, 800 of them women, many of them drinking heavily and dancing and kissing each other...

...Sounds pretty nice, right guys? WRONG. It was bad. Very, very bad. And I am thankful to be alive today to tell this tale of warning to any man who might have to attend a Brandi Carlisle concert in the future.

Before I go on, this is not a critique of the performances by Amy Ray (of Indigo Girls fame), who was the opener, or Ms. Carlisle. Both ladies are very talented musicians and Ms. Carlisle has an amazing voice. She and her backing band did a very solid, rocking cover of Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" during the encore that was the highlight of the night as far as I am concerned. But, as I said, I am not writing a critique of their part in last night.

No, this is a tale of what may have been my most dangerous night ever at a concert. "But Matt, it's a bunch of chicks, how could that have been dangerous?" Of the 800 women in the club last night, probably 786 of them were lesbians. Not the lipstick types from all of those late-night Cinemax shows, but the scary dude-ish kind. Before I go any further, I do need to state that I do not harbor any animosity towards the gay community, I don't give a fuck who anyone sleeps with. I'm all about personal choice and freedom and doing what you need to do to enjoy your life. But, this is a comedic blog, so I will now commence to negate my precursor by making some very broad generalizations in the name of getting a laugh or two.

There were a lot of angry eyes on me and my fellow men last night. Not that we ourselves had done anything to deserve the seething Amazonian stares of hatred, but, because we carry the Y chromosome, we were the enemy. There was a lot of anger and estrogen in the air last night. So much so that I actually started to hate myself for being a man. But, before I could act upon the rage I felt towards my gender, I started to cry uncontrollably at the beautiful melodies being made by the guy on the cello. Then I got angry again, but didn't know what to do with these feelings, so I just lashed out at someone for no reason and spent the next 30 minutes apologizing to them. It was a roller coaster night.

I did take notice that there is a distinct difference between a largely gay female crowd and a largely gay male crowd. No, the screams and cheers are all the same pitch in either crowd, so it's not that. The men are dressed better, of course, there is much less flannel, far fewer chain wallets and a lot more shiny shit in the gay male crowd. But that's not it, either. No, the biggest difference is the attitude. The gay male crowd is hyper and flashy and giggly and they grab everyone's asses like it's a handshake and it's just pretty chaotic; as if the Skittles rainbow exploded all over the Teletubbies and the sugar rush made them dance to YMCA for 5 hours straight. But the lesbian crowd? Far more somber. A lot of angry looking bitches in that crowd. Uh, I mean, some very unhappy looking women (I don't want to get caught calling them "bitches," some of those bitc...er...women could easily kick my ass). As I said, there was some drinking and some dancing and some making out, but it was just a very different vibe. Granted, Neither Amy Ray nor Brandi Carlisle really brings the type of music that would incite an orgy of lesbian bumping, grinding, and "HEY GIRLFRIEND," but did they all have to look so mean and angry? I was really a little afraid for my safety at some points.

Maybe it's just because I have a penis and felt that the anger was directed at me that I noticed the mood of the room, but it was also noticed by other guys who were there, so I don't think I imagined it. I was never directly attacked, wasn't shanked when I had to move through a crowd, didn't get jumped outside the women's restroom when I walked by, and some of them were just downright friendly (which I'm still not convinced wasn't a ploy to lure me into feeling comfortable before shanking me...). But, I know some were plotting. I could feel it. All of those eyes...

So guys, take note. If your girl asks you to accompany her to a Brandi Carlisle show, politely decline. Tell her you need to drink beer and watch sports and scratch yourself for 6 hours to make quota for the month or you need to help change the oil in your neighbor's FA-18 or something manly to avoid going to that show. You don't want to be there. It's not safe, it's not fun, and you will feel the need to kill something afterward to make up for whatever manhood you lost during the show. Just don't kill one of the lesbians, because they have a posse, and those bitc...er...women will hunt your ass down and sacrifice you to Martina Navratalova before you even have the chance to scream like a little girl. Which you wouldn't do, of course, because you're a man.

(It's OK, scream, those bitches are scary.)