I finally figured out what I've been missing. I have so many bad experiences with people I need something to balance them out. Every day I bang into some idiot on the sidewalk, somebody steps on my shoes from behind, somebody spits upwind of me. I leave home with a smile on my face and return thinking, Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with people today?

My irritation at humanity has mounted over the months, and I needed something positive to balance it out.

Well, I finally got it on Sunday at the Girl Talk concert at the East River Park. Nine thousand young people all jammed into one small space, all of them fun and friendly and at least partly drunk. Girl Talk puts on an amazing show, with air guns that shoot toilet paper, six or seven giant inflatable pillows flung out onto the crowd, huge plastic tubes shooting confetti. It was a mess, a tiny Woodstock, a massive singalong. I was saddened to learn that 99% of New York knows the lyrics to Kelly Clarkson's "Since You Been Gone," but absolutely horrified to discover they know Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" too.

Unfortunately, it all came to an abrupt end. Being ridiculously tall pays off on exactly two occasions: when I need something on a high shelf, and when I'm at a concert. At concerts I'm literally a head above everybody else, so nothing obscures my view, but in this madness there were crowd surfers zipping by like SUVs on the Santa Monica Freeway. Which is cool when they're floating atop your fingertips, not so cool when they're aimed squarely at your head.

At approximately 7:22 on Sunday night something clonked into the back of my head once, then twice. When I spun around I was staring straight between the legs of a big-boned woman in skintight spandex, and then everything went black.