I've never been good at concerts. For me, they are a place where bands ruin all the songs you enjoyed on the radio. But last week my outlook changed when I saw "Which Is Pink," a Pink Floyd tribute band that showed me how concerts can also be a place to ruin other people's music.

Inside it was standing room only in that there were no seats. A man with angry muscles suggested that I stay out of the aisle. He then suggested, with his bare hands, that I join the mob inching ever-closer to the stage, fidgeting with its watches, eager for some revelation.

I settled behind Herman Munster and Shaquille O'Neal, then looked around at all the men who had managed to go bald and still keep their pony tails. They had come to relive a critical part of their wonder years -- "The Wall" played front to back by people from Texas. So it goes.

At nine the pink lights dimmed, and we gave a standing ovation -- standing because THERE WERE NO SEATS. The musicians filled the stage in silhouette, and everyone crept forward. To fight the claustrophobia, I had to take my shots. Jose Cuervox.

A spotlight flooded the MC (bald guy with pony tail), who started shouting into the mike. As his voice trailed off, the bassist played a we-don't-need-no riff and people went nuts. The other guitars jumped in, and if I could pinpoint the essence of their sound in one word, I think it would be ... "noisy."

Over the heads of Herman and Shaquille drooped a giant video screen, where I watched the show much as I would if I were at home. For free.

I didn't recognize the first few songs, but everyone else mouthed along while I nodded and smiled. It felt a lot like church.

Then they got to the good stuff:

"Hey, you ... out there in the cold, getting lonely, getting old, can you hear me?"

Fitting words for a middle-age audience that was, from the concert itself, about to go deaf.

I don't know how many people ran with the first Pink Floyd, but this one had backup singers, bell ringers, a guy who knocked on wood. And as they ran on and off stage changing costumes, all I could think was, "Wow, look how much work it takes to give me a headache."

Fortunately, my Cuervox kicked in and so did the drums. I couldn't make out the lyrics, but the screamer -- er, singer -- was clearly in pain. The worms were eating ... and something about solitude ... and then, at the moment of existential crisis, he cried out, "Ooooohhh, I need a dirty woman ... Ooooohhh, I need a dirty girl."

The men raised their beers in recognition.

The MC grabbed his bullhorn and fell into a madman dialogue until, veins popping from his forehead, he ripped off his shirt and flung it at the audience. Children singers filed onstage behind him and finally gave us what we came for:

"All in all it's just a...nother brick in the wall."

The crowd couldn't stand it. They squeezed forward and cheered with all their parts. The MC crossed his forearms and asked us to "hammer" with the drums, which we did until, by our good work, the blocks around the stage came tumbling to the floor. The Wall had come down!

The thunder rolled away, and we the faithful continued to hammer, comfortably numb at last. At least I was numb.

I still don't attend concerts to which I'm not personally handed a free ticket, but I see their attraction for others: Concerts move us to unite our tribal powers, to plumb the deepness of mortality, and ultimately, together, to need a dirty girl.

At the beach I found a sign that reads, Warning: Ocean hazardous. City not responsible for damage or injury.

And at that moment I turned to the sky and cried, "Scotty, beam me up. I can't take it anymore."

This country is divided into Haves and Have-Nots: Those who have a lawsuit and those who have not found theirs. Welcome to the United Suits of America.

Each morning I wake up to a truck that beeps -- amazingly like my alarm clock -- every time it goes backward. Every time. No matter what.

"Well, that's for safety reasons," said my wife.

"No!" I gasped, covering my mouth. "You're one of them."

Seriously, the beeping is a nice addition to our car alarms, leaf blowers, jackhammers, motorized scooters, walkie-talkie cell phones, and low-flying recreational aircraft. Every year beeping trucks save the lives of countless victims, a triumph over Darwinism.

My local playground is surrounded by oak trees whose branches swoop over the footpath. It would be downright charming if they would remove THE RED CAUTION TAPE. Can you believe that in some parts of the world people still have to watch where they're going?

You can't blame the city for moron-proofing the park. They're protecting themselves from the people who, in lieu of working, scour the streets for open manholes and low-lying oak branches. My friend George missed work for three months with -- and please excuse the medical jargon -- a "funky back." His pain was so severe that it nearly kept him out of our softball lineup.

If you follow the bear on the unicycle, he will lead you to the center of the liability universe: human resources. As we speak, HR robots are finding new slip-and-fall hazards and reprinting company manuals whose corners have already been rounded. Addendums are being made to appendices. Stairways are being shut down.

"Your honor, because there was no sign, my client walked straight into a flight of stairs -- cement blocks rising out of the ground!"

By year's end, HR hopes to mandate OSHA-compliant astronaut suits for all corporate employees. So it goes.

Here is a grab bag of actual, real life warning labels:

• On a sled: May develop high speed under certain snow conditions.
• On a vertical CD rack: Please do not use as a ladder.
• On a box of sleeping aids: May cause drowsiness.
• On a household iron: Never iron clothes while they're being worn.
• On a fruit roll-up: Remove plastic before eating.

And I turn back to the sky ... "No, seriously, Scotty. Beam me up."

You will be pleased to hear that the scalded woman who sued McDonald's for $3 million has fully recovered. According to her lawyer, who already has a plot in hell, "the money was certainly a big help."

I myself am a Have-Not. I'm looking for my lawsuit, but all the good ones are taken. Prisoners have sued for flatulence; airline passengers have sued for turbulence; a diabetic once sued Pepsi for not posting sugar warnings on its bottle (good thing for their wetness label).

And we mustn't forget Bob Dougherty, who sued Home Depot when he was, by a prankster, glued to a toilet in their bathroom.

As he told reporters, "They just left me there to rot."

Bob "Sticky Bottom" Dougherty sued for six figures. He must have come unglued.

The only thing left for me is to charge the government with making me wholly unaccountable for my actions.

"Your honor, I can't even get ready for work without instructions. This morning I accidentally flushed my head down the toilet."

The jury, of course, will be lost in the trapeze act and give me everything I want; and on that glorious day I will back away from the courthouse with a truckload of the American Dream, a Have a last: beep, beep, beep, beep.