If you've ever read a newspaper, chances are you have at least seen, if not read, Judith Martin's syndicated column, Miss Manners. It is a column not unlike the Dear Abby/Ann Landers fodder where the socially retarded implore advice on such etiquette quandaries as how to tell your girlfriend she's fat and who should get Grandma Fanny's silver when the old bat finally takes a dirt nap. Miss Manners' responses drip with unapologetic pretension and anachronistic social mores, yet I faithfully and guiltily indulge in her column whenever possible. Mostly with the intention of completely contradicting and ridiculing whatever she has to say, of course, but nonetheless with a catnipped eagerness. The woman addresses her guidance-seekers as "Gentle Readers" and refers to herself in third person, for crying out loud! It's sickening--and yet so addicting.

Inspired by a recent slew of bad show experiences and in the snobby spirit of Miss Manner's I bring you:

When Dancing, Please Be Courteous of Your Fellow Show-Goers. For example, at a recent Hackensaw Boys show (insert orgasmic shudder here‹banjos, dobros, and upright basses, oh my!), a group of young ladies in front of me erupted into a moonshined dancing frenzy, resulting in someone delivering a hard, swift elbow to my left breast. This incident, an act surely warranting at least a cursory "Excuse me" or "I'm sorry", garnered nothing, not even a conciliatory "Nice tits." This rule, of course, does not apply to metal shows. From one look at my scary counterparts at a Danzig show I gleaned a simple lesson: all bets are off. Just get the fuck out of the way.

Along the same lines: Do Not Sexually Harass Unsuspecting Show-Goers. Yes, I know that some bands are super sexually charged, but please, folks, hold your fetishes 'til after the show. It's the only decent thing to do. Okay, so maybe I have a freakish phobia of strangers violating even an inch of my personal space, but I'm sure I'm not the only one who neither appreciates nor enjoys having some random guy's erection grinded into the back of her thigh. Gross!

Lose the Cell Phone. Cellies, the bane of my existence. My loathing for these contraptions probably stems from the fact that I do not own one. Nonetheless, they are equally as annoying at shows as they are in the hand of an aloof driver on I-95. At a Sleater-Kinney show earlier this year, a girl standing next to me talked through three songs. Three! I was tempted to strangle her with the strap of her messenger bag, but I figured that probably wasn't a good way to impress the women of S-K. It totally ruins the moment when the person next to you is barking at the top of his/her lungs into a cell phone while one of your favorite bands is playing one of your favorite songs. And besides, it's outright rude to the band.

Which brings me to this: Keep Your Talking To a Respectful Minimum While the Band Is Playing. Okay, so maybe you don't like Radar Brothers' sweetly sorrowful music and you really came to see the headlining band. So what? Shut yer yapper! You can at least admit that their music reminds you of middle school slowdances and then proceed to make out in the spirit of candied awkwardness with the person you came with. A few show-goers may be offended by the PDA, but more of us will appreciate your otherwise preoccupied piehole. Better yet, grab a smoke or a beer and hang out in the back until the set is over. (That's precisely what I did when Erase Erata made my ears bleed.) This includes resisting the urge to shout out song titles, especially obscure ones, in a transparent attempt to illustrate your credibility or devotion. We're all fans; that's why we bought tickets to the show! Duh!

Never Underestimate the Hormones of Teenage Girls. In 1999, I nearly lost my life to a throng of teen girls at a Saves the Day show. Picture it: an unwary Rhianna standing innocently in the middle of a fire-code-violating venue waiting for Saves the Day to start its set. With the first strokes of guitar chords, the lusty collection of young girls around her surge toward the stage, knocking the wind out of her lungs, her glasses askew and her body nearly to the floor. I am not exaggerating when I say that I had to climb on top of other people's heads in search of refuge. Dismissing this as a mere fan fluke, I figured my safety in the midst of teenage girls could continue unchecked and unthreatened. Enter Bright Eyes. The Black Cat in Washington D.C. A mob of sixteen year old girls. My life flashed before my eyes. Which makes the perfect segue into--

Please Refrain From Weaseling Your Way In Front of Those Show-Goers Who Got to the Venue On Time. That's right, I'm talking about you. If you manage to make it to the venue in a timely manner, you are rewarded with a choice spot in front of the stage. Otherwise, your lot is to stand behind those folks. Fair is fair. Maybe I used to be more imposing or maybe people used to honor this unsaid but well-understood rule, but recently, it's as if that thought as been forthrightly forsaken. Show-goers simply bully their way into spaces where they don't belong (maybe they learned that from the Bush Administration). At a recent Modest Mouse show, I arrived at the realization that a smooth, yellow wiffle ball bat would make the perfect show accessory. I could even make a sheath for it and emblazon it with the phrase She's a Bad Mamma Jamma. Then I would just whap said bullies across the face or in the crotch and my space would stay my space. All the cool kids would wear them. Really.

Be Conscientious of the Well-being of Your Friends. Man alive, do I really have to say that? Mmm-hmm, I do. Let's take a trip back to the Black Cat. The Good Life. A gal standing next to me basically collapses into me (see what Tim Kasher does to the ladies?). While my genteel better half is trying to simultaneously revive the girl, prevent others from stepping on her, and get someone's attention for help, I am tugging on her friend's sleeve and yelling, "Hey, I think your friend is sick! She just passed out!" What does the friend do? She does an about-face and continues to sing along with the song! I tug again, "Maybe you should take her out for some air!" Does she? Of course not. Instead, a worker from behind the bar does and, a few minutes later, pulls the insensitive friend out of the crowd and tells her she might want to take the girl home. The friend huffs away begrudgingly. I agree, Your Birthday Present is an awesome song, but not so awesome that I'd ignore the needs of a girlfriend (also, with the recent craziness of fires and/or stampedes in venues, make a point to notice all of the exits. Maybe even make a quick safety plan with your friends as to which exit you'll try to use in case of an emergency. Sounds silly, but you never know.).

Mind the Ciggies and Booze. Similar to my previous pearls of wisdom, this should really go without saying. Yet it doesn't. I understand that it can be extremely difficult not to offend fellow non-smoking show-goers with your second-hand smoke, but the smallest courtesies a smoker can extend are minding that his/her smoke isn't blown directly in the faces of others and that the flickering cherry of his/her cig doesn't touch another show-goer's skin or clothing. Ever gone home with a singed spot on that cute shirt you wore with the superficial intention of impressing the lead singer of Prayer for Cleansing? I have! And careful with that beer; I mean, you purchased that potent potable with your well-earned cash, why waste your money and your buzz by spilling or dribbling it on someone else?

Well, there you have it, 8 simple and shiny gems of show-going savy from the Jaded Times resident Miss Manners. Experiencing a decency dilemma and too socially inept to solve it for yourself? Just let me know, chances are I could resolve it--with my wiffle ball bat.