Last Wednesday, we traveled just a few miles up the street to par-tay with 70,000 of our happiest friends. I say happy, because each and everyone in the sold-out gig was so freaking ecstatic to be there that he or she didn’t care one ounce that the event: went well past midnight, required standing (not only on your feet, but also on the seats), and charged $8 for a beer.
I honestly have never seen anything like it.
It was lunacy.
Tens of thousands of people gathered to chant, scream, stomp, sing, explode, etc. in unison. Not for The Rolling Stones, but for Ronaldihno.
Never heard of him? Well, don’t feel too bad, because neither had I. But feel kind-of bad, because 69,999 others in the room most definitely had. Heard of him. Showed up for him. Screamed like certifiable maniacs for him.
Because he’s huge. Huger than huge. All these guys are.
Obviously, when you go by one name, you’re big. But when you peek your headband out of a lineup, and tens of thousands of people body-slam themselves to take your picture with their camera phones, you’re pretty much enormous. Gigantic. Colossal. Epic. Paris Hilton and Kelly Ripa would literally eat lard for this kind of fame.
And I’d never heard of any of them.
But Mr. con Queso had. In fact, he’d traveled to England only a few weeks ago just to watch eleven of the amazing on TV with other world cup nuts. Of course, the famous were also available in our living room 24/7. In high-def. Although with less craze and crazy.
But it seems the crazy is getting closer. And for the record, I’m completely cool with it.
Because, for one, there are worse sports. Two, the players are beyond aesthetically pleasing. And tres, we have fab season tickets to our local MLS team; so now we can see the cute in person, I mean, see the incredible footwork in action. Plus, if it’s good for Posh, it’s good for me.
I will never have an issue with that brand of crazy moving to town.