Actually, it’s technically in New Jersey, which has as a result made figuring out the quickest and easiest commute a nightmare. When you live in Brooklyn and plan to go to work the next day, getting back to your apartment at 3 am on account of unprepared public transportation system is simply not an option.
Nevertheless, last night I had a vision of the imminent future of Giant Stadium’s attendees, and it looked like this:
See, that police officer clearly HATES that girl having that melt-down because she’s being so incredibly loud that he’ll probably have irreversible hearing damage for the rest of his life. I will soon be that girl, and that cop will soon be anyone in the vicinity of me at the U2 show tonight. This is what we call a visual metaphor.
Anyways, the problem with me and going to a U2 show is that I lack any concept of self-control. If I know the lyrics, I will sing that song at the top of my lungs. I will dance. I will jump about. When nothing else is happening, I’ll be cheering ’til my vocal chords bleed/I’m mistaken for an escaped howler monkey by animal control . I might even vomit on account of excess enthusiasm. I know these are just signs of my unwavering commitment to U2 Motion, but I pretty much become that guy at the concert, and so I preemptively apologize to whoever sits around me at tonight’s show. I can’t help it. I’ve been brimming with U2thusiasm for months and months, and it’s time to let it all out like a dusted damn.
That, and I’ll probably operating on one hell of a sugar rush after I eat one of these bad boys for dinner:
What? Penn Station has a Cinnabon. Who am I to refuse?