Skinny jeans and electric blue tights. And sweat--both on the foreheads of the concert-goers and on the sides of the bottles which they held above their heads like Best Hipster trophies. They chanted. They clapped. They cheered. "OK Go! OK Go! OK Go!" I felt the stickiness of a spilled drink on the back of my own tights but, really, I didn't care. The band had opened with a bang, quite literally, with a burst of confetti that snowed upon us. The tissue fluttered to the floor, or settled in our hair or on our flannel shirts. Or it found its way to our plastic cups of over-priced cheap beer. Shrug. We drank the pulp anyway, transfixed by T.V. screens and close-ups of nostrils and mustaches and teeth and song. Bouncing. Dancing. Singing. I knew only one song, the one everybody knows, the one with the treadmills in the music video. But I didn't care. They were musicians. They were entertainers. They were people who sang and played and gave us all one hell of show on a Sunday night. And I was just one body, one person, one mind, and one voice in a kaleidoscope of souls entwined with the paper rain. And I didn't care.