All five band members are being pelted with panties while they jam, but almost all of the lingerie is being thrown by the same woman; she has evidently hauled a duffel bag of women’s underwear into the concert venue. I don’t think most of these panties belong to her (or—if they do—she hasn’t worn them since 1986). The crowd is losing its collective mind. They love it. We love it. And even if we didn’t, there’s not much we could do: we’re a hundred miles from dry land, floating through international waters, listening to an eighteen-song Styx medley that briefly includes “Mr. Roboto.” We are
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