I would say there's probably 1/16 of an inch of paint on the boxes -- enough that if you held it in the light, you'd be like, Oh man, that pops
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Few spectacles in modern life are more sublimely ridiculous than the geriatric members of the Stones playing the opening strains of Street Fighting Man. The arena is typically jammed with middle-aged fans, who have donned aprs-office relaxed-sized jeans, paid the sitter, parked the minivan in the lot, and, for a few hundred dollars a seat, shimmy along with Mick Jagger, who, having trained for the tours as if for a championship bout, prances inexhaustibly through a two-hour set, at his best evoking the spawn of James Brown and Gumby, at his worst coming off like someones liquored-up Aunt Gert, determined to trash her prettier sisters wedding with a gruesome performance on the dance floor