Billy Idol was slated to appear onstage 7:30 p.m. And he actually did . Men in their sixties pumped their fists. Heavily made-up women screamed.

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Last Night: Billy Idol at The Paramount

Billy Idol was slated to appear onstage 7:30 p.m. And he actually did. Men in their sixties pumped their fists. Heavily made-up women screamed. (Okay, fine, maybe I did too.) Idol launched into “Cradle of Love” and “Dancing With Myself.” Damn! Talk about not wasting anytime. Idol and his band looked like they time traveled from the ‘80s. The guitarists looked like Robert Smith and a skinny version of Meatloaf, and Billy Idol… well, he looked like Billy Idol.

I don’t know if The Paramount has AC or not, but it was fucking hot in there. Frenzied fans dancing up a storm in a crowded room turns from exciting to disgusting really quick. About 20 minutes into the show, I smelled like an armpit, albeit, a very happy armpit.

He may be pushing 50, but Idol can put on a show. “I’m Billy fucking Idol!” he cockily shouted numerous times, to which the crowd cheered. Talk about being a rock star. If I announced that I was Erika fucking Hobart, the answer would probably be closer to crickets chirping and then a drunkard shouting “Who gives a shit?”

It became clear as the end of the concert drew near that I was meant to bare Idol’s illegitimate children. I pushed past security guards four times my size and approached the stage on which the only straight man who can pull off wearing a mesh shirt stood not-so-tall. (How tall is Idol?! He’s built, but he’s tiny!) We made intimate contact. E.g.: I touched his arm.

It was too much to handle. I sprinted back to my seat laughing like a maniac. My companion, clearly embarrassed by my behavior, yanked on my arm to prevent future occurrences. “You’re being such an idiot," he hissed. I stared back, wild-eyed. “I just touched Billy Idol!” I yelped.

Idol ended the night with “Mony Mony” and afterwards, a majority of his fans headed to… the Cheesecake Factory? (Hey, it's nearby.) The staff looked baffled/ frightened by the number of people coming in wearing Idol shirts and singing “White Wedding” but nevertheless served us. “How was the concert?” our waitress asked. I sighed. “He looked directly at me and grabbed my hand,” I said.

And that’s how rumors get started.

 
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