I've seen this band live four or five times—once from the 20th row on the floor. However, seeing them at the Bob Bullock Theater in 3D is the best U2 concert I've ever experienced. It's like Bono, Edge, Adam and Larry all are basically playing in your lap. That coupled with nearly 100k fanatic Argentinians jumping wildly in unison and singing along in English is incredible.

Sadly for you, if you haven't seen it in Austin, you've missed it. Saturday night was the last showing of its second run. "Nanna, nanna, boo, boo." Will there be a third? I'll keep you posted.

Regardless, even if you're just a mediocre U2 fan at best, risk everything to see this film. You won't be disappointed.

I actually saw a woman—whom I know fairly well—walk into the bathroom at work today with a newspaper proudly tucked under her arm. That's comedy.

Good thing I wore my 18-hour bra.

Last fall, Bob F. and I saw The LeRoi Brothers and Joe King at the Continental Club. Bob finally sent me is sucky phone pics. Good memories. Good times. They all looked old. I'm sure they thought the same about us.

Don't know why, but Neil Diamond keeps drifting in and out of my head. Someone make it stop.

Saturday, we celebrated Arlington High School’s graduating class of ’82 25th year reunion. (Yes, I’m that old. And so are all my classmates.)

There was a big difference between our 20th and our 25th. At our 20-year, I thought we all were holding up pretty well. You know, still looking…hotter than lukewarm. Not any more. We all looked like mid-forty-year-old parents. Which shouldn’t be a surprise because that’s exactly what we are. Nevertheless, the realization was still a shock to my system.

When we walked into Gilligan’s, my wife said, “This is the wrong room, these are all old people in here.” In spite of her misstatement about the room, she was absolutely correct otherwise. Sad but true.

Okay, enough about youth being wasted on the young. There were plenty of women there who I—like former President Carter—“lusted after in my heart.” You know exactly who you are, you foul MILF temptresses. And keep it up. (BTW-that includes my wife.)

Also seeing everyone again, reliving glory days and telling other lies made my soul soar like a hawk. Some of these are people I’ve known since I was six years old. In this world of constant change—that’s seemingly always for the worse—there’s a beautiful security in feeling the warmth of the same hearts of those who’ve known you best, worst and longest. Even if only for an hour or two every five or ten years.

So here’s to the class of ’82. May gravity, UV rays and cholesterol cease to take their collective toll. Colts, colts, go, go, go!

(P.S. Thanks, Robin, for the inspiration to keep blogging. Flattery gets you everywhere. Your kind words should motivate me to create at least a few more entries.)

• On location for a commercial shoot in Southern California
• Currently shooting outdoor at a nice pool
• Had encrusted swordfish off the craft service wagon for lunch
• Staying at pretentious Hollywood hotel (dept. of redundancy dept.) where the staff all look like Dieter and Sprocket
• Meeting lots of people made out of plastic, literally
• So happy I don't live here
• Having an absolute great time at someone's elses expense and getting paid for it
• Sure beats workin' at Sears

Working on the house is really crimping my blogging ability. So I’m putting a stake in the ground and just plowing ahead.

Bob F. and I saw Junior Brown at Antones a couple weekends ago. If you’ve never, seen him play, one word comes to mind: mesmerizing.

If you don’t know who Junior Brown is, leave my site immediately and Google® his name at YouTube to watch a video. Seeing this guy play the “Guit-steel” is believing.

On a more redneck note, my neighborhood (mostly me and another guy) “invested” nearly $500 in fireworks for the fourth. It’s the first time in my life I’ve been able to launch serious ordnance from right outside my front door. Awesome.


P.S. Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.

So I’m having one of the worst days ever—literally. Two atomic blasts. One happened at 7:49 a.m. The other happened at…some point in the afternoon. (The nuclear fallout has affected my short-term memory.) I’m at ground zero both times. Not to mention three of my kids are sick with fever.

But to add insult to injury, I’m handed a hardcopy of an e-mail with the subject line “Incident in the Garage.” Long story short, someone has accused me of hitting their car in the parking garage.

ARRRRRRGGGGG! (sigh) I didn’t hit any car. I think this person is a victim looking for an accident. Regardless, I gotta deal with it. Among other things.

Yes, I can fix cars. And when I have the time, which is rare, I actually enjoy it. But the “cost of doing business” would kill me.

I decide that today is the day I’m going to flush the radiator and put in fresh anti-freeze into both vehicles—by myself, stupidly. (Believe me, they needed it. The fluid looked like diet Folgers®.)

Not to difficult of a process. Just a mess. And then what do you do with the discarded antifreeze—without the neighbors finding out?

I did LaSchell’s SUV first. Again no major issues. Just a few knuckle-busting scrapes from the “frozen” drain plug on the block.

Then I did my truck. All goes well until the very end.

Ford® in it’s infinite, cost-efficient wisdom, decided to make the radiator drain cocks (I said cocks) out of plastic. So as I’m hand tightening the plastic drain cock (don’t giggle) the head (I said don’t giggle) snaps off in my hand.

Now I have no clue what I’m supposed to do until I can get a new part. I don’t even know how to remove the rest of it without damaging my radiator.

So far it’s still holding a seal, but who knows? I might ruin my engine all because of a five-dollar plastic part. I’ll keep you posted.