Most Abject Apologies

I received a text message this afternoon from a loyal reader who wanted to know:

1) Why I had not updated my Facebook status as obsessively as I typically do

2) Why I had not posted a blog entry in a good long while

3) If I am okay (because obviously, if I'm not posting on either site, I must be dead or a kidnap victim being held for ransom in Tijuana).

To all of you who are worried: I AM FINE.

For the past week or so, I've been insanely busy with very important things, like Make A Wish Foundation functions, the interior decoration of my mother's lovely home (which gets lovelier by the day), and going to see Metallica in San Antonio.

I SAW METALLICA IN SAN ANTONIO and I screamed myself hoarse. I was fine while Gojira was playing (French thrash metal? Really?), and okay while Lamb of God played, too. I tend to get bored by bands whose lyrics I can't understand. If the drummer sounds like the Muppet Animal, that's great. If the lead singer does... well... not so great.

But then, Metallica was on-stage, and my hand morphed itself into the Devil Horns sign \m/ and I was screaming like a tweenager at a Jonas Brothers concert.

Alas, the fellows from Metallica weren't wearing leather pants but were wearing black jeans. Except for the new bassist, whose name I don't know, and who was dressed in a shiny black basketball jersey and shorts. I still haven't figured that one out, yet.

They played Master of Puppets, I Disappear, Unforgiven, One, Cyanide, Stone Cold Crazy - at which point I think I lost my sanity because I began head-banging, and Enter Sandman. I can't remember the other songs they sang, because people kept trying to give my designated driver beer, and I - in my responsible and magnanimous way - saved her by drinking a few that were passed her way.

We arrived back at my friend's brother's house (I stayed in the guest room known as "Bungalow 1" and my friend slept in the Mezzanine - aka the sofa), completely unable to hear and with a strange buzzing noise in our ears. On the drive back to Dallas from San Antonio the next day (Tuesday morning), we both remarked on the unnecessary loudness of the concert.

I've also decided that the only way to see a concert these days is the way we did it Monday: from a private suite. You see, my friend's brother-in-law procured the tickets because his company owns the suite. It wasn't catered because his company wasn't picking up the tab for that, but there was beer and food just a short walk away, so that was no problem.

Yes, the private suite is far preferable to the mosh pit or the hard plastic of the regular seats.

Does this mean I'm getting older, or just smarter?