So in yet another example to file in the "How the Hell Did I Get In This Situation?" bin, my new buddy Wyc (part-time drummer of the Captain Miles Band and, oh yeah, owner of the Boston Celtics) drops me an email last week reading "I have a luxury box for Tuesday's U2 concert - everything's on me." Um... let me think about it. I was planning on rotting in my rat-ridden Somerville hovel tonight, but sure - I'll spend the evening in a luxury box. Why not, right?

I plan on being really obnoxious to all the working stiff peons who actually paid the exorbitant ticket prices to see the show. I'll probably spit on a few poor people, maybe have my butler slap a few of them around for my amusement. You get a butler in the luxury box, right?

I'll give you a full report tomorrow, if I'm not too exhausted from discussing world debt relief with Bono (My solution? Eliminate the Kennedy half-dollar. Think about it, maaaaaaaaaaan).