Just surprised M'lady with news that she'll take the bus to work Friday. Small price to pay for meeting after 5 at the Hub -- not the exact Hub we visited on our first date, when I said I'd marry her, but that's another story.

The chauffeured drive is because I scored a couple of $12.50 balcony seats (plus service charge, and I think a down payment on the next stadium) to the Spinal Tap Unwigged & Unplugged show Friday at Mahaffey. (Tell Ticketmaster that "The Bone" sent you.)

Anyway, the balcony is as close as I'll let Princess Di get to Spinal Tap, especially David St. Hubbins, the guy who looks like Lenny. Long story but I'll be kind.

1992. Spinal Tap, wigged and plugged, is playing in Orlando. Some place across a wide parking lot from a Holiday Inn, and that's before they added the "Express." I score four front row seats for me, Di and Mr. and Mrs. T-Bone (no relation to the Ticketmaster discount code, but I digress).

Anyway, we're having a great time, better than most folks there because we know the joke. The back of the place is filled with teenagers who must've gotten cheap seats to what they thought would be a real heavy metal show. You can tell that they think Spinal Tap sucks, which is what the gag is about.

So, the band is playing to the few of us who got tickets early, up front. Di and Mrs. T-Bone are rocking these bare midriff blouses (not 6-packs but maybe Red Bull 4-packs). We're all dancing to Big Bottom or something and St. Hubbins -- the wanker -- points at the ladies during a Nigel Tufnel solo and says:

"I do believe those are the best tummies we've seen on tour!"

My first thought is: "Hey, these guys have been on the road for three months. That's a pretty cool compliment." My next thought is: "How dare you, sir." Which must sound like: "She's yours" to St. Hubbins behind the monitors. Cooler heads prevail.

Di and Mrs. T-Bone bring up that moment to Michael McKean backstage after the show. (Yes,T-Bone and I are there. We're not stupid.) McKean laughs, thanks them for the inspiration and kisses them on their cheeks. Just one each. We're not stupid.

Christopher Guest, looking nothing like Tufnel without the wig (or plug, I guess), doesn't spend much time in the mingle after showering. He makes a few pleasant greetings and heads toward the loading dock door where a few dozen fans had waited an hour or so to see their mock idols, and apparently gave up.

Di and I take a few steps behind Guest, curious to get a closer look as he exits. The door swings open. Nobody there. Even from behind, we can tell he feels relieved.  We watch a guy who just made an arena rock as someone else walk across that wide, empty parking lot, unbothered by anyone on his way to the Holiday Inn.