And with that, Frank Sinatra is gone.

Bono, Anton, and Kevin Godley are left in a saloon in Palm Springs, California, with their mouths hanging open. Godley will have to cobble together a video interspersing archival footage of Sinatra with Bono lip-synching his part, and a couple of bits from the back of the limo to at least show that the two of them have actually met. Bono fears that this means Frank Sinatra is never going to record "Two Shots of Happy.

A while later Bono speculates that Frank uses disorientation as an act to get out of awkward situations. "I don't think he's losing it, I think he knows what he's doing," Bono says. "So he gets out. And his excuse

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doesn't have to be logical." Bono gets a call from Barbara apologizing for Frank's hasty exit and inviting him over to the house that evening. Bono says sure, and he arrives to a night of whiskey drinking and storytelling with Sinatra and about six of his pals, Frank seems fine now, and completely in his element. Eventually Bono proposes a toast, stands up, raises his glass—and sings "Two Shots of Happy" for Frank and his cronies. Sinatra smiles as he listens. Bono decides that's going to have to be good enough.

Sinatra is a painter, and Bono thinks his stuff reveals a sensitive (he avoids using the word feminine) side contrary to the macho image. "Even his paintings are conflicted," Bono says. "He doesn't want to be sweet, tender, but he is." Bono stops to admire one painting and says, "That one has a jazz vibe."

Sinatra looks at him and says, "That one's called 'Jazz.' "

As the whiskey continues to flow and Bono's head spins, he begins to perceive that these old guys are drinking him under the table. Sunk in a chair, Bono watches dreamily as Sinatra pushes a switch and the wall opens to reveal a movie screen. An old film comes on and Bono falls asleep.

He awakes with horror. His pants are soaking wet. Oh, my God, Bono thinks, here I am watching a movie with Frank Sinatra and his friends in Frank Sinatra's house and I've pissed myself. This goes be­yond shaming himself; this is shaming Ireland before Italy, this is shaming rock & roll before the big bands. Gingerly, Bono slips his hand down toward his crotch. The liquid is cold. Thank you, Lord! If it were urine it would be warm! Bono gropes around and finds an upturned whiskey tumbler next to his leg. Yes! He passed out and poured the liquor on himself! He didn't wet his pants! He won't have to commit hara-kiri.

Bono climbs to his feet. Sinatra and his chums are still watching the old movie, still knocking back the booze. Bono bids them good night.

Frank tells him to come back tomorrow. The song-plugger in Bono figures that's a good idea—he'll come back tomorrow with a pianist and really sell Frank that tune! But he thinks better of it once he's out the door. He has to get back to L.A. and get on a plane for Australia. U2 is waiting. The Zoo tour—this next leg dubbed "Zoomerang"—is waiting. Bono will have to leave Frank Sinatra where he is, laughing with his sidekicks, bending his elbow, flickering in the light of an old movie.

Pressure Points

An understudy saves the big show/ an infestation of winged pests/ the sinking of the triplecast/ tiny tim as rorschach test/ larry's admonition against the aggrandizement of the lovey-dovey

I'm starting to develop a dim freshman's appreciation for how architecture reflects its environment. Just as the Olympic Stadium in Berlin seemed to have been designed to the strains of martial music and Viking drums, the football stadium in Sydney rolls up and down in big concrete waves, as if God knocked it off between designing high tide and palm trees. The sound may turn to mud up at the crests of these cement curves, but it sure looks idyllic.

The audience is wandering in slowly, filling up the field like migrat­ing birds returning for the summer. In Dublin the winter's rolling down, in London the Christmas lights are being strung across Oxford Street, and in the United States the Thanksgiving dishes are being cleared, but here in Australia spring is turning into summer and vegetation is shoot­ing up through every crack in the pavement. The whole city of Sydney seems to be blooming. There's not another continent where man s dominion over nature feels so shaky. If the human race came to an end on Monday, the flora and fauna would reclaim Australia by Wednesday afternoon.

Hard to believe amid so much bliss and pollen that U2 is falling apart backstage. All the tensions of the Zoo tour—the combined weight of pressure, politics, and sleep deprivation—are coming to a climax during this two-day stand in the city where all the men have blond ponytails and all the women wear halter tops. You know that scene in The Treasure of trie Sierra Madre when Bogart and Tim Holt are competing to see which of them can stay awake longer so he can kill the

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