The airbag thing sort of made me angry. Maybe one day Brad Stine will be driving through my state in his vintage convertable hotrod, and he'll be hit by a drunk driver. Since his car obviously doesn't have airbags, his head smashes into the metal dashboard. His brain his severely damaged, and he's comatose. I visit him in the hospital, and just before I pull the plug, I whisper into his ear, "at least now there is more room for the good drivers."
Otherwise, I love it.
Oh, apparently he lives in Nashville. So we're basically neighbors.
No, wait, he actually lives in Brentwood. That's like 15 minutes away from me.