As I sat down to write this post Biscuit threw up in the other room. It was the yellow frothy kind of dog vomit. Many years ago, when I had just taken “companionship” of my first dog (as an adult) an older friend assured me that, “yellow frothy dog vomit wasn’t anything to worry about.” While that may be true in the abstract, I could have lived without it tonight.

I’ve been away from the blog for a while, though my sporks-based Wall-E review has kept sporksforall humming along. Very much like Wall-E himself.

I don’t know if I’ll return to faithful blogging through aught eight. I want to, but life gets in the way of sporks.

I’ve started a new (interim-again!) job as of two days ago. Four years ago when my boss hired me to be the interim thing that I’m now the permanent thing, I got sick. So sick that during the networking event with the University President, I stayed in my hotel room at the Marriott with fever and chills.

This year we did our slog/sling through the South early. I came back and have managed to get a massive cold (including fever and chills) and a nice case of laryngitis. Did I mention that my new job requires talking? It does. And I just don’t sound right

I mentioned to my boss that I had been sick the last time she gave me an interim job. She said, “I remember. Maybe this job change thing is more stressful than you think.” Could be, indeed. Also stressful is travel. And bombardment.

My favorite day of the “sling” is always the day Honey and I escape to the closest Spanish Moss draped city. Our usual escape is Charleston, but this year we went to Savannah.

As my few (and loyal!) readers know, I like me a National Park and will take a National Monument in a pinch. Thus, did I drag Honey to Fort Pulaski on Tybee Island.

Not brushed up on the Civil War of late? Here’s what happened. Fort Pulaski was started in 1829 to protect Savannah. (Tybee Island is 15 miles from Savannah). Savannah has always been an important port/city to Georgia and is one of the oldest cities in the Southeast. Note, please, that its importance is in no way related to Paula Dean.

Anyway, this being the 19th century and engineering being what it was, not to mention it’s bloody hot in the South in the summer, they didn’t so much finish the damn thing by 1860. South Carolina (a mere fifty miles away) seceded from the Union in January of 1861. Georgia followed suit and the governor ordered the occupation of the fort. The state then gave it the Confederacy. How kind. Lessee–”we’ll take this from the gumment (that’s how you say it) and give it to this other gumment. Yep.”

Righto, so in April of 1861, the War starts in earnest (you knew that right? April 1861 to April 1865) and the Naval blockade of Southern ports began.

Here’s the thing about Pulaski. The folks who built it: they thought it was invincible.

By November 1861, the Federals were encamped at Hilton Head and the Confederates got worried about that and abandoned land forces on Tybee EXCEPT for those at Pulaski. Whoopsie.

The Federals marched onto Tybee. The Confederates in Pulaski though they were safe. The guns of the day only went a mile and Pulaski is more than a mile from Tybee. The Union fellows, though, they had this new gun. Those Federals, always with the new guns. Must have been that industry infrastructure. They shot up the fort. Seemed like they might get to the powder magazine. 30 hours into the siege of the invincible fort, the Confederates surrendered.

The National Park Service notes, “Today the fort serves not only as a memorial to the valor and dedication of those connected with its construction, bombardment, and defense, but in a larger sense as a history lesson on the elusiveness of invincibility.”

I hope you can see that I get it. Not invincible.

I did survive that week and may yet survive my cold, my laryngitis, my new job, and my own vulnerabilities. I am certain, though, as certain as I can be, that invincibility eludes me. And I’ve never run very fast. Mofo needs to slow down and shows no sign of it.

I’m back from my travels. Here are some thoughts of a Monday morning in reference to the U.S. cities I visited.

#The Atlanta airport has too many words in its name. (Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport)

#Delta is still the best mainstream air carrier. I heart me some Lance crackers.

#Captain’s wafers with cream cheese and scallions eastbound. Whole wheat with cheddar westbound. Mmm.

#My dad’s classic car is cool, but the gas fumes made me a little sick. Did people stay a little sick from gas fumes all the time prior to catalytic converters?

#It’s weird that one of the best Philly cheese steaks I’ve ever had (and yes, I’ve had them in Philadelphia) is made by people from the Indian subcontinent at a strip mall in Atlanta.

#Getting from Atlanta to San Diego by way of LAX is a pain in the ass, but my Honey made it seem easy.

#Should you have occasion to stay at the Sheraton Marina in San Diego and the front desk person says, “we’ll put you in the Bay Tower,” please know that you will be in an entirely different hotel. And it will sucketh.

#Downtown San Diego looks a lot like Waikiki. Too much like it, really, only cleaner, less crowded, reachable by car, and with fewer one-way streets. There are fewer street performers, unless you want to count drunk people.

#Petco Park is a great place to watch a ballgame. There are no pets there. The food was good for ballpark food. None of it was kibble.

#People should not be preparing to be stupidly drunk at 8pm. The Gaslamp district was full of people whose paths were clearly about drinking a lot then getting arrested.

#Boring conferences are boring.

#Hard cider at a cool Irish pub will help make the boring conference go away. Leave early, though. (cf. drunk people)

#There are a lot of places that sell fancy cheese in San Diego.

#Most of them also have fancy jam. The jam will probably be more fancy than you want, if your jam tastes are anything like mine. The jars will be pretty, though.

#Did all the cheese stores used to be book and record stores? What will happen to the cheese stores when someone figures out how to internet market fancy cheese?

#I’m glad to be home.

It’s easy enough to get lost in the details. Is my airplane seat where I want it to be? Is my ipod charged and loaded with things I’ll like? Do they have my Starwood Preferred number?  Which suitcase should I take?  Can I deal with how stupid the van for Parking Spot is?

Without descending into another “travel used to be better” reverie, my fixation on the details has made me wonder about what it was like when the details didn’t matter.

I think sometimes about what it was like in those long sweaty summers where I had to go the Baptist “day camp.” There was little to look forward to, really, given the Baptist (at least the ones who ran the camp) tendency toward, “go play in the creek and catch crawdads if you can.” These Baptists were not so much into structured day camps. Trapped by the creek for days on end, the very idea of traveling seemed better than Christmas. We’d get in the car and drive to the beach. I looked forward to it, despite strong evidence that it wouldn’t be as fun as I hoped. Because my brother and I couldn’t get along in the car, one of us would often be banished to the “way back” of our VW station wagon, underneath which was the engine. In the South.  In the summer.  Without air conditioning. Still, a trip was a trip was a trip and at least I didn’t have to go hang out with the Baptists for a week.

Next week, as you might guess, I travel. I travel from one coast to another and back and then down this one some away from where I live.  I’ve worked the details. Somehow, I can’t access those feelings of anticipation  I used to have. I try to comfort myself that this trip will involve no time on top of the engine of a mid-1970s Volkswagen 412 station wagon.

Still I can’t help wishing it felt a little less like staring into green water looking for the crawdads I could never catch.

“Pineapple princess”, he calls me pineapple princess all day
As he plays his ukulele on the hill above the bay
“Pineapple princess, I love you, you’re the sweetest girl I’ve seen”
“Some day we’re gonna marry and you’ll be my pineapple queen”

So sang Annette Funicello some time ago. My honey channeled Ms. Funicello as we approached the Dole Pineapple Plantation.

O’ahu was not, to be real for a moment, my favorite of Hawai’i’s islands. We only visited the two. It came in second and I suspect would continue to sink down the rankings had we visited more. Do you remember how Casey Kasem used to disparage songs as they slipped down the chart? Really, he was criticizing us, his listeners, for letting it happen to the songs. I always found it off-putting. How was there room on the chart for “Leader of the Band” if “Heat of the Moment” didn’t slip off? Hmm? Didn’t think you had an answer.

I can just hear Mr. Kasem saying, “last week this island was at number 2, but now that Kaua’i has surged, O’ahu drops to number 3.”

At any rate, with O’ahu holding steady at #2, Honey and I explored its offerings. In the middle of the island, we discovered (the maps and signs helped quite a lot) something that NO ONE else knows about. They have pineapples on O’ahu. Dole does. Pineapples. Can you imagine?

They’ve had pineapples there for over one hundred years.

Ok, seriously, the Dole Plantation was cheesy in just the right way.

It featured the above shown pineappletunities. Notice that my level of excitement was such I could not keep my hand still enough for my point and shoot camera to focus.

Beyond the maze, train, and garden, there was a ginormous retail facility. They even had “Dole Radio” (on which Mr. Kasem was not featured). Dole Radio kept promising pineapple cutting demonstrations and Honey and I kept going to try to find them. It was all for naught. There was no cutting of pineapple. What there was was a tremendously long line at the end of which one could purchase pineapple ice cream and the like.

We confined our pineapple shopping to pineapple memorabilia.

(Sample only, not an actual purchase).

I was thrilled at the level of pineapple crap. It was really beyond measure. It certainly outstripped the macadamia nut people in terms of square footage and variety.

Actually, to be fair, we bought plenty at both nutland and pineappleland. Honey has been sporting a nightshirt that I bought her that says, “I got totally nuts on the Big Island of Hawaii” and I may have some mac nut socks. Nutland wins over pineappleland in the crucial sampling area, too. They’ll give you nuts at Mauna Loa. At Dole, they keep announcing the aforementioned phantom pineapple demo and sampling. We stood under the sign that said “Pineapple Demonstration” alone and unwanted.

All was not despair, though. There were pineapple “costumes” to try on!

Notice, please, that I purchased a Dole hat and immediately put it on. Shame did not walk with me in O’ahu. Pineapple fun walked with me instead.

My excitement over the Pineapple Express can only be described as extreme. A small train. Pineapples. I channeled my inner six year old, that is if my inner six year old had $15.50 extra to spend on a 20 minute train ride. She didn’t, so my outer 39 year old had to pony up.

I’m sure you’re dying to know what happens on the Pineapple Express. You see pineapples!

Also pineapple topiary.

Plus, there’s pineapple narration on the Pineapple Express, wherein we learned that James Dole’s real claim to fame (besides buying the whole island of Lana’i and turning it into a big pineapple plantation) was canning pineapples.

Good to know that some genius at Dole thought that pineapple should be artificially sweetened. Pineapples aren’t sweet on their own. Not even a little bit.

Interspersed with the narration, we were treated to musical interludes. Guess what one of the songs was?

“Pineapple princess”, I love you, you’re the sweetest girl I’ve seen
“Some day we’re gonna marry and you’ll be my pineapple queen”

We may have sung along.

Getting off the train, we were given our only pineapple sample. It may have been the best pineapple I’ve ever tasted.

We toured the pineapple garden. The way they grow is amazing. They’re heavy, you know.

This one had grown itself a nice head of pineapple leaves.

There were some regrets. We discovered a two-for-one Pineapple Maze coupon in our car rental map after we had forgone that attraction. You already know about the pineapple demo lie. We didn’t see Pineapple Pete.

We also didn’t see the lady with him.

The truth is, though, it was a rockin’ pineapple time. So good that since we’ve been back I’ve worn my hat, Honey has worn her pineapple shirt. Our Pineapple Pete magnet is featured on our refrigerator between the lava magnet and the Nene magnet. We’ve bought two pineapples. We’ve sung “Pineapple Princess.”

O’ahu is holding steady at #2 because of the wondrous pineapplepertunities.

As [I] plays [my] ukulele on the hill above the bay…

I went to Hawai’i to look for geese. Truth be told, I did not know when I departed that this would be a goal. Goals sometimes come when you don’t expect them to.

Many people go to Hawai’i for many reasons. Scuba. Snuba. Pineapples. Macadamia Nuts. Volcanoes. Coffee.

I experienced several of these activities. I bet you didn’t know pineapple could be an activity. It sure can. Details to follow.

But, oh, the geese.

They were MY thing. I am not a birder in the classic sense. I have bird books and binoculars. I own mutliple bird feeders. But, I can’t recognize bird songs from the tree, have to look twice at small brown birds to determine if they’re house finches or house sparrows. Bottom line, I guess, I like birds and like looking at them.

Upon our arrival to Hawai’i–I know it’s confusing, but I’m talking about the island (as in “the big”) not the state (as in all of the islands)–I discovered that we would be near to an area where we might see Nene. Nene are Hawai’ian geese.

Ok, let’s get a something straightened out before I continue. Despite, my initial inclination, as a native speaker of English from the southeastern part of these here United States, the name of the bird is pronounced “neh neh” not “neen.” I still kind of want to call them neens, but I am being all Hawai’ian and shit (notice my use of the apostrophe!) and know it’s “neh neh.”

There were lots of signs about Nenes. Don’t feed them, don’t hit them with your rental car, don’t let your dog chase them. Nenes themselves are rare. At one point there were there were tens of thousands of Nene and then humans did lots of stupid things and they died out to the brink of extinction. Fortunately, there has been an concerted effort to bring them back and there are now between five hundred and three thousand Nene on three of the Hawai’ian islands (Maui, Hawai’i, and Kaua’i). Most are there as a result of captive breeding programs, though the ones on Hawai’i are often the offspring of wild pairs.

I have a soft spot for geese. I tend to prefer water birds to other kinds of birds and geese are, to me at least, the Goldilocks kind of bird. Not too big, not too small. Just right. I have complicated animal aesthetics, which often involve statements like “a good amount of white” (which accurately describes our cat Halo and none of our other pets). Geese are right in the animal aesthetic wheelhouse. So, when you tell me there’s a kind of goose that almost died out, has specially adapted feet for walking on lava, and has a name as good as Nene, I’m going to be goose seeking. With abandon. Aplomb even.

We asked the helpful people at our B&B where Nene might be seen. They suggested the golf course. I then asked the ranger at Volcanoes National Park where to see some and she suggested the Hilo zoo. Um, no, I don’t think so. I want “wild” Nene, thanks very much. So, off to the golf course we went.

There were four pairs of them hanging out on the 18th hole. Honey and I laughed at first, thinking this was a sign of how easy it was to see them. They were nibbling on grass and having a Nene good time. One even showed off his lava foot for me. Yes, it was for me. I was the only Nene picture taker there. Other people were using sticks to hit little white balls around. I know who had the true Nene love; the person who got shown the Nene foot.

Nenes mate for life, by the way.

I was in Nene bliss. I figured we go back to the golf course a few (dozen) more times and I commune with these eight Nene and all their friends. We did go back to the golf course several times. No more Nenes.

I was feeling a little Nene bereft as we headed off to go coffee tasting. Honey had promised that one of the coffee places had geese, which she and I both assumed were Nenes. What other geese are there in Hawai’i? Nenes are the Hawai’i state bird, by the way. Do you know what your state bird is? I’ll wait while you go look it up. See, you’re learning LOTS of bird facts today. (In case you’re wondering, my state birds have been: Brown Thrasher, Baltimore Oriole, and California Quail). At any rate, we get to the coffee place in question, Mountain Thunder, to discover that they have two kinds of geese on the farm, neither of which Nene. Still, geese are geese and I’m ready for my close up. One kind of goose hangs out down in the coffee tree area and the other wanders more. The nice folks inform me that they may come by to be fed. We’re enjoying our coffee sample and watching Mountain Thunder on Dirty Jobs when the wandering goose family presented itself (minus one, who is incubating eggs).

The owner told me that a visitor had told her they were Toulouse geese, but I’m pretty sure they’re Greylag geese. At any rate, they were really fun. They honked some and threatened me when I stood near them for a picture. The threat was the large male sticking his neck out and opening his beak a little. They also got into a goose fight. How many times have you seen a goose fight while sipping really good Kona coffee? I didn’t think so.

We interacted with the geese for a while, bought coffee and descended thunder mountain with the rental car shuddering from the strain of the descent and Honey and I jittering a little from all the coffee and goose goodness. It was probably more coffee than goose.

I had read in my Hawai’i (the state) bird book, that there were no Nene to be found on O’ahu, our next destination. I wanted another Nene fix. The next day, we were headed out for turtle viewing and I saw a sign that said “Nene 750 yards.” I immediately began mumbling about all the bullshit Nene signs that promise more Nene than they can deliver. Then, I saw…

Nene on the side of the road. I pulled over quickly (not dangerously). Honey and I circled the Nene so I could get more pictures. This caused the Nene to moan. Really. They don’t honk so much as moan. Watch this video for the sound. The effect was, “leave me alone, you stupid mainlander.”

I persisted in taking pictures, though. Finally (from their perspective, not mine), we left them alone.

I tried a few more times to see Nene. None were in evidence. Still, if there really are only 500 Nene, my ten Nene worth was 1/50 of the total. This seems like a pretty high proportion, given that I certainly didn’t make up 1/50 of the visitors to Hawai’i (either the island or the state) last week.

My advice when traveling? Get your goose on.

Nene up.

On Tuesday, Honey and I decided to play hooky. There simply isn’t a better place for playing hooky than Disneyland. Imagine your eight year old self. You want a day off. You want to do something superveryfun. What could be more superveryfun than Disneyland? Sex. But you’re supposed to be imagining your EIGHT year old self. If you thought about sex a lot then, I don’t want to know about it.

Theoretical fingers in theoretical ears… Lalalalalalalalalalalalalala Done with eight year old sex thoughts.

Ok, I won’t give you a whole travelogue, but here’s a highlight/thought list.

*They can dress it up all they want, but Innovations (in Tomorrowland)=superverylame.

*The redo of Space Mountain is awesome. It seems faster and you can’t see the track any more. It’s like a roller coaster in space. Wait, it IS a roller coaster in space.

*Disneyland rides with pictures they take and then try to sell you do NOT take flattering pictures of me. Nope.

*This image is funny and is on almost every ride. I kept trying to be these people. My body won’t do the things it suggests.

*Cynthia, who was having a birthday and brought her coffee onto Thunder Mountain in the pouring rain, reminded me of how great people can be. I don’t even know her and we rode behind her on the ride for all of three minutes. Still, she and her friend Susan rocked.

*As a child, I was DEEPLY disappointed to have spent one of my E-tickets on 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (aka the submarines). The 35 minute wait we experienced on Tuesday did not improve my liking of it a lot. It was ok, but it was the longest wait of the day.

*I kind of loved (actually really loved) the Tiki Room. I’d never been there before. Full props to Disneyland for not tearing it out. It would not have been worth an E-Ticket, though.

*Fewer full props to them for tearing out the gallery above New Orleans Square for the new luxo-suite. I did like the Disney employee at the “Disneyana” store who described the gallery space as “having moved on to its next life.” She did this all why I dripped onto the rug, having gotten soaked in the rain on Big Thunder.

*We didn’t bottom out our Small World boat! I’m also pleased to report that Small World is less annoying at the holidays, because they intersperse Christmas songs with the eponymous song. I’m not a fan of either, but less of both overall makes it more bearable.

*I was pleased to do Tomorrowland first. Why we always do Adventureland first is beyond me. I’m a big T-land fan, Innovations notwithstanding.

*Bring back the People Mover.

*Indiana Jones has gotten more jerky. Panic attack inducing jerky.

* I know, I know, SOMETHING has to make you want to go to California Adventure, but why oh why can’t Tower of Terror be in D-land? I heart it but not enough to pay $20 more to ride it.

*I wish we had parked on the Daisy level instead of the Mickey level. I’ve never much cared for the mice. The ducks, I like.

*La Casa Garcia has really good albondigas. Really good albondigas tastes especially good when you’re wet.

*I would say I need a rain coat, but I live in Southern California.

*The best part of the day? All of it, of course. What’s not to like? A day with my Honey at Disneyland.

I like my inner eight year old sometimes. She has good ideas.  Besides, my outer 39 year old can afford to buy her extra E-Tickets.

At the tiki, tiki, tiki, tiki room…

The woman at the front desk handed me a sheet to initial and sign in various places. I wasn’t buying a house, a car, or even a bicycle. No indeed. I was checking into a hotel. Why all the initialing? Most notably, I was certifying that everyone in my party was “bear aware.” We had taken a trip for my Honey’s transition into her next stage by traveling to our National Park. We’ve visited Sequoia on a number of occasions in our life together and have a deep affinity for the place. As we were walking around the “Big Trees Trail” yesterday, Honey said, “this is why California is so wonderful.” Truth: spoken out loud.

Tree Aside:

That’s the Grant tree. It was declared the “nation’s Christmas tree” by Calvin Coolidge. Eh. Honey and I walked around the back side of it first. It’s big, but not as pretty as I’d like. I prefer the Sentinel with its “average” size.

Back to the Bears:

My family wasn’t much of a National Park kind of family. We visited a few, but the best ones are in the West. (You can deny the previous statement all you want, but denial has therapeutic value–discuss as needed with your therapist). My family did visit the Great Smoky Mountains National Park a couple of times. I recall very vividly that both times we saw bears.

Black bears (ursus americanus) are found in most of the large National Parks, including Great Smoky Mountain NP and Sequoia and Kings Canyon NP(s). They’re not particularly aggressive bears, and rarely attack humans. Grizzly bears (ursus arctos horribilis), their larger cousins, are typically only found in four National Parks. And, no, the St. Louis Arch is not one of them. OK, fine, the arch (properly the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial) is not an actual National Park. I just liked the idea of grizzly bears riding in that weird conveyance you use to get to the top of it.

The four Parks with grizzly bears are: Glacier, Yellowstone, Katmai, and Denali. Montana, Wyoming, and Alaska (2), for those of you keeping state score. Grizzly Bears will kill people. Black Bears can hurt people, if the people are stupid.

That’s a black bear next to the trash can, by the way. They can be brown. Confusing, I admit. The real problem for the black bears, as it is with so much of modern life, is trash. Both times I saw bears in GSMNP as a child it was near a tumped over trash can.

Bears like human food trash. It doesn’t distinguish them very much from dogs, now that I think about it. Until recently, many bears in many parks had learned that humans had food. Smart animals that they are; they figured that begging might get them some.

Yogi didn’t help matters. Who wouldn’t want to share a picnic with Yogi? Ok, I wouldn’t, but some folks would.

Then Smokey was always hanging around telling us to prevent fires. He’s a nice spokesanimal. Friendly bear spokesanimals are likely to produce friendly feelings about bears by park visitors.

Smokey isn’t my favorite spokesanimal, though. As a person of a certain age, I feel more connection to his anti-litter buddy, Woodsy Owl. Recently redesigned (2006), Woodsy first appeared in the early 1970s. While he now urges, “Lend a Hand, Care for the Land,” his original exhortation, “Give a hoot don’t pollute” should bring a song about “dirty bird(s)” to the minds of many.

There are currently some licensed Woodsy pants available on ebay. It could be a new fashion trend. Think how good you’d look in Woodsy pants. The belt buckle, the weird length. Sigh.

Being bear aware dominates a lot of thinking and efforting at our National Park. The new movement at the National Parks is anti-Yogi, anti-cubs begging at woodie station wagons.

Not only did I have to certify that I was bear aware and that Honey was bear aware, we also had to remove things that might cause bear break-ins from our car. Food? Yep. Drinks? Yep. Also lotion, chapstick, lipstick, Purell. Really, anything with a scent had to be secreted away to our room. I can find no evidence that a bear ever tore apart a car for chapstick. They have torn apart cars for food. But chapstick? I’m not so sure.

Really, day visitors get left off the hook. They’re told to keep “food out of sight.” Staying overnight? Get that chapstick out of the car! Now.

I saw these signs all over the park. I don’t want to be responsible for a dead bear. Not me. Nope. Nuh uh. I do like some of the advice the sign offers.

“Gather together and make noise by banging pots and pans.”

Damn, we forgot to bring pots and pans. Are they required even when we don’t camp?

“NEVER try to get items back from a bear.”

Do you really mean that I shouldn’t use my soft hand to hit the big bear on the head to get my chapstick back? It’s MY chapstick. Who’s going to buy me another stick? Also, if he takes my L’Occitane lotion, somebody is going to pay. I’m just saying.

“If you are afraid, back away and contact a ranger for help.”

Mmm Kay. So, there will be a ranger nearby? Not just the pretty one in the booth an hour back where I paid my $20? That’s super handy. Each bear has an assigned ranger. Thanks!

“You may see rangers using hazing techniques to chase bears away.”

That is especially awesome. Do they shave their heads? Make them drink lots of beer? I do hope they get to join the fraternity afterwards.

Ok, snarky aside done. I do love the picture of the people.

Clearly one thing you should certainly do is make an “o” with your mouth. Honey and I practiced that all weekend. The problem for us, really, was who wanted which role. We had no pots or spoons, so neither could of us be the dad. I decided the best thing to do was consult the bear’s ranger about what to do beyond the “o” mouth.

As we descended into the San Joaquin Valley and headed home yesterday, I thought about what I had learned. I learned a lot about sequoias, but not much about bears, really. I realize that the sequoias aren’t going to break into my car, but think about if one of them fell on me. I’d be way more dead than if a bear took my lotion. It’s unlikely that a sequoia would fall on me, I admit. Still I should have asked the pretty ranger how to protect myself from the unlikely. With all those sequoias, they’re probably not able to have enough rangers to assign one to every tree. Standing near them, then, is a risk I must be willing to take. I’m nothing if not brave. And bear aware. I’m also very bear aware. So is Honey. I certified us.

I am well aware that the SkyMall catalog is simply a distraction that the airlines provide me with on the plane. The companies that populate it are hoping I’ll buy something.

Treecup and I once played a game on the way to a conference where we opened the SkyMall catalog. Here’s how it worked. I’d open the book to a particular page and pick out the item I most thought she would want, even if it was a page full of NFL pool balls. There couldn’t be anything less suited to Treecup than NFL pool balls. Then she picked out the thing she would buy on that page.   Then we’d switch and she’d try to guess my preferences.  (The answer couldn’t be “nothing.” In our imaginary SkyMall world, you had to buy something on every page. Delta and Hammacher Schlemmer would be so pleased. Them and the NFL pool ball people.) It was an amusing and interesting exercise in how well we knew one another.

My father travels a lot and when I ask him for gift suggestions, he is likely as not to come up with something from the SkyMall like a shower squeegee. I don’t feel compelled to buy him the actual shower squeegee from the catalog, nor is he hoping for it. He just liked the idea of the shower squeegee. Thusly, he is now able to squeegee his shower at will.

Anyway, when I flew home on Wednesday, I noticed a product that made me sad in the SkyMall. Not sad like the anti-gay freaks protesting at soldiers funerals. Not that sad. Still.

Here it is:

It’s described as:

“Safe laser beam toy keeps your cat entertained for hours on end, so you can do other things.”

Ok, I will admit that our four (how did that happen?) pets always often sometimes drive me crazy. But they’re our pets. I brought them (or helped bring them) into our home. I should play with them. If the cats like laser pointers (and boy, do they), I should wield said pointer and move it around for them. Really.  With my own hands.  Even though I hurt my shoulder the other day bench pressing my honey.  I have a left hand.  It has a wrist that works.

The “you don’t have to play with you cat” laser thingy is yet another example of our continuing slide into desperation.

I should note that, as I wrote this, Biscuit had cornered Halo under my desk. Biscuit is now outside and I have tried to coax Halo out of her lair. I’m not sure where my laser pointer is, though. So she’ll have to make do with my petting her should I be successful in the extraction.

I find myself in Denver, a city to which I have never ventured before. Seems nice enough and the weather is good, I gather, for October in Colorado.

Some preliminary thoughts:

1) People smoke here more than they do in L.A. Seems ill-advised given the thin air. They’ll need their lungs.

2) The Mint should have a nicer gift shop, especially since they didn’t have any space left on their tour today. They make a profit on those state quarters. Cycle it back such that the gift shop doesn’t seem like a trailer time forgot. There are just the two Mints, really. They could try harder. Does anyone know if they try harder in Philadelphia mint-wise?

3) If I wanted Rockies World Series gear, my timing could not be better. It’s all 50% off. Now that I know the Rockies actively recruit born-again Christian players, I don’t so much want Rockies gear.

4) I’m in the hotel the BoSox stayed in last night. To hear tell, we’re lucky to get rooms, as the celebrated rather, um, vigorously and didn’t leave when they were supposed to.

5) I also hear tell that the Packers are staying here tonight. For fantasy football reasons, I’m hoping they have no real reason to celebrate. Brett Favre especially. Plus he doesn’t pronounce his name right. Ok, he does, given that he’s from the South, where Ponce De Leon is pronounced “Ponse Dee Leeeon” and Cairo, GA is pronounced “Kay-roh.” Still.

6) The Rockies (mountains, this time) are really pretty.

7) Ok, I’m off to dinner with my boss. I’m going to try not to say anything stupid.

Yesterday, Honey and I were done with our lunch. We had stopped at a restaurant in Ventura on the way back from a nice weekend away up the Central Coast. I had bidness at the branch of the system of which my university is a part at which I most covet a job. Did you follow that?  I would like to work where we went.

One of my students asked me last week, in reference to the midterm, whether I would “write the question in really hard professor language.” Another said, rather quickly, “don’t give her any ideas!”

Anyway, nice weekend to be ended with lunch in Ventura.

We had good sandwiches but were both struck by how loud the place we had chosen was. They had four teevees going. Two with football and two with bull-riding. They were also playing music rather loudly. Our waiter was taking a bit getting us the check and I heard Honey singing “Help Me Rhonda” along with the music. I should note, quickly and vigorously, that Honey isn’t a big Beach Boys fan. She can articulate this better than I. Indeed, she did so as we drove back to the freeway, explaining that, while she liked some Brian Wilson songs, the popular one were ubiquitous and not appealing to her. That’s a paraphrase, but I think I got the gist.

I have other reasons for not liking that particular song. The good news is that I see my therapist tonight and “Help Me Rhonda” could well come up. Once I’ve processed, I may share out.

Honey and I agreed, and, indeed, have discussed and agreed on this before, that music in restaurants, well, sucks. It’s loud. It interrupts both conversation and contemplative silence. It panders to the worst in music. It’s either noise (pablum pop stripped of lyrics) or intrusive (Beach Boys). Either way, I’d like modern America a wee bit quieter. Ok, a lot quieter.

I know that there are undoubtedly studies that show that people are happier when they have music while they eat.  It fills lulls in conversations and give those (theoretically) poor souls eating alone something to think about.  But I think focus groups of this type have caused more harm than good.  I like the sound of people talking and of dishes being moved around.  I like these sounds whether alone or with people.     I also like to be able to hear my dinner companion(s).  And to read when alone.

I’m sure there are people who want to be the bringee in a world that is far too loud.  Count me as not among that group.

Somebody turn down the damn music.  I’m never, ever, going to help Brian Wilson or Rhonda, so no need to implore me to do so.

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