Left Coast was a fanboy's dream

Got home last night from New Mexico, where Kel and I attended Left Coast Crime, the annual mystery conference that this year filled La Fonda in Santa Fe.

Thanks again to the organizers for asking me to be Toastmaster for the event. I still feel bad that TSA confiscated those toasters I packed, and I was unable to supply any toast. But we seemed to make do with booze.

As Toastmaster, I was allowed to get up on stage before 400-plus people and make a complete ass of myself (as usual), and the conference paid my travel and lodging expenses, including a beautiful suite with a balcony and a fruit basket. Also, people kept buying me drinks. I had a very, very good time.

Some highlights:

--At the banquet, I sat with Martin Cruz Smith, one of my favorite authors. We talked about books and mutual friends and his wife was charming and I'm sure I was a drooling idiot the whole time. When I recognized him on stage for his Lifetime Achievement Award, I publicly professed my love for the man. A first for me.

--I shook hands with Brian Garfield, another favorite, and told him that his novel "Hopscotch" was one of the few I kept when we recently gave our personal library to charity and moved to the beach. He liked that.

--Laurie R. King lives here in Santa Cruz County, so I gave her a "howdy neighbor" at a terrific party we attended the first night. Katharine Neville (author of "The Eight") hosted a whole herd of us, including guest of honor Margaret Coel and Watson award winner Craig Johnson. Our pal Joe Badal drove us to the party, which allowed me to pour down all the wine I liked without endangering the general public. Thanks, Joe.

--I interviewed New Mexico author Steven Havill, another GOH, in front of a few hundred people, and we had a good time. Steven is a born storyteller who didn't need much prompting.

--Kel and I dined with one of our favorite people in the world, the ever-hilarious Bill Fitzhugh, who brought along his elegant 84-year-old mother and his wonderful sister (who lives in Albuquerque). Our dinner lasted hours, and I couldn't eat for laughing and telling stories. Fitzhugh did not shoot any spitwads at anyone this time because his mother made him behave.

--I was chatting in the lobby with Gar Anthony Haywood when film director Spike Lee happened by. (This sort of thing happens at La Fonda.) Gar had met Spike before, so he chatted with him briefly while I kept a stupid grin on my face. (I'm not saying Spike is a tiny man, but I'm glad Gar and I were sitting down.)

--Our after-hours poker games at these conferences are the funniest places on Earth, thanks to wisecrackers like Fitzhugh, Parnell Hall, Chris Goff and John Billheimer. I can't disclose specifics, but if any of those people ever again make a noise like a buzzing housefly, I will immediately wet my pants.

Feel free to share your own Left Coast highlights in the "comments" section.

Back from B'con

Wow, what a great time at Bouchercon, the World Mystery Convention, in San Francisco. The organizers put on a great conference for 1,400 of our best pals.

The conference was in the Hyatt on the Embarcadero, and our room looked out at the Bay Bridge. Sailboats, the Ferry Building, lots of great restaurants within walking distance, etc.

Kelly and I each moderated panels at the conference, and our author panelists did splendid jobs.

Most fun for me, as always, were the after-hours poker games. The authors who sit around those poker tables may well be the funniest people in the world.

L.A. comin'

The folks who are putting together the next Left Coast Crime conference ask that all us blogger types remind you to register for Booked in L.A., which is coming up March 11-14 at the Omni Hotel in Los Angeles.

Some of my favorite people are among the honored guests: Jan Burke, Lee Child, Bill Fitzhugh and Janet Rudolph.

I'll be there, too.

For more info, click here: www.leftcoastcrime.org/2010/

Back in the saddle from Seattle

I've been out of town for a few days, visiting my pal Frank in Seattle, playing Scrabble and doing my best to provide some economic stimulus to the city's restaurants.

A very quick trip, driving through beautiful weather. We sure as hell got a lot of scenery out here in the Pacific Northwest.

I posted a new Corner Booth column here.

Stay-cation

With gasoline prices still steep, many folks must skip the traditional summer driving vacation to some faraway marvel such as the Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore or Grandma’s house.

There’s always plenty to do closer to home, of course. All areas of the country have their natural wonders and hidden waterholes and Giant Balls of Twine.

But let’s talk really close to home. You can take a mini-vacation without ever getting in your car. A stroll around the neighborhood can feel like a real get-away-from-it-all if you’re in the right frame of mind. Relax and take your time and find a new way to look at the world. If you can think on a smaller scale, your typical suburb becomes a Japanese bonsai garden, carefully designed to please the eye. It helps if you’ve been taking cold medicine.

Here, then, is a little pamphlet I made up:

GUIDE TO HIKING TRAILS AND RECREATIONAL OPPORTUNITIES AROUND MY YARD

Trails are easy unless otherwise indicated. All water is potable except that slimy bucket by the patio. Hikers are warned that a large, floppy dog inhabits the premises; all food should be kept in sealed containers. Also, a big bearded guy sometimes comes out and yells at trespassers, but he’s harmless.

Fig Tree Outlook Trail: An easy hike, but not to be attempted in bare feet because of an expanse of hot concrete driveway. The reward at the end of this walk is a weedy pocket garden with a shredded bark floor. At its center stands a symbol of hope, a small fig tree that’s been in the process of dying for one year. Spectacular.

Transverse Trail: This short stroll can be challenging because of a stretch of thick, sodden lawn. Uphill a few steps, then a slippery downslope the rest of the way, past the Impenetrable Lantana Jungle and the Tangled Trees of Lower Front Yard to the safety of the sidewalk.

Around Back Trail: This strenuous hike involves a couple of squeaky gates and a variety of tricky surfaces, so it’s not for the faint of heart or the bare of foot. For those intrepid enough to tackle it, many mysteries are revealed along the way, including the bloodlike Drips of Red Paint that accidentally got on the sidewalk that time. Past the looming Basketball Hoop stretch the Inexplicable Plains of Sharp Gravel, which cannot be traversed without shoes. Beyond another squeaky gate lies the real prize, a burbling waterfall and scenic pool. (Swimming not recommended -- Department of Health)

“Up Your Berm” Trail: The most strenuous hike on the property, this risky path goes up a steep berm covered in landscaping bark and the occasional decorative boulder. Not to be attempted in sandals. If you can manage it, however, it’s only a few strides before you reach the magnificent Great Wall of Suburbia, a gray concrete marvel that only the tallest of men can see over without a ladder. Beyond that wall, a majestic view of the next subdivision.

As you can see, the world is filled with many wonders, if you set your sights low enough. I urge my fellow armchair travelers and computer addicts to get up and go outside once in a while. Take a fond look at the world around you.

Plan your hikes carefully, and you can be back under the air conditioning before you break a sweat.

B.T. phone home

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me. I’m at the airport in (insert city here). Thought I’d call and see how things are around the house.”

“Oh, everybody’s fine. Just the usual around here.”

“Yeah? No major disasters? Haha.”

“Oh, you know, the usual. A small grease fire when (insert teen-ager’s name here) was cooking, but everything’s fine now. A little smoke damage.”

“Yipes.”

“We needed to paint the kitchen anyway.”

“Was (teen’s name) traumatized by the fire?”

“Nah. (S/he) seemed to think the whole thing was funny.”

“We’ll see how funny (s/he) thinks it is when (s/he) gets to paint the kitchen.”

“I’m just glad no one was hurt. Although the fire did affect the dog.”

“How so?”

“He yarked up all over the carpet. I guess it was the smoke. Might’ve been something he ate. One of my rubber gloves is missing.”

“Better keep an eye on him.”

“I will.”

“I’m afraid to ask about the cat.”

“Missing for three days now.”

“But the kids are OK?”

“Well, we did hear from the school.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Hate to bother you with this when you’re traveling. I’ll take care of it.”

“No, go ahead and tell me.”

“Well, (insert student’s name here) got detention. We have to meet with the principal.”

“What did (s/he) do this time?”

“It’s no big deal. Just the usual. (His/her) hair.”

“Now what?”

“It’s (purple/pink/magenta/green/some other color not found in nature).”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake--”

“And it’s shaved off on one side of (his/her) head.”

“Are you kid--”

“And the other side is dreadlocks.”

Pause.

“Well, that’s different.”

“The usual teen-aged attempt to get attention, but the principal says it’s distracting the other students.”

“Oh, well. It’s only hair. It can be (fixed/shorn/burned).”

“Also, the principal said (his/her) clothes are inappropriate.”

“What kind of puritanical operation are they running--”

“I think it was the fuzzy chaps that did it.”

“Oh.”

“Another fashion statement. The usual.”

“What about (insert older child’s name here)?”

“Some progress there. (S/he) called the other day and (s/he) is not riding with those bikers anymore. Had a little dustup in (insert city name), but I sent bail money and it’s all fine now.”

“Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

“Oh, sure. But hey, I was going to ask you: Have you noticed a funny noise in the bathroom?”

“What kind of a noise?”

“Kind of a rumbling? After flushing?”

“Uh-oh.”

“The plumber said it was a sewer line problem.”

“Oh, no.”

“It’s OK. He fixed it. Only a thousand bucks. And the sinkhole isn’t even that big.”

“Aaugh.”

“You’ll see, when you get home from your trip. I think we can fix it ourselves. Rent a dump truck. Buy some sod. How hard can it be?”

“Right. How about you? Have you been able to work amidst all this mayhem?”

“Oh, sure. Though I did have to redo a bunch of stuff after the computer died.”

“The computer?”

“And my boss wants a meeting. Something about our ‘place in the community.’”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know exactly. But he does play golf with the high school principal. No telling what he’s heard.”

“Great.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just have a good trip. It’ll all be waiting for you when you get home.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Maybe I’ll go to Vermont instead.”

“Vermont?”

“That’s where my luggage went.”

“Oh, my.”

“That’s business travel for you.”

“The usual.”

“Right.”

Tykes on a plane

The skies are less friendly when you’re flying with children.

Air travel these days is tough enough, what with all the canceled flights and baggage charges and people who insist on barbecuing goats for their in-flight meals. Throw a few screaming children into the mix, and you can soon find your brains leaking out your ears.

Or, you could get thrown off the plane altogether.

That happened to a Seattle family last year. A woman and her four children (including two with disabilities) were flying Southwest Airlines from Detroit to Seattle, changing planes in Phoenix. The mom admitted her children had been unruly on the Detroit-to-Phoenix leg, but she was shocked when Phoenix police told her the family wouldn’t be allowed on the Southwest flight to Seattle.

Wendy Slaughter and her kids were stranded in Phoenix until the children’s grandmother ponied up $2,000 to get them last-minute tickets on Alaska Airlines. After the news media got hold of the story, Southwest Airlines contacted the family and said it would refund the entire cost of their one-way tickets.

Several things about that story reflect the troubling state of air travel:

--The family said they were warned twice about the disruptive children, but were never told they could get booted from their next flight.

--The police were called because of unruly children?

--These people were flying from Detroit to Seattle via Phoenix. That’s approximately 42,000 miles out of the way. No wonder the kids got antsy.

--The airline offered a refund only after the family was safely back home.

Though it probably was no joy to be sitting near them, my sympathies are with the family. I’ve traveled with small children and it’s no picnic even when the kids are on their best behavior.

In fact, air travel presents one of the few occasions where I concede that it’s much easier to be the parents of teens than of smaller children. At least teens can put on their I-Pods and tune everybody out and be their usual inert, surly selves for the duration of the flight.

With little kids, everything about flying goes against the grain:

--They have to sit still.

--They’re supposed to be quiet.

--Pressurized cabins make their ears hurt, resulting in shrieking.

--They’re surrounded by strangers.

--Their parents act weird because they’re worried about the children disturbing others. Kids sense that discomfort, the same way horses sense fear, and react accordingly.

When I fly these days, I usually jam foam noise-suppressors into my ears so the shrieking kids (and chattering adults) don’t bother me. But I’m still reminded occasionally how much easier it is to travel without the little beggars along.

Recently, I was sitting in an airport across from a dad and his five-year-old son. Dad, sensing that something was wrong, patted the kid’s back, asking him if he felt okay. The boy responded by throwing up. A lot.

Dad suddenly had several problems to solve. His day had taken a difficult turn.

Since I was traveling alone, I performed the Business Traveler’s Special: I offered a sympathetic look, then picked up my briefcase and relocated to a different part of the terminal, pausing only to thank my lucky stars that my kids have grown up.

They call me Mr. Look-at-that

I was born to be a tour guide. Whenever we leave the house, I spend the whole trip pointing out the sights.

Sometimes, it’s informative.

“Look at that,” I’ll say. “Those black rocks originally came from that volcano way over there. Wow, what an explosion, huh?”

Sometimes, it’s sublime.

“Look at that. The way the sunlight plays on the water. Beautiful.”

Other times, it’s ridiculous.

“Look at that. Another chain-saw grizzly bear sculpture!”

And sometimes, sad to say, it’s downright mean.

“Look at the ears on that guy! If he could flap ’em, he could fly.”

It’s not as if other people can’t see these passing sights for themselves. It’s not as if they’re breathlessly waiting for me to show them the next point of interest. In fact, there’s evidence that it gets downright annoying.

“I see it,” my wife says, once she’s had enough. “We can all see it. It’s right there in front of us. We are not blind.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure you were looking over there,” I’ll say. “I didn’t want you to miss that particular cloud and -- Hey! Look at THAT!”

Heavy sighs all around.

My look-at-that compulsion may stem from my decades as a journalist. Newspaper folks are professional observers, relating what others don’t have the time or inclination to go see for themselves. When I see something interesting, I feel I must report back, even if the people receiving the reports are standing right next to me.

The compulsion may go even farther back, to the classroom, where I was one of those kids who always had his hand up, eager to share the (possibly) correct answer with my fellow students. They found it annoying, too, which resulted in bathroom-related hazing and the nickname “Swirly Steve.” (OK, I made up that last part.)

I can’t help it that I’m full of trivia. My brain collects factoids the way pants pockets collect lint. Acting as tour guide gives me a chance to inflict that knowledge on others.

My family doesn’t even bother to do any research before a vacation. They know Mr. Look-at-that will study the travel guides and websites so he can make pronouncements about when a particular monument was erected, the differences between bald eagles and ospreys, or why the native rock is that color. They just go along for the ride, relaxing and taking in the scenery while secretly hoping I’ll run out of steam.

I stand ready for any visitors we get this summer. I’ve got some stuff to show them. Whether they want to look at it or not.

Big fun on "Lonely Street"

I've posted a column all about our trip to the Newport Beach Film Festival over at the Corner Booth. Click here to read it.

It was thrilling to see the movie made from my first novel. Saw a lot of friends, too. A wonderful trip.

Lights, camera . . . inaction

We're back from the Newport Beach Film Festival, where we saw a screening of "Lonely Street," the movie based on my first Bubba Mabry novel. Had a great time, but I'm way too tired tonight to send details. Will post more tomorrow.

Comedy of manners

It says something about the state of our nation when an airline has to tell us how to behave, but apparently that’s what it’s come to.

Delta Air Lines Inc. (corporate motto: “What luggage?”) now offers humorous videos instructing passengers how to act during flights. The animated videos, posted online and on flights, show passengers who behave badly, hogging armrests or bumping into others or letting their children shriek.

“We understand what you go through as a traveler,” Delta vice president of marketing Tim Mapes told The Associated Press. “These videos can reinforce, ‘Hey, you don’t want to be that guy.’”

The 25 videos are called “Planeguage: The Language of Traveling by Plane,” and include titles such as “Lav Dance,” about a passenger who bumps everyone along the aisle while returning from the bathroom, “Shady Lady,” which shows a woman who raises or closes her window shade without regard for others, and “Kidtastrophe,” which depicts unruly brats on a plane.

Experts say such basic instruction is necessary because more people are flying now than ever before, including thousands of first-timers who don’t know you’re not supposed to bring live chickens onto the plane.

Instructing these neophytes is more constructive than the reactions of veteran air travelers such as myself: Sighing and eye-rolling when the old lady in line at security says, “We have to take off our SHOES?” or the cowboy insists that his rodeo buckle always gets through metal detectors “Jes’ fine.”

Delta may be onto something here. Maybe we need humorous videos to teach people good manners in other aspects of life. Some suggestions:

“Dysfunction Junction” -- A video about maintaining proper boundaries while discussing family issues. Yeah, yeah, your childhood was terrible. Get over it.

“Hair Scare” -- In this video, women and young men with long hair are taught to pull it back into a ponytail at mealtimes rather than dip it in their soup.

“Hang Up” -- This humorous video shows a motorist chattering into a cell phone while mowing down pedestrians. Funny stuff.

“Shut Up and Eat Your Popcorn” -- This video could star Robert DeNiro in full “Taxi Driver” mode: “You talkin’ to me? You must be talkin’ to me, ‘cause you wouldn’t talk during the movie, right?”

“Queue” -- An animated video of stick figures standing in line, committing violations such as cutting, dallying or coughing on the necks of the persons in front of them. One stick figure corrects this behavior and enforces good manners -- with an ax. Hilarious.

“After You” -- A video about the proper etiquette of the four-way stop.

“Colonel Mustard in the Library” -- No one wants to find mystery stains or inked marginalia in a library book. Get a clue.

“Cracking Up” -- Keep your mouth closed while chewing gum. If you must crack your knuckles, go off someplace by yourself. And, while you’re at it, pull up your pants.

“Face Forward” -- An interactive video in which you get to twist around the heads of NFL quarterbacks who wear their sidelines caps backward.

“Thumpers” -- Rap music, big speakers, too much bass. Need I say more?

“Just Desserts” -- No one wants to hear about your new diet or how much you’ve lost.

“Spam I Am” -- Explores e-mail etiquette, and how users don’t want to hear from you, even if you really are Nigerian royalty.

“That’s Aroma!” -- If I can smell your perfume/after shave, you’re either wearing too much or standing too close.

Get it on with your mini-bar

Doesn’t it seem at times that life is a hotel room mini-bar? It rarely provides exactly what you want, the portions are too small and everything costs way too much. Plus, you must fetch your own ice.

When I travel, I almost never resort to the mini-bar. I can’t bring myself to spend $6 for a single cookie or $8 on a bottle so small that the liquor evaporates before I can get it to my lips. Besides, by the time I get to my room at night, I’m usually already well-oiled from the maxi-bar off the hotel lobby. At that point, consuming a miniature bottle of booze would be like spitting in a river.

Mini-bars are much on my mind since I saw a newspaper item about a hotel in Miami’s South Beach that offers “themed” mini-bar packages. For $50 and up, the Catalina Hotel and Beach Club will tailor mini-bar stock to fit guests’ special needs or moods.

The “Get It On” package, for example, includes champagne, whipped cream, maraschino cherries, strawberries, scented candles, edible body paint and -- this is my favorite part -- a Barry White CD. Oh, baby, baby.

(If I consumed whipped cream, maraschino cherries and strawberries, on top of champagne, I wouldn’t be considering whether to “Get It On.” I’d be worrying about “Diabetic Coma.”)

I don’t know what other mini-bar packages the hotel staff has dreamed up, but here are some suggestions:

“Bang a Gong” -- Champagne, beer, vodka, strawberries, peanuts, beer, a bong, a gong, Wild Turkey, beer and a T-Rex CD.

“Get It Done” -- Coffee, caffeine tablets, beef jerky, strawberries, a wireless Internet hookup and a recording of your boss screaming about an impending deadline.

“Get Her Drunk” -- Champagne, maraschino cherries, champagne, a bottle of Southern Comfort, strawberries, more champagne, and a Pink Floyd CD. This package is also known as the “Prom Night Special.”

“Get Some Sleep” -- A carton of milk, some chilled turkey, sleeping pills, a jug of cheap wine and a Barry Manilow CD.

“Get a Job” -- Champagne, strawberries, resumes, a phone book, want ads and a CD by The Silhouettes.

“Lose Some Weight” -- Diet Pepsi, Miller Lite, rice cakes, carrots, celery, a Richard Simmons DVD and six gallons of edible body paint.

“I’m Sorry” -- Champagne, red roses, shiny baubles, strawberries, a form letter of apology, kneepads and a Brenda Lee CD.

“The Romeo” -- Fresh flowers, scented candles, strawberries, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, a book of sonnets and a Julio Iglesias CD.

“The Bubba” -- A six-pack of Bud, a pint of Jack Daniels, a bag of pork rinds, two EZ-Open cans of chili and a DVD of the Daytona 500.

“The Flight Attendant” -- A variety of miniature booze bottles, flimsy plastic cups with too much ice, and 47 tiny bags of pretzels.

“Weary Business Traveler” -- One large bottle of hooch and some ice. Maybe some peanuts or something.

“Family Vacation” -- Mai Tai mix, rum, sunscreen, aspirin, antacids, a hat with Mickey Mouse ears, stain remover, a Wiggles CD, earplugs and edible body paint (for the kids).

Perhaps none of these mini-bar packages will work for you. Perhaps you’d still resent paying so much for so little. Maybe cramming a small refrigerator with tiny goodies will never come close to what we all want, which is to stay home with our loved ones and our familiar surroundings and our Barry White CDs.

That’s life. Pass the strawberries.

Scrabble in Seattle

Back at the helm after a fun few days of Scrabble and dining out with my pal Frank in beautiful Seattle. We even got one day of sunshine while I was there. Not that we were outside much. We played 19 games of Scrabble between Wednesday night and Saturday morning.

I won the majority, humbly remaining Scrabble Champion of the Known World. Because Frank is the loser, feel free to taunt him if you cross paths. Spitting is allowed.

A world too small for such a man

My mantra for middle age: Every day, in every way, I am getting fatter and fatter.

I diet (sort of). I exercise (a lot). Every day, I step onto the bathroom scales and groan.

I am not what doctors call "morbidly obese." More like pathetically obese. It's just sad the way fat accumulates on the body of a middle-aged man who gave up smoking a few years ago and took up Oreos instead.

One look in the mirror raises a number of questions: When did my hips become wider than my shoulders? When did my waist measurement leave my inseam in the dust? Where did my belt go? Oh, there it is, hiding under my paunch. Sneaky devil.

I know I'm not alone. News reports regularly scream that America's the fattest country on earth, that we're killing ourselves with our own mouths. We're all so concerned about obesity and health, we can find solace only in another snack.

"Middle age" apparently refers to body location rather than simple chronology. You pass 40, and your middle shows its age by ballooning up as it never has before. This so-called "spread" is the curse of adulthood.

("Middle-Age Spread" sounds like a ranch, one that extends from Armpit Valley to Bad Knee Junction, passing the mustard-stained slopes of Mount Belly and Lardbutt Heights along the way. Yee-haw. Git along, lil hoagies!)

I was already a large man before I became a large, pear-shaped man. I'm six-foot-five, and rarely a day goes by that I don't hit my head on something, which may explain my many mental "issues."

Because of my height, I already bought my clothes at "Big-and-Tall" shops. I used to shop in the "Tall" section. Now, in middle age, I need the "Big" part, too.

With this widening has come more frequent painful encounters with the door jambs and sharp edges of my everyday world. A few years ago, I only worried about hitting my head. Now, I worry about snagging a hip on a cabinet corner. I tuck my elbows against my sides when I go through doors. I'm usually sporting a bruise somewhere.

The world isn't designed for the big and tall. Countertops and light switches and sinks always are the wrong height. Beds are too short. Doorways are too narrow. Bucket seats? Don't make me laugh.

Worst, of course, are airplanes, which are designed by elfin workers at Boeing who get their revenge on the world by torturing us big guys. (You might not know this, but "Economy" comes from the Latin words for "pinch my fat with your armrest.")

Recently, I rode in one of those small, turboprop planes formally known as "puddle-jumpers," and was forced by dire need to squeeze my very large self into its very small bathroom.

I got in there all right, facing the correct direction, etc., but when it came time to emerge, I had a problem. I was wedged so tightly, I couldn't move my arms. Which meant I couldn’t release the door latch. Which raised the very real possibility that I would remain in that fiberglass coffin until someone got me out with a blowtorch. By exhaling and pivoting just right, I managed to get free, but there were a few panicky seconds when a headline flashed before my eyes:

Middle-Aged Fatty Trapped in Airplane Loo

God, the humiliation. Only one way to beat that rap -- blame someone else. So I pictured this headline instead:

Trapped Fatty Sues Airline; Nabisco Named as Co-Defendant

Ah, that's better. Let's eat!

Notes from Pismo

Nothing takes the go-go-go out of the harried Christmas season like a few days at the beach. Kel and I recently celebrated our 25th anniversary with a second honeymoon at Pismo Beach, and she's got photos here. One day, I too will know how to post photos to my blog, but that day is not today. So go check 'em out at Pink Hollyhock.

I spent a good deal of the trip sitting on our veranda, watching the waves crash against the cliffs, and I had many deep thoughts that I can't remember now. I did, however, make a few notes:

--At the beach, everyone looks sunburned and windswept.

--At sunup, it's a little chilly for sipping coffee on my second-floor veranda, so I wear unlaced sneakers and a leather flight jacket with my pajamas. I look like the pilot on the redeye flight.

--While Kel took a nap, I sneaked in a televised NFL game with the audio off. Sure, it's our 25th anniversary and all, but come on. The playoffs are coming up.

--Otters!

--In the harsh glare of the motel bathroom light, my wiry white whiskers make me look like a sidekick. Gabby Hayes, somebody like that.

--It is not possible to stare long at white seabirds without thinking of the word "wheeling."

--One insistently shrieking seagull can ruin a perfectly good veranda.

Holiday travel lunacy

Over the river and through the woods, to the loony bin we go.

The holiday travel season is in full stride, which means millions of Americans suffer temporary insanity. Why? Because they're trapped in planes, trains and automobiles with their families.

Many of us will travel hundreds, even thousands, of miles so we can be "home for the holidays." We're soon reminded why we live hundreds, even thousands, of miles away. We escaped our relatives: Uncle Floyd with his soup-can spittoon. Grandma Esther, who isn't happy until every forehead bears the imprint of her startling pink lipstick. Drunken cousin Rufus, who thinks a thawed turkey makes one hilarious hand puppet. That one crazy aunt (every family has one) who wears the aluminum-foil hat so the alien rays won't affect her, bless her heart.

Before you ever get to these eccentrics, though, you must travel with your immediate family, the people with whom you choose to spend your everyday life.

Travel is an exercise in too much togetherness. Pecadilloes that, in small doses, seem endearing or amusing -- ice crunching, tuneless whistling, mindless sniffing -- can become the most annoying habits ever when experienced over the course of a three-day car trip.

Add kids to the mix, and travel becomes unbearable. Children get bored and cranky. They're no good at sitting still. The answer to the question, "Are we there yet?" is never the right one.

Irritation and fatigue prompt parents to say things we'd never say if it weren't for the lunacy of traveling together. For example, in the course of everyday life, you'd probably never threaten to abandon your child on the side of the road. But let him misbehave enough during a long trip, and you'll soon hear yourself saying, "Don't make me pull this car over. It's a long walk home."

It's worse when kids act up aboard airplanes. Parents feel the disapproval of fellow passengers crowding them, but they can't threaten the child with "don't make me pull this plane over."

If a child starts shrieking, the mortified parent will do anything short of homicide to shut him up. When the kid does clam up, no one on the plane believes the quiet will last. Passengers faint from holding their breaths, waiting for the next scream.

Once, when our older son was a toddler, he would only stop shrieking if I let him stand on my lap and look out the airplane window. We'd made the mistake of dressing him in cute hiking boots with "waffle-stomper" soles. By the end of the trip, my thighs looked as if they'd been beaten with a waffle iron.

It's easier once the kids get older. Our two sons are now teens, so they're happy as long as they can ignore their parents and/or pretend they don't know us. This is true whether we're in an airport or at home.

My wife made a recent family trip much easier by supplying the four of us with separate headphones and music players so no one had to talk to anybody else. We spent the whole journey bobbing our heads to the sounds of different drummers, which pretty much sums up family relationships.

Aside from headphone isolation, the best survival tactic is to remember that holiday travel is temporary. Once you reach your destination, you'll be in the bosom of your family, gathered around the Christmas tree, laughing and opening gifts and wearing foil hats.

At that happy moment, with gift wrap scattered on the floor and shouts of "Merry Christmas" still echoing off the walls, you can start dreading the trip home.

How to get what you want at hotels

I travel a great deal for business and book tours, so I spend an awful lot of sleepless nights in hotels and motels.

(What's the difference between a hotel and a motel? A hundred bucks a night.)

I'm rarely happy with the experience. Noises keep me awake. The temperature's wrong and the room smells like feet. Your average motel mattress feels like a bag of hammers. The dark bathroom's unfamiliar and there's often a towel rack placed at just the right height to bruise my shoulder.

Do I complain? No. I expect my stay to be lousy. When I check out and the front desk clerk asks if everything was okay, I stoically mumble and nod and slump off to the airport. What's the point of complaining after the fact? No way to get that sleepless night back.

Turns out I've been doing it all wrong. The way to ensure a pleasant stay is to make demands in advance. Before you arrive, send a list of your desires so the hotel staff can scurry around and make the place feel like home.

Rock stars have known this for years. That's why their contracts carry riders that spell out, in excruciating detail, what foods and beverages will be available backstage and what they'll need in terms of accommodations, including the correct number of groupies.

We can't all be rock stars, but an online revelation shows that savvy business travelers can make precious demands, too, particularly if they're the vice president of the United States.

A website got hold of an official document called "Vice Presidential Downtime Requirements," which listed more than a dozen demands for VP Dick Cheney's hotel suites. Among them: All lights turned on, temperature set to 68 degrees, decaf coffee brewed prior to arrival, bottled water, "Diet Caffeine Free Sprite, 4 cans" and -- get this -- all televisions tuned to FOX News.

Now there's a business traveler who knows how to get what he wants. Taking a page from the Veep's book, I've created my own list of demands:

--Nonsmoking room that has been a nonsmoking room for longer than three days of airing out.

--King-sized bed. Mattress must contain no actual elbows.

--Room must be cleaned of all evidence of previous occupants, including stray hairs and toenail clippings.

--Bottled water that's not secretly $6 per swallow.

--A minibar stocked with pints rather than those tiny bottles.

--Coffeemaker and real coffee that hasn't been freeze-dried, vacuum-sealed, flash-roasted, recycled or stored in Juan Valdez's pants.

--No sirens, garbage trucks, construction vehicles, honking taxis or thundering hot rods anywhere within four square blocks of the hotel during traditional sleeping hours.

--That maid who hammers on the door and shrieks "Housekeeping!" approximately 17 times? She can't arrive before 11 a.m.

--Soft towels, not the starchy ones that peel off the first layer of skin. If I want a loofah, I'll ask for one.

--Basic toiletries, including shampoo that doesn't make one's hair staticky and standing on end all day long.

--Drunken conventioneers laughing loudly in the hallway at 2 a.m. will be shot. Unless I'm one of them.

--If a smoke alarm sounds in the night, there had better, by god, be a fire in the building. If the alarms wakes me from a sound sleep and there is no fire, I get to set one.

--Four cans of Diet Caffeine Free Sprite. Hey, if it's good enough for Dick Cheney …

--All televisions tuned to any channel except FOX News. Preferably ESPN or Comedy Central.

Groupies are optional.

Keep it simple, stupid

Simplicity's all the rage these days, and many lifestyle gurus urge us to simplify our lives.

We’re told we should get more exercise by walking everywhere like our simple ancestors, the hunters and gatherers. We're told we should maintain the diet of simple Mediterranean goatherds. We're told we should embrace the simplistic, old-fashioned values of South Dakotans and other primitive peoples.

Mostly, we're advised to own less stuff. All our swanky possessions and elaborate electronic gizmos drag us down, the gurus say, leading us to want more, more, more of everything, while denying us the spiritual fulfillment that comes from leading a simple life.

The experts pass along this advice in books and articles in which they try to encapsulate simplicity in catchy ways that make it appear desirable. For these efforts, they are rewarded with tons of money, which they then use to buy more stuff.

In an attempt to tear off a piece of that action, I've come up with the perfect motto for the simple life: Live every day as if you're about to go through airport security.

What better way, in our helter-skelter world, to sum up simplicity? Is there any time when we're more embarrassed and inconvenienced by our possessions? When glowering, latex-gloved security guards fondle us all over, don't we regret that Rolex? Don't we wish we'd left our rodeo belt buckle at home?

At airport security, we're stripped down to nothing but clothes and sock-feet. As our inconvenient stuff goes through the X-ray machine, aren't we given the perfect moment to examine modern life and its complexity?

Ask yourself: Why do I go around with my pockets full and my briefcase bulging and my personal digital assistant surgically grafted to my hand? Why can I not live, even for a few hours, without e-mail or a cell phone? Why do I need so danged many keys?

Use the Airport Security Simplicity model to get back to basics. Limit jewelry and the stuff you carry in your pockets to items that will fit in that little plastic cereal bowl they give you at airport security. Briefcases and other life baggage should be limited to two carry-ons -- one that would fit in an overhead bin and a personal item such as a purse or laptop computer.

(You might want to eliminate shoes altogether. Why hassle with them? Flip-flops, baby, flip-flops.)

I reached this epiphany only recently, when I realized that I'd simplified my life to the point where I can prance right through airport metal detectors. Because I work at home, I've eliminated from my repertoire most of the stuff that regular folks carry around. In my pockets, I'm down to two keys, a wallet and a comb. My wristwatch, with its leather band and fake gold case, doesn't set off alarms. Neither do the cheap plastic ballpoints I favor.

You can't get much more simple than I am. Wait, what I mean to say is: Your life can't get much simpler than mine. I've streamlined and jettisoned and simplified to the point where I go out into the world (or at least into airports) all but naked of material things. Guys entering prison carry more stuff than I do.

This should qualify me as a lifestyle guru, one who has fully embraced the simplicity trend. I plan to sit back now and wait for the riches to come my way.

Then I'm going shopping. I need some stuff.

Another blow against my tribe

Air France has announced that it will start charging a supplemental fee for the exit row seats preferred by tall people like me. An airline official calls it a small price to pay for extra legroom.

Frog legs continue to fly for the regular price.

Full story here.

Take a tip from me

I heart New York as much as the next guy, but I've never mastered the whole tipping thing, which is such an important part of everyday life in that city.

(There's a reason they call it the Big Apple; everybody wants a bite.)

Oh, I'm fine in restaurants and bars. The waiter hands me a check, I figure the tip and deliver the correct amount. Better yet, I hand over a credit card and let somebody else do the math. I'm okay in cabs, where I can watch the clicking meter as I near my destination and do my calculations. And I almost always contribute to tip jars.

Where I fail is in the quick handoff -- the tips that reward doormen and bellhops and room-service waiters and shuttle drivers. There's that moment of social awkwardness where I say, "Thank you," then try to pass them a couple of bucks. I never know which hand to use or where to look or whether I'm tipping the right amount.

If I mess up the exchange, I feel like a goober. If it all goes smoothly, I still feel weird, like some gold-chain Vegas high-roller mobster type: "Here's a little something for your trouble, pal …."

I'm uncomfortable with the whole social convention. You help me with something, just doing your job, and I'm supposed to slip you some extra money? We're acting like friends -- "Let me help you with that bag, sir" -- but "thank you" isn't good enough. Suddenly, we're not friends anymore and it's strictly a commercial transaction.

Wouldn't it be more honest if the rate was set out at the beginning? "Let me help you with that bag for two dollars, sir." Ah, that would make it simpler, wouldn't it? "Hold the door open for a buck?" Gotcha. "Deliver your incredibly overpriced pot of room-service coffee to your door for only five dollars." Never mind, I'll stumble to Starbucks.

Even when I'm mentally prepared for the transaction, my money often won't cooperate. I have to unbutton a pocket, dig out my wallet, desperately thumb through it for the correct denomination. Is anything more inelegant than tipping somebody and asking for change? I know Tony Soprano would handle it smoother, peeling bills off a roll, saying just the right thing.

(Of course, Tony Soprano probably hands out twenty-dollar bills. That's typically all I have in my wallet because that's what ATMs dispense -- yuppie food stamps. Anything smaller ends up in the grubby hands of my kids.)

Tip recipients probably don't care how they get our dough, as long as we cough it up, but I can't get over the notion that they're smirking on the inside, watching the big gomer fumble with his money.

Maybe this discomfort stems from the fact that I've never been on the receiving end of tipping. I never worked in food service or at a hotel. I worked in a couple of clothing stores when I was in high school, then went right into the newspaper biz.

Now I work at home, all by myself, and it's not like I've got a reader looking over my shoulder, saying, "Whoa, nice verb! Here's a little something for your trouble."

I suppose I could put a tip jar on my desk in hopes that visitors would drop in the occasional buck. Might make a nice source of side income.

For my kids.