Ah, the elusive yet accommodating folks' basement. It's been eight months since I've had four walls to call my own, so I'll settle for three and a partition now. I had fun orbiting in California before crashing here, though.

From other parents' basements across the world, nerds turned up for Robolympics, an ode to Battlebots. Actually, it was the same but with more plexiglass, flames, and the occasional nonviolent AI humanoid breakdancing match. An acquaintance competed (victoriously) in the middleweight competition, so admission and workshop access flowed like light machine oil. Despite vigorously betting with Bryan on matches all Saturday, I left the carnage with exactly the number of quarters I started with. Those coins were the only metal not battered to hell when that evening's fog rolled in over Alcatraz.

My aunt, Ms. Garrett, is close with one of the recent gubernatorial candidates, Garrett, and that connection brought me, Garrett, to a shindig. Garrett rented a little fish-themed place for his wife's birthday party. Namely, the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Yeah, the same joint that puts Baltimore's dinky National Aquarium in its proper corner of the tank. Its jellyfish walk won 'Best Exhibit in North America' when it debuted last year, thwomping every other aquarium, zoo, or art show on the continent. An Outer Bay tank dwarfed the banquet. The 300-pound tunas regularly passed four feet from me. That reinforced my decision to eat the salmon instead. Garrett and all his cronies do the scuba, so conversation flowed when jaws weren't actively dropped by a pre-dessert magic show. Maria doesn't dive, but the sea turtles almost convinced her to jump right in. And I don't normally dance, but Maria convinced me to, well, jump right in.

What's a rock-n-roll lifestyler to do when your two favorite bands sold out years ago? How about wait until the best members of both get antsy, join forces and hold a jam session in a small San Francisco club. Throw in a little no-smoking legislation, hog the front of the crowd with the best looking girl in the Bay Area, sauté, and enjoy.

Santa Cruz: Beach - check. Ferris wheel pictures - check.

Now, you know I'm a liberal fella. But I don't go around arbitrarily designating mid-sized municipalities "nuclear-free zones" and boycotting (?) country clubs because they don't let every hobo meander through at will. Please don't think I'm judging you, Berkeley. The last thing I need is hemp-garmented picketers between me and my backyard grass-mowing chores. No, no - not that type of grass. Sheesh. I still like you, though. I'll come down and celebrate Indigenous Peoples' Day when it rolls around.

I'm writing off the Corvallis detour as an unemployment expense. I borrowed Eric's copy of Cool Careers for Dummies, see.

'Writing off.' That reminds me. Taxes. Heh. Those'll be easy this year.

I've spent the first hours of my 25th birthday in my birth-town as a lithe night-elf rogue called 'Asthma'. Yes, Eric's been gifted by the gods with a spot in the World of Warcraft beta. I'm at his apartment in Corvallis (second in the definitive 1992 'Best Small Towns in America' list), about ten seconds by foot from the store where I bought my Petra tape. As Christian metal bands go, the twelve-year-old me gave them two adolescent thumbs up. Didn't mean to make a sabbatical here for the quarter-century anniversary of my birth down the street, but the promises of Woodstocks pizza and late night geeking-out forced the detour.

Thusly proven, stateside existence refosters my inner dork. And he likes Button Men, particularly the delicious online manifestation. I face off against accountants and Poindexters the world over. If you too harbor a strange interest in dice games, sign up and challenge me (my uninspired username: Downen) or just email me after you have an account and I'll take care of the dirty work. Devil take us, it is a game of chance, but it doesn't cost any dollars. And it's open to all of us proletariat, not just those on the Blizzard Friends List.

More words about California soon.

Still traveling. With this much inertia, it's hard to stop. Yes, I have de facto ownership of a trendy Berkeley Hills apartment and the sport coup outside, but I still find myself at the same museums and wilderness preserves so frequently visited in Parts Unknown. Explore the nearby. It's just as fun, especially if you hail from the Bay Area, and the Legion of Honor hosts an art deco exhibit.

Instead of cleaning hostel bathrooms in exchange for a bed, I walk dogs and wrestle faulty wireless networks. WWOOFing, suburb style. My trip couldn't be bookended with two finer aunts. Nor could those same relatives choose finer real estate. I yammered about Bobbee's digs in August. Now it's Mom's other sister's turn. The pool room boasts views of the Golden Gate bridge, the Trans-America Building, and nighttime Oakland. Even the latter's gorgeous, at distances out of small-arms range. I only need leave the property for sustenance, which local bakeries dish up with upapologeticly organic zeal.

The March San Fransisco weather beats anything I've seen all summer. New Zealand, you should be ashamed of yourself. My bad luck aside... For those of you planning extensive trips: I can't rave about the southern hemisphere's December climate patterns enough. The only thing stopping me from purchasing tickets to Nepal in September are poverty and Nepal's northern hemisphere coordinates.

I wrote me a resumé. I hope employers like puns. Starting from scratch greased the wheels. Compared to the old monstrosity, the wordcount's down by a factor of lots. It's a toss up. The old mention of my 8th grade science fair sweep might've cinched that dive instructor position.

I wonder if there's a correlation between these culture shocks: the fruit in the States seems unappealingly shiny, and the people in the States seem gargantuan. It's hard to change the latter, but if anyone can point out an apple that doesn't have my ugly reflection on it, it's a start.

My 24-hour stayover at home in Portland involved a nasal altitude adjustment due to renewed appreciation of Northwest microbrews. Their proximity to an afternoon of beach volleyball and my brother Trevor only sweetened the hops.

The 9-hour drive to the Bay Area allowed me one of the God-given all-American pleasures in life: Blasting down a California freeway at 90mph+ with California guitar rock accompaniment. It's a wonder the California Highway Patrol only clocked me at 83. I blame Stroke 9's delicious little album, "Rip It Off", entirely.

I'll fix the American car culture next week. Right now, I'm too busy developing blisters from the act of driving. Preposterous, I know. But, riddle me this - has there ever been a recorded footsore case stemming from the sporting of Birkinstocks? I think not. The odd placement of said blisters on both flanks of only the right foot imply that the brake-to-gas and back again movement's done the wear and tear. Apparently I could work on my fuel economy practices too.

It's not been that long since I've helmed a car. Louise, despite my trembling protestations, manhandled me into the captain's chair of her right-hand-drive station wagon for good parts of our North Island touring. The pedals were still in the right place, and I'd gotten used to being on the wrong side of the road while zipping around Bali on a 100cc (though I still avoid turning right when three easy lefts'll work much less confusion on me). The problem was the shifter and the hand controls. I'd go to change from second to third and end up rolling down the window. Or vice-versa.

This paragraph, containing the word "review" and using Google as an accomplace, serves up what little defamation I can muster: The management of USA Hostels Hollywood deserves a pitchfork up its collective arse. I've stayed in budget accomadation for over half a year now, and I deem my first domestic dalliance with dorms the worst. I'm not hard to please - don't personally go out of your way to ruin my life, and I'll contentedly pay for your shoestring lodging. These hateful people yelled at me as I entered the door, and I chimed in on my way out. The details are uninteresting, but if you feel like listening to a fifteen minute diatribe on the sundry evils of USA Hostels Hollywood, I'll be accessible by phone within mere weeks. Rating: 1 of a possible 10 points. The positive score's only due to the pancake batter left out in the morning. Fairly tasty.

This hostel outside Disneyland, however: cha-ching. The Carousel Inn and Suites outdoes itself. Buffet breakfast. No need to unfurl the sleeping bag - there's sheets on them there matresses. They even hand you a fresh towel - daily! I share an ensuite with four other people, all pallid Oregonians. The fourteen year-old snores like an upset DC-10, but aside from that they're friendly as can be. The hugs they gave me when I showed up! Danged folks even picked up the cost of my bed.

I've gone (nearly) six months without seeing my family before, but never with the changes undergone by all this last sojourn. The short two are much taller, for instance. But still short.

Disneyland celebrates its fiftieth next year, and its greying hair still shows color. Though that's just the Matterhorn rusting. Ha! I'm just joshing. They've repainted several times since the Eisenhower administration. Yes Walt, new attractions keep us spoiled kids a-smiling. Take, for instance, the new mag-lev coaster in California Adventure. It's fast. Or how about California Adventure itself? Also new. Aging rides such as the Jungle Cruise still inspire giggles, but primarily because Disneyland employees heckle them throughout the ride. It's scripted, but funny. 'It's a Small World', however, could only be improved by handing everyone three or four softballs on the way in.*
*Imagineering credit to some lady who's not me.

Saw Michael Eisner tonight. Now a part of the Frontierland groundskeeping team, he swooped in to sweep up after the acutely entertaining (but painfully named) Fantasmic! spectacular spectacular.

"Thank you for attending 'Honey, I Shrunk the Audience.' Exits are to your right. We hope you enjoy the rest of your day here in this magic kingdom, the happiest place on earth, a place I like to call... work."

March 1, by my watch, contained forty-five hours. I present the play-by-play:

7am - Woke up; munched breakfast of shortbread and leftover goat curry. (Can't bring it with me!) Attempted to carry on conversation with the Safari Club's engaging proprietor without reciprocating his flirtations. Read mediocre paperback by river's outlet to the ocean. Caught sight of one of the smaller bull sharks I'd swum with the previous day, heading upstream, just like a cute lil' 10-foot salmon.
9:30am - Boarded open air local bus to Nadi. Became enthralled with the three hours of attempts by an old Fijian guy to suck the last drops of Fanta out of a bottle using a too-short straw.
12:30pm - Saw Nadi in daylight for the first time. Wished for temporary blindness and can of anti-vendor spray.
1:15pm - Had lunch. Created death feud between competing restaurants in the process.
2pm - Caught up on email, wrote weblog post, hobnobbed with every other foreigner trying to escape the Nadi street sleaze. Followed Peter Jackson's Oscar sweep in real time online.
4:30pm - Explored toy store. Not only did it smell like the toy store on Hureyah in Alexandria in the late '80s, it carried the same new releases.
5:15pm - Dinner at the same place. Tandoori chicken. Received glares of abject hatred from the restaurantier across the way.
7pm - Visited the guys I knew at Sunseekers. Nadi's cheapest hostel now sports even larger larvae puddle farms!
7:30pm - Blew fifty (Fijian) cents on a minibus to the airport. The sound systems these guys have... wow.
8pm - Met up with friends Magnus, Spike and Mattie at the Nadi International's sole terminal. Convinced Magnus to carry a fifth of sambuca through customs for me. He's Swedish. Customs guys love Swedes. Apply the tactical concept of 'zero threat' to a populace, and there you have them. I couldn't pass up the sambuca - the two duty frees, like the restaurants earlier, were firmly engaged in a pricewar that left fresh stinking piles of casualties daily.
9:25pm - Air New Zealand Flight 50 left tarmac. Watched 'Love Actually'. Sniffled. Took a three-hour nap, scribbled in my journal, wondered how the woman to my left survives day-to-day life in Norway when she's obviously incapable of tearing open a fresh roll without crumbing herself and disfiguring me. Her chosen plan of attack for the immigration forms left me speechless and reeling.
1pm - Landed in Los Angeles. Slapped silly by culture shock. For one thing, the language barrier's the worst I'd experienced since the hill-tribes in Vietnam, though at least there people smiled. The only grins you see at LAX belong to the "charity" scammers outside the terminal. Listened to transit shuttle liaison Ernie's lengthy discourse on the curvaceous virtues of Australian girls. Yes Ernie, I already know.
2pm - Boarded shuttlebus.
5pm - Exited shuttlebus. Reminisced about the filth of Nadi. My perception out the window on the flight proved spot on - greater Los Angeles forms a literal parking lot. Except with less charm. Combine the sprawl of Bangkok with the traffic congestion of Bangkok and the transvestites of Bangkok, and there you have LA. I know, that's harsh. Bangkok does have oodles of positive characteristics. No sign of such nullifiers in the City of Angels. Without exaggeration, this is the ugliest place I've ever been. Makes one wish for that earthquake from Superman 1.
5:30pm - Bag safely at a hostel, I explored Hollywood Boulevard. Wandered by the theater where Peter Jackson swept the Oscars earlier that... um... night? High-fived a storm trooper. Ate the best pizza since Guido's on 21st Ave. Watched Viggo Mortinson wander into some movie premiere. His photography exhibit in Wellington left me unimpressed, but still - Aragorn's dreamy.
9:05pm - Sat in second row of Jimmy Kimmel Live's Monday night show with a gaggle of giggling Central Michigan girls. His is the first live late-night talk show in forty years. And I'd just lived through New Zealand's worst summer in forty years. Coincidence? David Spade wouldn't give me a straight answer.
10:30pm - Discovered the hostel had moved/lost my bag. Threatened aggravated manslaughter before I located it, thereby saving their scalps.
11:15pm - Decided to see what the Hollywood nighttime streetlife's like.
11:17pm - Came to understand why no one walks around LA after dark. His name's Bruce, he carries a plastic bag full of goat (?), he swears he's met you somewhere before, and he'd love the pleasure of your company this fine evening.
12 midnight - Blissful unconsciousness, sans Bruce - but with my arm firmly wrapped around my valuables.