Hostel kitchens permanently changed my life. For those who haven't experienced them: imagine a semi-industrial kitchen that's 50% too small for the number of users. Many backpackers don't drive while traveling, and perhaps build up negative energy that would otherwise be released by road-rage. This nasty stuff stays pent up until the hours of 5-7pm, when normally mild mannered meanderers body-check competitors for counter space. I took up cooking at four in the afternoon. Still, I rarely had the kitchen to myself. And so I adapted to food prep under duress. Chopping happens quickly. Someone else needs that saucepan, so as soon as the penne's unloaded on my plate, it's washed, dried, and in the hands of a Swede. Basically the good habits I developed make me a faster, less waffling cook. I'm a machine. Call me Mr. Cuisinart.

An aside: Italian girls are the best to cook with, because glorious things called 'lasagna' and 'tiramisu' happen.

Maw, Paw and I trucked on down to the Bagdad theater pub over in the Hawthorne district. We ignored the Democratic presidential candidate hopeful (Dennis Kucinich) who was canvassing the line. (I prefer watching him on Bill Maher, not between me and my $3 admission ticket.) We ordered a pizza and lugged a pitcher of ruby ale into a theater of trans-euphratic majesty. Want to see the mid-east in its glory? Turn off Fox News and hang out at Bagdad.

Who says insomnia's counterproductive? I crunched panoramas of Milford Sound together instead of sleeping last night. I also found out that an old pal's improv buddy shares a camportal with a friend of an artist who co-authors Penny Arcade with the husband of a friend of a lovely girl who's dating an even older pal of mine. I've heard tell of software that makes these connections for you, but meh. I can do it myself, without automation. Luddites of the web unite.

Easter. The American holiday that most retains its original religious significance. For the last seven years, I've celebrated it by receiving a care package of plastic grass and various formulations of cocoa and glucose. A waffling agnostic I may be, but candy is candy. This year proved different. I discovered a leftover stocking from Christmas, in addition to the springtime loot. The sheer quantity of sweets overfloweth the basket. Made it tough to keep up with the shorter kids as they scoured the yard for eggs. Got some colorful pictures, but I still feel woozy.

The Easter bunny also brought me a boomerang. Australia must've done me good - it comes back to my hand flawlessly each time I throw it. Never mind that short people act as couriers. Usually they just run the straight line between me and the resting place of the 'rang, but a tree ate it yesterday, a la Charlie Brown's kite. I bemoaned its loss, forgot about it, then Trace somehow acquired it and ran it up to me this afternoon. I assume the aborigines experienced the littlebrotherang phenomenon as well, and applied it to the swatting of wallabies.

Tax time's here, and you know what that means. Once I'm through the call queue for my broker and talking with them about reinvesting Roth IRA mutual fund dividends, two things happen nigh simultaneously. (1) Mom hollers downstairs for me to come up and join the other children for a snack, and (2) one of the other children picks up another cordless and immediately speed-dials a friend.

On a related topic, I broke down and purchased a cell phone. For years I've fought the good fight with an ever diminishing number of fellow phone-free friends, but the time came to break ranks. I humbly crawl to the wireless side of the fence. Hi everyone. Thanks for letting me borrow your phones while at bars over past years. I won't mooch off you any more. And hey, if you're within 33 feet and want to play a wireless bluetooth game of VRally 2, lemme know. This itsy phone slices, dices, and hums the cockatiel to sleep. Most of all, my Thundercats theme and Castlevania ringtones bring me happiness and joy. And I can even talk to other humans with it. That's why I'm proud to be an American. Yes, everyone in, let's say, New Zealand has a mobile phone. And getting a call's free. But if a kiwi were to call his mate's mobile, it costs him somewhere between two and twenty times the amount of money that it would take him to ring, say, Oregon. Consequently, you have a nation of people with mobile phones who use them exclusively to text-message friends at 10 cents a pop. Pardon the engineering economics, but on an inflation-adjusted dollar per character basis, that's the most expensive form of communication since the short-lived pony express.

L8r.

My family inherited a cockatiel named Tiny. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in prodigious parrot propaganda. Tiny's a guy. And Tiny is only happy if there's a girl in the room. It whistles songs and calls itself a pretty bird. Cheerful. Unfortunately, my family is 83% not girl. So when Mom's not around, Tiny digs its beak into any male fingers that venture too close. And, what's worse, it chirps enough to cause partial hearing loss.

The solution? Put Cleo in the room. Tiny doesn't care what species it's wooing, as long as the object of its affection's female. Even if the target is Siamese and wants to eat it.

I woke up yesterday to the gentle sounds of Morning Edition's political punditry, grabbed my brown sack lunch, put it in my backpack, and boarded the bus to elementary school. Field trip to Fort Vancouver! I lost a baby tooth at lunchtime. It'd come out of Bryce's mouth, and he agreed to be my bestest friend if I'd hold it for him. Fortunately I'd just placed it in a different pocket, so I found it again. Bryce and I buddied up all day, and Mr. Lau treated me nice too. In fact, I think he was trolling for someone with editing experience to help with his wedding video side-business. Can you spell c-h-a-p-a-r-o-n-e?

Went dancing. Yes, Mark bought DDR pads. That culminated a long day of Portland-style exercise - basketball and trampolining. Thank goodness for shooting hoops a few times with Maria in Berkeley. It prevented the little brothers being overly unimpressed with my game. Should stick with basketball. In the midst of a failed front flip on the tramp, I realized I really need to remember that I don't have health insurance.

Spent time at REI, my trusty outdoor store. That cinched the homecoming... walking the same industrial carpet over which I picked out all my gear. Well, rather, where Maria and my mom picked out all the gear. I would have just stuck a bunch of lollypops in a duffel and called good if I'd been in charge. As it stands, I have a membership dividend to use there. And it's substantial.

Y'know what I miss from the trip? The Hallmark Channel. Because of that blessed network, you can get four heaping episodes of M*A*S*H every weekday. Better than any social life. Hawkeye, I need your sardonic charm late at night. And Radar... aw. It's too much.

If you're envying my ongoing task of sorting seven months of snail mail, don't.