Maneuvering a cross-country trip to California from our plush Humor Guide Compound and Poison Sumac Petting Solarium (A Wayne Mansion®) thrust the good li'l wife and myself into a storm of activity.

She made all of the reservations, washed the laundry, packed the luggage, and loaded the Mikemobile®.

I misplaced the umbrella.

The travel logistics proved to be tricky as I am cowered in Year 30 of my not flying. I do not inhabit airplanes, zeppelins, or box kites, ever.

The last time I flew was during the massive energy shortage of 1974. I attended a funeral out of state. I could not purchase 10 gallons of gasoline for my car in order to drive there, but The Wings of Man could burn zillions to hurl me through their skies.

I vowed never to fly again because the petrol waste was obsessive and maddening. Plus, I cried so much my cheeks mildewed.

I have an immense fear of heights, which, for some unknown reason, jets seem to accentuate.

Heights have always been problematic for me. During those bygone, carefree, drug-drenched hippie days, I was adamant in my refusal to get high. Although, occasionally, I got step-stooled.

That was my psychedelic ceiling. I would go only a smidgen in the direction of high, stopping after a shallow gulp of bong and a munch on a chip and a dollop of dip.

If I was daring, I'd inhale a Doobie Brothers concert during their first tune, exit, score Cheez Doodle dust, and crash. My head was maybe three inches far out, yet my feet, all tippy-toes, were still on the ground, man. Groovy. Like wow. Someone left the cake out in the rain.

This fascinating personal history is to clarify why I will be heading westward via parallel rails. I love choo-choo travel; however, there is a down side. My stubborn opposition to flight means I shall never become a member of The Mile High Club.

Even more disturbing is Amtrak has been uncooperative, refusing to provide a trained female for my initiation into The Yard High Club.

I had suggested to my wife that the two of us might be inducted together into The Yard High Club, but she opted out of the trip, citing a fierce determination to find that umbrella.

So, I'm dickering to become the club's sergeant-at-arms. It's a start. I'm willing to work myself up.

Sadly, I'll be travelling alone to greater Los Angeles. My cats, Morty and Kelp, also refused to go with me. They're simple folk. None of those snooty Rodeo Drive hairballs for them.

They'd never sit still for the perms and blonde highlighting.

To Be Continued...