I've been away for 26 out of the last 30 days. First to the United Kingdom, then to California. I'm a tired puppy dog.

I'm not complaining mind you, just admitting my travel weariness.

That weariness peaked last night on my way home from Los Angeles. My connection in Atlanta was delayed and delayed and delayed. I took it in stride, though, spending the long hours alternating between the Internet access area and the bar.

Seems my plane was coming from Baton Rouge, LA and was held up by Rita-related weather or mechanical problems or swamp creatures or what not.

Finally rolled into the Portland Jetport at the chipper hour of 1:30am.

Have you tried to get a cab at that hour in Portland on a Monday night?

The taxi finally rolled into my driveway around 3 and I dragged my butt and my bags upstairs.

But rather than go to bed like a normal exhausted person, I sat up and read through a pile of mail.

And played with my neglected beasts Molly and Katie, who have clearly indicated that Dad isn't to leave the house again for awhile.

The fridge contains beer, half & half, a carton of outdated eggs, and moldy carrots.

I have a beer.

Then I survey the house.

Clearly a remnant of Katrina has blown through in my absence. Mountains of cat hair, rugs all askew, piles of gear in the corner, papers stacked hither and yon.

It could have been worse I suppose had my dear friends Bubba, Evil Woman and Short Stuff not kept my cats and things in reasonable check.

Finally, I collapse in bed under a pile of magazines, sleep through my alarm, and am late for work.

Ain't adventure travel great?!