So why the sentimentalism? Was it because school officials allowed cancerous waste to be buried all around campus in the 1930s? Oh, it wasn't cancerous then, just toxic. Silly me. Could it be the disastrous effects the current president has on student morale, treating them more as business units than people (as in, "we graduated 595 units from the School of International Service this May!")? Or maybe it was because of the unbelievably unprofessional way my ex-dean treated me? The sad fact is, McKinley Hall does not implode, ex-presidents can be sexually repressed and excellent administrators and WVAU may never be heard outside east-facing rooms of Anderson Hall. And I have the tapes from Minimum Wage, our radio show, to prove it.

Although I often question the quality of education I got from AU, I have indelible memories of my college years: dare I say Quigley's, museum internships, the terrace of Letts (before my room became a gym), study abroad mayhem, many nights on my roof overlooking the Russian Embassy, silly trysts in the garden of the National Cathedral, waiting tables at Cactus . . . scary but true. But in order to truly justify my sticker-frenzy, I'll just list friends who may share some of my mopey sentimentalism: Ange, Amy, Heather, Hillary, Charlie, Percy. And to the ones that are further out on the stacy-satellite: Joanna, Mel, GL, CK, Carrie, Jill, Leigh . . . Now Lake Shore drivers can pose questions to my windshield, the most likely being, "where the hell is American University?"

Everyone who sang the song ended it when the meatball rolled into the garden and turned to mush. However, I knew the meatball had a happier fate.

And so, the truth comes out.

On Top of Spagetti
On top of spagetti, all covered with cheese,
I lost my poor meatball, when somebody sneezed.

It rolled off the table, and onto the floor,
And then my poor meatball, rolled out of the door.

It rolled into the garden, and under a bush,
And then my poor meatball, it turned into mush.

The mush was so tasty, as tasty can be.
And early next morning, grew into a tree.

The tree was all covered with old Spanish moss.
It grew lovely meatballs and to-ma-to-sauce.

So if you eat spaghetti, all covered with cheese,
Hold on to your meatball, when sombody sneeze.

Unless you want a big ass MEATBALL TREE. Fuck yeah!

We started off in the Bay Area. Some San Francisco highlights: tour of Alcatraz, yummy sourdough ("it's one of my top breads" says the Beagle), standing outside the owl bar, that crazy waitress in the bar next to City Lights, Sonoma wine tasting ("where else can you get drunk for free?" asks the Meeper), the balcony of our hotel room, and my face driving up one of those cable-car hills in a rented convertible.

After three days in S.F we put the top down and headed south on Route 1. It's a beautiful and relaxing drive, especially when I was behind the wheel. One note about car rentals: make sure there is enough room. Four people and their luggage really can pack into a Mustang, but this isn't always recommended, unless you are all about the look, like we were. And for that, it is worth it. But I digress . . .

The road winds right along the coast with potentially scary cliffs and crashing beaches on the right. There are tons of overlook points, appropriately called vistas, on the side of the road. Photographic opportunities abound, and we stopped for every one of them.

One of the best was seeing the elephant seals, awash on a beach right before my new favorite town of Cambria. The seals just chill along the shore, looking like fatty logs. We popped out to take pictures and I ventured a little too close to my seal friends. They didn't like that too much, rearing their snouty heads with Whitman-like yawps. I retreated to the dunes and climbed over a fense to safety, while the Beagle looked on disapprovingly. Jolly good fun for all.

The hotel we stayed at in Cambria had a fireplace, sleighbeds and a 24-hour jacuzzi room. Upon checking in, you also get a free bottle of wine. Our wine was called Castoro, which is Italian for beaver, and made me happy. I half-expected to the find a champagne-glass hot tub a'la Mount Airy Lodge in the room after they told us that "the wine is chilling in your room" but it wasn't as baum-chicka-baum-baum as that.

Cambria is just a cool little town, about 15 minutes south of Hearst Castle, which we toured. Our tourguide made the castle all the more interesting. Among other things I learned about William Randolph Hearst, granddaddy to Patty, was that, being born to privilege, yes privilege, allowed him to collect tapestries at age 10. What a lame kid. He also collected ceilings which I find unbelievable and, frankly, bizarre, but it was something our lush-ous tour guide kept hanging on - "look at this ceiling; its 14th centure blah, blah, blah, he bought it while on European tour with his Mummy!" Strange, I know, but I'm still all for ogling opulent wealth.

And so we moved south to Los Angeles . . .

Star sightings were abundant and L.A. provided fertile gazings grounds. No one uber-exciting but I'll share anyway: Sipped an overpriced beverage with teeny-tiny Tori Spelling and her friend "Claire" (also of 90210 fame) at some hotel-bar on Sunset. Looked at the new and much adored Vespas with Tracey Ullman. And although I could have tripped over him and not known it, drank next to Lost Boy Jason Patric at this glorified frat-boy bar. What, you mean you didn't see Speed 2?

Well, chickens, that is all for now. While most wouldn't believe it, I'm actually at work and do have other things to do besides update this darling pita. Stay tuned for pictures, coming soon . . .