Sam McManis

You've got to be exceedingly lactose tolerant to do this job, but even I was starting to feel a little nauseated by the cheesiness of pulling off Highway 101 merely to drive my car through a redwood tree.

Hundreds of slimy, croaking bullfrogs, accompanied by their less slimy but equally exhortative human "jockeys," will pounce on Angels Camp next weekend and take a giant leap at local fame, a modicum of fortune and maybe even inspire some modern-day Mark Twain to wax prosaic.

Rest easy, this is not another rant about how there's a Starbucks, sometimes two, on every corner. That complaint itself has become as vexatious as the coffee company's ubiquitous signage (in Freight Sans Black, for you typeface freaks) on strip malls far and wide.

Something about the towering presence of redwoods, those hulking and massive trunks, along the Avenue of the Giants can make a guy hungry.

Round and round they go, bobbing and weaving and crashing into one another like bumper cars at an amusement park. The sound of skate wheels on polished wood is a sustained grind, muted only somewhat by the murmur of the crowd and the patter of the play-by-play announcers echoing off the walls.

Landlocked as it is, this verdant, wine-soaked town surrounded by lines of vines seems an odd location for a museum exhibit commemorating the sinking of the Titanic, which happened 100 years ago today.

In a moment, we will turn over control of today's column to Miss Odessa, the delightful dowager docent of Old Sacramento, the prim and proper queen of the underground tours, the self-styled Southern belle transplant with just a bit of a gossipy streak.

This city, so justifiably smitten with its historic landmarks and tourist haunts, likes to go for the grand gesture, the bold statement, the self-consciously arty design that trumpets, "Woo-hoo, look at us."

Self-identifying nerds, nearly three dozen strong, gathered in midtown Sacramento one recent night to do what it is nerds do best.

Up and down a sleepy, tree-lined residential street in Davis, all is quiet and dark on this Sunday evening, save occasional flickering blue TV light leaking from drawn living-room curtains.

A quick detour off Interstate 5 in Redding to see the Turtle Bay Exploration Park's current exhibit of Dr. Seuss' work – definitely worth the time

He is thin and so pallid as to be nearly translucent, befitting a sun- deprived Oregonian. Though pushing 30, his voice retains the escalating pitch and whine of adolescence. He dresses suburban casual, in jeans and T-shirt.

San Francisco's Mission District continues to evolve and there is always something interesting happening.

Silent? I think not. My cilia were doing the Charleston inside my eardrums all night, as the likes of Stan Laurel flickered across the big screen and pipe organist Dave Moreno punctuated each frame with just the right aural accompaniment.

Noam Chomsky is rubbing spines with Ann Coulter. The Amish and Mennonites share space, presumably peacefully, with the Salem witches. Henry James and Henry Kissinger stand sternly side by side looking off at some fixed point, their visages oozing importance.

Some time ago, when Alex Trebek's people telephoned the gregarious Bob Malowney, he might have considered saying he'd have his "people" call them back. Just to, you know, mess with those haughty TV types.

Scores of hard-bodied types adorned either in clingy Lycra or bike-messenger-casual came to Hot Italian, the sopraffino Italian bistro in midtown Sacramento, not to consume calories but to burn them.

They would depart for China in two days. That had been the plan, anyway. The Collivers, Paul and Sharen, were all packed and prepped, eager for an adventure far removed from their lives as almond farmers south of Fresno.

On the edge of the continent – and hoping not to be blown over the edge and out to sea – Tom and Michelle Rouse sling binoculars over their shoulders, unfold green canvas chairs and hunker down at the jutting promontory known as Bodega Head.

Beyond the teeming produce aisles and savory baked goods, past the hubcaps and cutlery and Persian rugs, out of earshot of the migraine-inducing bass bleating from the car stereo tents, way, way, way in the back of sprawling Denio's Farmer's Market and Swap Meet in Roseville comes the sound of a man doing his darndest to hawk a case of Depends Adult Undergarments.