Like many people, I live on the Earth. And like many people, I've recently become concerned with the size of my "carbon footprint" because of the cost of gasoline. In fact, I've become so concerned with the way my carbon footprint has been leaving its tracks across my credit-card bills, I've decided to explore alternative methods of transportation, such as having other people drive me.

"I thought we could carpool," I tell my daughter. "We could go to the grocery store together, and I need to stop by the electronics store to lust after some big-screen televisions."

"But I'm not going any of those places," she objects.

"When you were little, I used to take you to ballet lessons and the pediatrician, and I wasn't going any of those places," I reply.

"What's wrong with your car?" she wants to know.

"It's been burning too much gas lately. I'm worried I'm stepping on your planet with my carbon footprint."

"Wait, you want me to drive you and pay for the gas, too?"

"I'll be waiting out front," I tell her.

"You'll be waiting a long time," she responds. "Call me when you sign up for ballet. Otherwise, maybe you should consider leaving a different kind of footprint to the grocery store."

"Who walks to get their food? Nobody does that."

"I don't know, Dad, let me guess: hunters?"

We hang up agreeing that I won the argument, or at least one of us agrees, anyway. I call my son at his room at college. From what I can hear in the background, it sounds like he and his roommate are majoring in laughter and shouting.

"Hey, Son, miss me?" I greet.

"Who's this?" he wants to know.

"Very funny. Hey, I thought it would be fun for you to come home this weekend. You and I can hang out, maybe go to the grocery store."

"Pass."

"Why wouldn't you want to come home and visit your father?"

"I don't know, Dad, let me guess: college women?"

"The problem is, I'm trying to reduce my carbon footprint, and your older sister won't drive me unless it is to ballet lessons."

"So, wait, you want me to drive all the way home so I can drive you to the store so you can reduce air pollution?"

"Plus, I'm trying to get used to the chauffeured lifestyle," I agree.

"You know how they say when you get to college you learn how smart your dad always was?" he asks.

"Yeah?"

"Hasn't happened yet."

"I'd be willing to make your favorite dinner ... free."

"You're cooking?"

"Yes!"

"Then no."

"Oh."

"But I'll say this: If you take ballet, I'll for sure show up. Everyone in my dorm would carpool for that one."

I do move with a certain grace, and would probably be what they call a "supremo ballerino," but I reject the idea of taking ballet lessons because of the outfits.

Obviously, when your reproductive strategy results in children who won't drive you unless you're wearing a tutu, your only recourse is public transportation. This plan has a lot of appeal until I discover that the people who build bullet trains have not yet constructed the one from my front door to the grocery store.

What we do have, though, is a bus stop reasonably close by, where a route map is clearly posted and no more complicated to figure out than the wiring diagram for a space station. Apparently, if I take the J-Xpress, get off at stop 10, board the R-2 D-2 Local, jump out at the next freeway overpass, switch to the streetcar named Desire and click my ruby-red slippers three times, I can make it back to the prison farm by curfew.

However, it costs only $1.25, which is about what it runs me in gasoline to turn on my car's radio. So, mindful of the fact that I come from a long line of brave adventurers who journeyed to America because they thought it would be cheaper than Scotland, I grab my wallet and flag the bus.

In a future column, I'll reveal what happens next.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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