"Free kitten. Cute, cuddly, irresistible."

That's how the ad read. What I didn't know is that "free kitten" is one of those moron things like "working vacation" or "Microsoft Works."

During that first trip to Petco, I discovered that my free cat would require, among other things: box, litter, scooper, liner, cover, filters, and designated dust-vac; wet food, dry food, nibble treats, bowls, and specially formulated kitten milk; no-scratch spray for the couch and do-scratch spray for the scratch post; scratch post; collar; I.D. tag; chew toys; flea comb; shampoo; cat bed; spray bottle; lint roller; jungle gym; immunity shots; and if you know what's good for you, pet insurance.

It doesn't help that cats are anti-establishment. You buy tuna; they want chicken. Open a door; they use the window. I bought for our kitten, Homer, a twenty-dollar teaser wand and he spent the night playing with its wrapper. So it goes.

I can already hear my grandpa nagging: "All this money on cat toys. When I was young, we just tied strings to dead mice..."

Add to the receipt a handful of new books, not to read but to throw at Homer when he starts doing wheelies at three in the morning. Cats are "nocturnal," which comes from Old French noc, meaning "at night," and turnal, meaning "drives your master to drink."

Homer is exploring our house like The Tasmanian Devil, leaving holes to mark his path. He has taken out flower vases, photo albums, important-looking documents, and one archrival teddy bear ... gutted.

That's why Nature made kittens so adorable -- so we don't murder them when they swing from the curtains like James Bond.

Homer assaults anything that twitches, blinks, or God help you, makes a scratching noise. He doesn't understand motion that isn't directly related to the game of Hunt and Chase. To this day he thinks I make the bed for his personal amusement.

It was a dark day when Homer realized that all the time he spent sleeping on the entertainment center, we weren't worshipping him at all: We were simply watching TV.

Experts say that our kitten is "exploring his boundaries," but I believe he's possessed by Satan (one more cost: exorcism). I used to be a lighthearted bloke with chirpy words for everyone. Now I start the day saying "No!" and chase my orange son around the house with a spray bottle. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Some people think it's cruel to spray your cat like this, but I use bottled water.

In fact, I think we should adopt this technology for humans. If someone, for instance, can't stop clearing his throat over the course of a six-hour plane ride, you just squirt him in the forehead. Sure, he'll be annoyed, but he'll learn.

Almost forgot anti-bacterial ointment. Homer weighs only three pounds, but ninety percent of that weight is teeth and claws. If you feed kittens after midnight, they will, like Gremlins, turn into crazed monsters and gain enough centrifugal force to leave skid marks on your headboard. Homer races back and forth like fifteen animals suffering from OCD (overactive cat disorder). I'm sure Petco sells the medication.

But eventually the little guy tuckers out and curls into a lump between your legs; and as he snores there like a little party favor, your heart turns to butter and, just as Nature intended, you forgive. Worse, you come to see the wisdom in low-fat, vitamin-enriched, plaque-control kitten nibbles.

Despite his wake of destruction, I find myself asking, "How can I improve this cat's life?" Now that Homer has finished discovering The Inside, he gazes sadly out the window wondering what the rest of the world tastes like.

Maybe he just needs a playmate. Would you know that I just saw an ad for free kittens...

Roller coasters have always struck me as a preventable trauma. I mean, if life ain't hard enough. And while in our youth we jump off buildings just to see, we come to feel secure on the ground and view thrill rides as far-off things like outer space or pterodactyls.

I actually blacked out on my last coaster, so who else would be chosen to ride Magic Mountain's newest addition, Tatsu: Flying at the Speed of Fear. I thought Godzilla had killed Tatsu back in the fifties, but here he was -- the tallest, fastest, longest "flying coaster" in history. Take that, Russia.

The others were raring to be first on board, but newness is not something I look for in a ride. I'm more into prestige and track record. What they needed was a big mirror reading, "You must be this crazy to get on Tatsu."

Then I met 10-year-old Josh Malone, who had, in three days, ridden the coaster 165 times! He was a Tatsu Master.

"My favorite part is the pretzel roll," said Josh. "It feels great on my whole body."

If Josh isn't careful, he'll end up an adrenaline junkie, loitering outside Magic Mountain with an expired pass, saying, "Come on, man ... just one more ride."

I inched under the pagoda to the sound of Japanese chimes, the kind of thing you might hear, say, WHEN YOU DIE. There was no line, so I didn't have time to reconsider. They strapped us into the calf harnesses and flipped us over to ride "Superman style," hands outstretched.

It might have been a bad trip had I not been riding alongside Paul Ruben, 16-year editor of Park World and foremost authority on thrill rides. Counting Tatsu, Paul has tested 696 of the world's fifteen-hundred coasters. Tatsu, he said, was the best flying coaster yet.

"It has great pacing," he said. "Never a dull moment."

I warned Paul that I might get sick.

"You should have eaten a banana," he said.

"Really? Does that help?"

"No, but it tastes good coming back up."

So it goes.

If you do have a weak stomach, Dramamine does the trick. Paul said so as we climbed the record-breaking peak and had a pretty good view of America. It was too late for Dramamine; I had to take a Screwitall.

Sixteen-year-old Kirsten Filonccuk encouraged me to "let go" into the loop. Before I could say, "What loop?" we charged 62 miles-an-hour into the pretzel roll, which lasted several lifetimes. All I could do was close my eyes and visualize world peace. Paul was actually counting the revolutions out loud.

"This part coming up is a little rough on the stomach," he said. Not something you want to hear from a man who has ridden 696 roller coasters.

We then plunged into a loop that maxes out at 4 g-forces (compare to 6 g-forces, at which point astronauts BLACK OUT). As my lips peeled back over my forehead, I remembered Kirsten's words and let go into the Geeeeeeeez!

Everything after the loop went dark, but I'm sure it was fun for the people who stayed conscious. Paul clocked the ride at 52 seconds, and 53 would have been too many. There they left us to dangle in a prone position, just hoping we'd toss our bananas.

Josh's mother Jodie Malone is writing a book, Screaming Orgasms, which reveals how roller coasters are a form of mental sex, especially for eccentric women.

"Tatsu was foreplay up to the loop," said Jodie, "But that was definitely a nice climax."

Jodie belongs to the Coaster Divas, a club that visits amusement parks, holds meetings, even coordinates "black teddy rides" where everyone wears sexy lingerie under their clothing. God purposely keeps them away from the Trekkies.

And while it is at times frightening how much Jodie and Paul know about roller coasters, when you see their faces you realize that they are just doing what they love, children in search of the ultimate ride -- The Holy Rail.

At home I lay down so that my organs could return to their original positions. My head would stop spinning sometime after dinner. The following day. If you want to train for Tatsu in advance, just go through the spin cycle in your washing machine.

Jodie says that most roller coaster records last only a few months, so if you want to be part of history, you'd better run down before Tatsu is conquered by some bigger, faster, uglier beast. Godzilla perhaps.