Pardon me while I pass out

GENERALLY, I find that if I’m in a gift shop for more than three minutes my legs buckle and my eyes roll back into my head. It’s not death exactly. It’s worse than that. Because they keep bringing me back to life when it’s time to pay. And even hell can’t have this many wind chimes.

We’re in Cambria, that little torture chamber of gift stores at the base of Monterey Bay, a place where former hippies now sell scented candles and all manner of little silver bracelets. Scarves. Barbecue sauce. Jesus shaped from driftwood.

“What’s the difference,” I ask my wife, “between a bric-a-brac and a knickknack?”

“Bric-a-brac is . . . “ she starts to explain, at which point my legs buckle again and my eyes roll back into my skull.

Comedian Tim Allen wrote best about this phenomenon, explaining how the very air in a store seems to sap the life right out of him. I’m very much the same way. It’s like an allergic reaction to spending good money on senseless stuff.

The kids have learned to deal with my condition. They simply drag me by the legs to the sidewalk, where a cool wind blows up my cargo shorts and quickly revives me. I struggle to my feet, groggy but functional, like a hung-over Lee Marvin in “Cat Ballou,” the most underrated film of all time, by the way. An American classic. Fonda-licious.

“I want to check out that bakery,” my wife says.

“I’m right behind you, “ I say, following her like a lemming.

When I married her, I was resigned to the fact that I’d spend the next 20 years suffering through children’s birthday parties and PTA dinners. What I hadn’t counted on were these countless trips to Cambria. Which is like Vegas for women who don’t wear thong underwear anymore.

“Do you think your mother would like this?” my bride asks, holding up some item.

I nod.

“What about this?”

“That’s nice,” I say.

“You don’t even know what it is, Dad,” says the little girl.

“It’s a butter mold,” I say.

“It’s a crab-meat extractor,” she explains.

If you haven’t been, I highly recommend Cambria. The locals are so laid back they’re almost dead. I like that in a person.

My favorite locals are the elephant seals that lounge on the beach this time of year, resting up before their holiday shopping. They call it the elephant seal rookery, and it’s just a few miles up the road from Hearst Castle. Not surprisingly, many of the seals resemble the former publisher.

“Look, Dad, those two seals are . . . Hey, Dad, what are those seals doing?”

“The seals do everything on the beach that you and I would do, except eat,” explains a guide monitoring the site.

“They read crappy novels?” I say.

“Don’t be a wise guy,” says my wife.

Meanwhile, here in the hills, the kids can’t get cell signals and begin to go through cellphone detox. It’s not serious. They tremble and get the sweats for about an hour. Their pupils dilate, and there are anguished screams: “I CAN’T GET A SIGNAL! I CAN’T GET A SIGNALLLLLLLLL!”

“You know, you don’t really need a cellphone to be happy,” I calmly say.

“YES, WE DO, DAD!!!” scream/spits the little girl.

OK, I was wrong. Cellphones are vital to the mental health of many of today’s youth.

Back in the village, we wander around some more, awaiting a happy hour that never comes. But the town begins to cast a magic spell over us nonetheless -- the cool ocean air, the copper sunlight. It’s the most beautiful time of year up along the central coast, and the motel is serving free wine and cheese. The combo of all this makes us never want to leave.

My wife and I go through that “what if?” thing we always go through when we find a sleepy little place with abundant wineries. What if we opened a little French bakery here? What if we bought that purple B&B;?

“What if we opened our own gift shop, Dad?” the boy asks.

“How about a saloon?” I say.

“A gift shop/saloon,” he says.

Bingo. The boy and I decide it would be a place where husbands and sons could go in while the moms shopped. It would sell just two novelty items -- brain lotion and common-sense cream. You’d rub the common-sense cream on your temples, and suddenly you’d be making sensible decisions. Because, as I keep saying, common sense isn’t all that common anymore.

The brain lotion, meanwhile, would come in a 3-ounce tube. It would be applied aurally, while your spouse slept.

“That’s a good idea, Dad,” says the boy.

“Huh?”

“THAT’S A GOOD IDEA, DAD!” he screams.

Hmm, seems somebody’s been pouring brain lotion in my ear again. Can’t hear a thing.

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For more Chris Erskine, look in Sports today for his take on Brett Favre, a postmodern DiMaggio.