According to its brochure, "America's Smithsonian" is "the largest show ever put on the road by ... any ... museum." It has "more than 300 objects from the national collection -- from first ladies' gowns, extraordinary works of art and famous gems to dinosaur fossils, a Wright Brothers' plane and an Apollo capsule."

Since the show had traveled to San Jose, Calif., a mere hour from where I live by car. And since my girlfriend had a car, I figured I could catch the exhibition, do a column on it, stay overnight for an evening of abandon with my girlfriend (in San Jose, the least abandoned city in America) and write off the whole thing as a business expense. I am a genius!

So last Saturday we went.

What a drag.

First of all, we had to wait in line 45 minutes to get into the show. Security was closed tighter than my mind.

My girlfriend and I, who were traveling light, sailed right past the not one but two metal detectors. But I just couldn't bring myself to gloat over the less minor inconvenience enjoyed by my fellow citizens, stuck in their stalls like cattle; there were Mr. and Mrs. America, their offspring standing nervously by, as bland uniformed independent contractors prodded their camcorder cases, backpacks, strollers and cavernous purses, in search of what instruments of thievery I could not venture to guess.

Now sure, I know that our national treasures are unique and should be protected from grifters, vandals and pranksters. But couldn't the curators of this show have taken a tip from Disney and turned our waiting into a parody of pleasure, instead of a blatant terrorist-weeding process?

I'll make my point clear, for those of you in marketing: A double-frisking before a patriotic experience really takes the zing out of national pride.

So we entered the exhibit, irritated. It was crammed with tradition-seekers, already subliminally affected by the pseudo police state tactics with which they had been greeted, so many that it was impossible for us to make out any of the goddam tradition.

Oh, I caught brief glimpses of our fabulous American history. Here are some of the artifacts at which I squinted briefly:

• Abraham Lincoln's top hat
• Cesar Chavez's jacket
• Some fucking quilt
• Many bad oil paintings of famed figures
• Dizzy Gillespie's trumpet
• Indiana Jones' and Minnie Pearl's hats
• The Original Kermit
• The Ruby Slippers
• Richard Petty's stock car
• A Tucker
• A Sargent, Picasso, Hopper, Cassatt and Henry Moore
• A Tiffany lamp
• Old bugs in amber
• Lewis and Clark's compass
• A moon rock

Plenty to gawk at, all right. But we had such pounding headaches by the time we waded our way through the show, we couldn't even enjoy the after-exhibits -- an actual carousel and multimedia events arranged by the exhibit's corporate sponsors: Intel, Trans World Airlines and Discover Card. I curse you all.

So we decided to go see "Mimic" (good scary movie by the way), went back to our reasonably priced hotel, watched "Breakdown" (good thriller by the way), experienced abandon for an hour or so, channel-surfed and discovered that Princess Diana had just died in a car accident.

We paid attention for the length of time it took to get sound bites about the impact Princess Diana's death will have on the world and learn what actually happened.

Some idiot (Fiona Something) on CNN informed me, "Mother Teresa is said to be praying for her at this very moment."

What that moment was, considering the time changes between nations, I will not venture to guess. But how did Fiona obtain this information? Does Mother Teresa have a cell phone? Does Mother Teresa have her television on at all times so she can pray over public events as they happen? Does Mother Teresa, in fact, have a publicist?

Such thoughts depress me, but I have them, so there you go. That's why I seldom watch television news.

Look, I'm just another media guy. I've never seen a ghost, an angel, Elvis or a telepathic gray. I'm a dick, all right? I don't believe in wizards. I only believe in tricksters. Let's get that out of the way.

Exceeding the speed limit in the heart of Paris led to tragedy. Princess Diana was dead. That was the gist of it.

So the next morning the girlfriend and I drove home. I had previous engagements and this deadline, so we didn't see each other Sunday night. I called her, 9-ish, to indicate to her how cool I thought she was.

She'd just returned from a gathering of gals, at which all had admitted to secret grief regarding the death of Princess Diana. They'd had a toast to her memory and to the death of the princess that dwelled within them.

Hearing this, I had a revelation that rapidly devolved into a media moment: She was a true princess, doing her best to lead an exemplary Princess Life. She fearlessly faced the loss of the crown, the loss of her husband, the raising of her two boys to full responsibility and the search for love and appropriate charities.

I'm not being flippant. These are serious duties for a princess, the closest thing to a goddess we have.

Here's what creeps me out: This woman, arguably the most famous woman in the world, died, it's alleged, because she didn't want her picture taken.

But without pictures, there would have been no Diana. And there's the irony, if irony is the right word.

After the toasts, after the televised memorials and after Princess Diana is long laid in the ground, I think I know what will happen.