I spent my Thanksgiving in New York, visiting my sister. My parents were there too. It was extraordinarily stressful, and let's just leave it at that.

The travelling was fun, though.

I had an extended conversation with a woman at the gate for my flight to New York. It started like this:

Her: [Pointing across the way to a block of phone booths] "Say... what do you think that guy is doing?"

[I look over and notice a guy dressed all in black, curly hair with long curly sideburns, and a hat, with a small book held in both hands before him. He's mumbling to himself and rocking back and forth slightly.]

Me: Er... I think he's praying.

Her: Oh, is that what it is? I was afraid he was having a seizure or something.

Me: No, I'm pretty sure that's just religion.

And so on and so forth. She speculated that he was perhaps Amish, and we both thought about that for a while, then decided he was probably a Hasidic Jew. On reflection, I can think of very few reasons an Amish person would be in an airport, even if he managed to make it through the automatic doors to the terminal without commiting a few cardinal sins. All in all, it was one of the more interesting conversations I've ever had with a stranger, and fortunately so, since I had nothing else to do since I'd forgotten my MP3 player in my car. We parted ways in that peculiar manner of strangers who are briefly thrown together by fate, with hearty well wishes and phrases pitched high with exaggerated bonhomie.

The flight itself was largely uneventful. I was seated next to an empty seat, which was nice... especially since in the next seat over, was a man who, while very agreeable and friendly, had the most awful breath. He seemed blissfully unaware of it too, and I tried to refrain from asking him any questions that might have many "h" sounds in the answer. In some circumstances, such a reek might be appreciated, or even savored; for example, ripe durian, a fine Roquefort, or this chinese dish. Coming from the mouth of a man seated next to me in what was essentially an airtight tin can with wings was not one of them.

We only exchanged a handful of words during the entire flight, but on one memorable occasion, when he turned to me and inquired, "HHHHey, do you HHHHHappen to HAHHHave a pair of HHHHeadphones?" I had to battle the urge to wrestle open the window for some fresh air.
Of New York itself, let me just say that it was, for me, a peculiar experience. It is one of those places with some features that are so patently awful that it makes you appreciate the small blessings that much more. For example, it was bitterly cold when I was there; 30 degrees Fahrenheit, with wind chill taking it down to 14. While that was -- for a Californian -- awful, it made every restaurant, store, or cafe I stopped at all the better just by virtue of being warm and out of the wind.

With all of the family there, I didn't have much time to go sightseeing. However, I did take a little walk with my sister, and we passed by a few landmarks -- Battery park, Trinity church, Wall street, and a few other spots. I had a chance to go back and step into Trinity Church by myself before I left, and the experience was fantastic. The interior of the chapel is done up in a mind-bending pink and blue color scheme, which is somewhat at odds with the soaring Gothic majesty of the exterior, and the cemetery next door. Imagine if one of those Extreme Home Makeover shows had gotten Vlad the Impaler to do the exterior, and Liberace the interior.

Festive colors aside, the chapel was a humbling experience. The place was full of September 11th displays and tributes, with various kiosks recounting tales of the days after the attack. It was deeply touching to see how people pulled together to help each other in the face of that crisis. The only thing marring the displays was one bit of shameless commercial promotion; a giant banner from a community in Hawaii, proclaiming "We will never forget you," with countless signatures and handprints... and a giant Kinko's logo. I think that little bit of advertising could have been set aside, if only in the interest of dignity.

We also had some great food; Fuleen's Seafod restaurant and Adrienne's Pizza Cafe, both in Manhattan, are highly recommended.

The flight home was also uneventful. I spent four hours crushing the puny Romans with my hordes of Persian cavalry (Civilization rules), and the rest of the time was spent trying to figure out how, though we can produce a vehicle that travels safely at 500 miles per hour at 34,000 feet, we can't make a security check line move faster than... well, just about anything at all.

On the shuttle ride home from the airport, I had the good fortune to meet a girl who can only be described by the phrase "cute as a button." If I were 40 years older, white, a grandmother, and prone to making lots of apple pie, I would have been obligated by federal law to pinch her cheek and go "Awww."

While it was an unabashed pleasure talking with her, I was a little disheartened by the fact that she made me feel so old, and so directionless. She was returning from her home in New Orleans, and she told me about all the things that went on during the hurricanes, her goals and aspirations, and so on and so forth. She was, to use another cliche, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, to the point where I almost wanted to offer her a walnut, just to see if she would scamper up the nearest tree to nibble on it.

And that, apart from family stuff and some more memorable moments that I'll detail later, was what I did on my Thanksgiving vacation.

Usually I let my thoughts ripen a bit, as it were, before I write a post. However, I thought I should try to capture this one while it was still fresh.

I am currently sitting in a pleasant little cafe in a pleasant little college town in a pleasant part of California. This is one of those places that is packed full of grad and undergrad students working on papers, professors and TAs grading papers, and self-satisfied business types all rubbing shoulders and jockeying for the good tables. Notebooks, of both the spiral-bound and electronic variety, are everywhere.

I'm just sitting here, innocently working on my contract project. I come here to work probably 3 or 4 days a week, mostly because I can't seem to get any work done without background noise, and there's a much more energetic, convivial atmosphere here than in my largely empty apartment. Plus, $0.50 refills on iced coffee or tea and free wireless internet. Even though it is slower and less reliable, free wireless internet is somehow better than the wireless internet I pay for at home. It's just one of those things.

The place is jumping today, and I am lucky enough to be able to slip into a recently vacated table between two slump-shouldered, bleary-eyed academics. I fire up a few programs, a list of which will serve to indicate my single-minded dedication to the job at hand:

1) Trillian (a combination of ICQ, AOL, MSN, and Yahoo chat programs)
2) Winamp (MP3 player)
3) Firefox (web browser), pointed to Fark.com

My mouse cursor hovers uncertainly over the Macromedia Flash icon, as I wonder whether starting my work day at 11:45am would be a symptom of unrecoverable workaholism.

The decision is soon taken out of my hands.

A cloud passes over the sun, turning a sunny day into crimson twilight. The earth and sky are suddenly split by a clamor of screams, as if the hosts of heaven and hell were being torn limb from limb. In the terrified eyes of the people on the street, one can see reflected the very fires of damnation as a warm, red rain begins to fall.

Now condense the horror of that scene into a few microscopic particles, and stick them in your nose.

That should give you a good idea of what wafted past my face not long ago. This was no mere by-product of a malfunctioning gastrointestinal tract. This was almost solid; a shimmering, iridescent vapor only a couple of volts away from self awareness.

I wondered, through a rapidly narrowing field of vision, at the fact that no-one in my immediate area was reacting to the demonic incarnation rampaging through my sinuses.

Just as points of light were invading my vision and the opening strains of "Agnus Dei" were starting to echo in my ears, I staggered upright and pushed my way out the door to the street. There I stood, hands on knees, gulping sweet lungfuls of blessedly clean air.

After a few minutes, I felt sufficiently composed to cautiously edge back to my table, where I was relieved to discover that my computer hadn't been dissolved by the toxic cloud. Everyone around me was still heads-down, beavering away at their papers or what not. I was amazed.

I was also ashamed. Not at my weakness, but at the realization that in the great Game of Life, I had just lost spectacularly at a round of "You Smelt it, You Dealt it." I am sure every person here will be telling their loved ones about how I dropped a heinous bomb and left the room, abandoning them to their fate.

Bonus point:
I got an aftershock whiff as the woman next to me got up to leave.

Double word score:
It wasn't me, I swear.

While looking in my archives for the link to that Star Wars mistranslation thing, I stumbled upon a comment by some Korean. Here's the body of his comment:

Riddle me this:

What has two legs,
two arms,
two eyes,
one head,
10 fingers,
10 toes,
and is Chinese?

And I just now came up with a response:

Friday night super fun takeout special!

Bahahahahahahahahaha!!

Kids, let me remind you that ethnic jokes are unacceptable and unfunny.

Actually, that's a lie. Racial jokes are funny, mostly because many people deem them to be so unacceptable. Humour is all about defying or satirizing socially acceptable norms. Part of why these things are funny is because you know that somewhere, there are people who will get all huffy and upset over some comment about "Two Wongs Making it White" in reference to a Chinese laundromat.

Often, these people are in urgent need of medical care, to remove the various objects lodged in their lower intestines. This procedure is occasionally known as a Humorectomy. See? That's funny, because you just said "rectum." I could have said "stick-in-the-assectomy," but that would have been like me beating you over the head with a sack full of goopy turds: no fun for anyone.

The problem with racial humour is that so often the basic sentiment, that of poking harmless fun, is perverted by something more sinister -- namely: ignorance, thinly disguised hostility, or scorn. Note that all these things are characteristic of the phenomenon of racism itself.

Additionally, you get racist humour which is so artless and clumsy that it is offensive not necessarily on the basis of its subject matter, but because it is so patently unfunny. Take, for example, any Loony Tunes feature where someone gets blown up. The smoke clears, the character is covered in soot and has big swollen lips, then mugs desperately for the camera before waddling offscreen. Frankly, it would have been funnier if Elmer Fudd had been split in two by the blast, and lay screaming in agony in a pool of his own viscera, weeping for his lost future. See? It really didn't take much.

Doubtless, such scenes were at the pinnacle of wit and satire in the first half of the 20th century. Thankfully, tastes have changed, and we are now privileged to bear witness to such masterpieces of subtle comedy as "Stacked" on Fox.

Anyway, the point.

Humor is at its heart a little vicious, and a little mean. That doesn't mean that it can't be delivered and accepted in a spirit of goodwill, and through incendiary subject matter. Instead of hiding behind political correctness and trying to erase the things that make people different, all you pole-holes should be trying to understand why people might think these things are funny. Consider the possibility that not everyone is as small-minded or close-hearted as you assume they are.

And for god's sake,
LEARN TO READ
(Nedim and Han)
BETWEEN
(didn't quite get it on)
THE
(but they sure didn't get off my mom!)
LINES.

Wait... what?

So, I am starting to fill my days with activities that don't involve sitting on my ass and wondering what to do.

I still do some of that, but at least now those are billable hours. Ha! Ha! How droll. Oh Mr. Wuthering-Smythe-Doghumperson, I do declare!

I am now tutoring/teaching two afternoons a week at the local community learning center, which has turned out to be surprisingly great. In my three sessions so far, I have taught pre-GED level math, reading, and writing to a mother of two in her 40s, basic literacy to a young lady of indeterminate age (younger than me, older than 12, which is an age range I find hellishly difficult to pinpoint), and GED-level math to an expectant mother, probably in her early 20s. Next week, I am going to start teaching a computer skills class to adults one day a week, which should be a nice little adventure. I've been using computers for so long, it will be an interesting challenge to see if I can explain them to people who have no knowledge of them.

Potentially, I could raise an army of super-genius hackers and take over the Internet. Imagine the riots and mayhem that would follow the complete and utter cessation of free online porn. Legions of pasty, oily ghouls shambling up cobwebbed stairs from their parents' basements, uttering the spine-curdling nasal bleat of the horny adolescent. Adult book and film stores denuded (hehe) of goods, the shop owners smothered by greased-up, hairy palms and left for dead. I would control the flow of raunch, and be invincible!

...
...

Upon reflection, Supreme Overlord of Chronic Masturbators might be a job title I could do without.

Alternatively, I could conceivably help some people acquire skills they could use to get a decent-paying job, which would be almost as rewarding.

I was most surprised, actually, by how quickly I cottoned to the experience. Similar to the way I use the phrase "cottoned to" so casually without knowing what it really means, I was astonishingly comfortable teaching stuff to total strangers.

I don't pretend to know if I was any good, but none of my 'clients' seemed to actively hate me. I have no specific endorsements, since "Was it good for you?" seemed an inappropriate question to pose. However, one of them had a serious "Aha!" moment, and said the way I explained it made much more sense than her regular tutor. The director of the center also seems to think I'm doing a pretty good job.

Feed my ego! Yes, breathe, my friend, breathe! Have a refreshing beverage.

If you don't get that, you need to watch Transporter 2.

It remains to be seen whether I am getting so much satisfaction out of this simply because it's new and I frankly have little else to do, or because it's something that genuinely interests me. For the time being, it is enough for me to know that I am contributing in some small way to the community. Doing it for free somehow makes it better.

Unaccountably, this feels more rewarding (but less delicious) than getting a bag of blood drained out of me every 8 weeks, then gorging on donuts and nachos. That, along with occasionally paying the bus fare for a down-and-out somebody desperately trying to get home to their sick mama, used to be the complete roster of my extensive volunteer work.

Sighting o' the day:
A middle-aged Hispanic woman driving an old, rusty Ford Aerostar type of family van pulls up next to me at a red light. Everything on the car looks worn down and tired, except for the rims, which are mirror-bright and spinning gently on ball bearings. Now that's awesome. Awesome to the max.

Sighting o' the other day:
A car full of college girls starts pacing me on the freeway. I glance over, and they're all staring at me. I return my attention to the road, and speed up a little, slightly creeped out. They keep pace. The next time I look over, they're ready for me, and they all start seat-dancing like crazy. I almost hit the guard rail, I'm laughing so hard. The driver gives a cheery wave, and they speed off, I imagine to brighten up someone else's drive and possibly cause a 30-car pileup.

Reading:
"Jarhead" by Anthony Swofford. This is one of those books that, while not a masterpiece of literature by any stretch of the imagination, is strangely compelling and an addicting read. Much as "Chickenhawk" educated me from ground level about the Vietnam war, so has "Jarhead" done for the first Gulf War.

Odd, since I was there at the time. I think I still have my gas mask somewhere.