Fowl Play

Notes from Penn Station:

  • If you can afford train fare, you probably live somewhere that includes some sort of bathing facility. Unless, of course, the pervasive stench isn’t coming from your flesh but from a huge Italian hoagie/sub/hero stashed in your coat pocket as a snack before embarking on your Thanksgiving gorge-a-thon.
  • It’s cold today, but really … a fur coat? Come on. This is not the tundra. You are not Jack London. You are a yenta.
  • You’re not going anywhere fabulous. Really. Knock it off. The only trains that are leaving in the next hour or so are not going to any wonderful destinations, so stop pretending you’re doing some serious travel. This is Amtrak and New Jersey Transit. This is not the Orient Express. Chances are your destination is some somnolent suburb, where you’ll engage in conversation with your family for half an hour before getting into a fight, the food will not come out as great as you expected, the pie you brought will just plain ol’ suck, but you’ll wind up eating too much anyway (and hating yourself tomorrow), and someone will wind up pissed off in the den ignoring everyone else, and then, at the end of all the excitement and glamour of the day, there’ll be dishes to wash and asses to kiss so you can make sure you’re invited back for Xmas, the next stop on the holiday tilt-a-whirl.

More to come later (maybe), so check back when you’re pretending to nap in the spare bedroom as a ploy to get out of helping with the dishes.