November 10, 2006

Dear Journal,

Last week I quit caffeine, flew from New York to Fresno, called the audience "Modesto,"� drove to San Luis-Obispo, then flew back to New York City. With a trip like that, you're bound to run into some snags and I sure did, Journal.

My troubles began at my hotel in San Luis-Obispo. It's a beautiful town on the coast, so I made meticulous plans to stay in a hotel on the water, so I could enjoy the finer aspects of California, not just the many freeways, Jamba Juices, and hate crimes.

When I arrived at the hotel they said they didn't have my reservation. When we investigated further, they said they had made my reservation for the previous Thursday. I said, "I wasn't here last Thursday."� These are the nicest words I used in the interaction. You see, Journal, I had checked and double-checked these reservations and when the manager told me there was nothing he could do, I lost my cool.

I said, "If you don't find me a room in the hotel, I'm going to be (expletive) furious."� And then the manager said, "Sir, you don't have to take it to that level."� Five minutes later, he found me a room. Apparently, I did have to take it to that level. I enjoyed my stay, did the show, and made my way to the airport the next morning. The San Luis Obispo airport is so small that it's kind of like parking at somebody's house. I felt like I should have brought a gift. Maybe a bottle of wine or some fuel. I usually don't fly out of small airports because over the years I've had a lot of cancellations. You see, Journal, if airlines don't have enough people to make a flight worthwhile, they'll just cancel the flight. This can be very inconvenient for people who are human beings. Human beings who love to go to destinations they have purchased plane tickets for. So the airline will say it's "engine complications"� or "unexpected maintenance,"� but what they really mean is, "We don't know you that well, we don't have any loyalty to you, and we don't feel like going."�

As it turns out, my flight was cancelled. So I decided to rent a car to Los Angeles, where the other leg of my flight picked up. I went with Avis. Last time I rented from Thrifty and didn't have much luck. And people were like, "What do you expect? Their name is Thrifty."� I'm like, "Yea, but the other companies are called Budget and Dollar. One of the companies is called Rent-a Wreck. You're telling me that Thrifty is worse than Rent-a-Wreck? The last time I looked up the word "wreck,"� it means the car is irreparably damaged. They're using that as their selling point?

So I went with Avis because I don't what the hell that means. And they pulled that passive aggressive thing that rental places do regarding insurance. They're like, "Do you want the 15 dollar coverage?"� and you're like, "I don't think so."� And then they give you that look like, "Hope you don't crash our car."�

In the line I had become friendly with a woman who was supposed to be on the same flight. When she saw that I was renting a car, she asked if she could get a ride. I thought, "No, no, no, no."� And then I nodded and said "Sure!"� because for me to screw her over the way the airline had just screwed me over would have been too ironic.

Megan and I enjoyed a pleasant trip down the coast. At one point my girlfriend called and I had to explain that I was in a car with a strange woman who I had never met but was on a 4-hour road trip with. Try doing that sometime. I considered telling my girlfriend that my new friend's name was Steve, but then I thought this woman might have thought that I was some kind of serial killer trying to form an alibi. I did not want to freak Megan out, or lie to my girlfriend, so I ended up being vague and elusive, like someone in a hostage situation.

We got to the airport and after all I had been through, the woman at the ticket counter upgraded me to 1st class, which was almost too much. I'm so accustomed to coach that I felt like I should invite other coach class passengers up to share my seat with me. "Plenty of room up here, team!"�

As I sat in 1st class sipping tea and wearing eye pillows, I thought, "The ticketing agent had been had been so sweet that it actually made up for everything that had gone wrong and it pointed out the lesson for my weekend: "˜Sometimes you have to take to that level, and sometimes you don't.'"�

And that concludes this week's entry in my Secret Public Journal.

Dear Journal,

This week I got back to New York and started preparing for Halloween. I usually don't celebrate Halloween because of a traumatic childhood experience. In kindergarten we were supposed to wear a costume for Halloween and my parents forgot to get me a costume, so at the last minute they just threw on this furry vest from my mom's closet. And I went go to school and people were like, "What's your costume?"� and I was like, "I'm an Indian."� And they were like, "No, you're a loser."� Looking back on that experience, I can't help but wonder, "Why did my mom have that furry vest?"�

Halloween is the only holiday on which hot girls just dress up as even hotter girls and guys dress up as pirates. It's truly the only time of year when pirates get a positive spin. If you think about pirates, they're just some sea-faring robbers with eye patches and parrots who say, "Arrrgh,"� but on Halloween they're like superheroes. Everyone's like, "Give him a chance. He's says, "˜arrgh.' That's adorable!"�

But I'm excited about Halloween again, because I now have 2 nephews and a niece. And kids get excited about Halloween. Actually, kids get excited about anything. When I was in grade school, we used to get excited about Book Fair. You know why? Because nothing else ever happened. The most eventful thing that happened in 4th grade was that once a month we'd have pizza day and once a year they'd bring a whole truck of books. And I'd always end up buying a book that would introduce me to a hobby I would never actually pursue, like karate. And every year I would practice karate in my living room for an entire day, or at least until I broke a lamp. In retrospect, I think these karate books lacked the personal touch of an Asian mentor with a collection of classic cars that I could wax and someday own.

So this year I decided to dress up for Halloween as Sleepy Karl, my sleep-addicted alter ego. When I couldn't find a costume shop, I went into a sex shop on my corner and asked if they had a gray beard and they looked at me like I was crazy. I was thinking, "Who's to say my girlfriend isn't into absurdly old men? Maybe she wants to get down with Santa Claus."� The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. "A store that sells 40 different kinds of ball gags is going to judge me? No thanks, Good Vibrations!"�

So I went to my niece's Halloween parade and I noticed that kids today have much more elaborate costumes. When I was a kid and someone wanted to dress up as Big Bird, they might put on a yellow shirt and some kind of strap-on beak. But today, the kids wear the actual costume that the actor playing Big Bird actually wears. Whereas kids might have dressed up as Mr. Hooper or Gordon by wearing a turtleneck, kids today hire those actors to trick or treat for them.

So I hadn't worn a costume in years since my run in with the wool vest in kindergarten, but I decided to put on my Sleepy Karl costume and give it a shot. One of the mothers at the parade came up to me and asked, "What's your costume?"� And I said, "Sleepy Karl."� And she said "What?"� and I said, "my sleep-addicted alter ago who takes over for the night shift and tries to convince me not to wake up."� And she said, "Who?"� and I said "I'm Santa Claus."� And she said, "No, you're a loser."�

And that concludes this week's entry in My Secret Public Journal.