I’m writing this in a tryptophan haze from Warren, New Jersey. We’ve just finished our Thanksgiving dinner with Uncle Bob and Aunt Lisa and I’m looking for a soft place to fall down.

Dad and Hannah came into the city yesterday to see the show. Throughout the day I got some great text messages from them. First from dad:

“i’m in yr rockefeller ctr, killin yr doodz”

Then from Hannah:

“I got crapped on by an NYC pigeon. All up in my hair and on my coat. I’m never coming back to this effing city.”

I don’t think my reply helped put her at ease:

“Don’t worry - it’s good luck when that happens. You should make a wish.”

I got to show them around the studio and the office after the show. Offices rarely make exciting fodder for tours.

“Here’s where we keep our assorted supplies. Paper, staples, and such. Here’s the vending machine. And there’s a bathroom down the hall…”

Things got significantly more interesting when we snuck onto the Saturday Night Live set. During the course of my regular workday I’m never more than 1,000 feet from it, yet I’ve never seen it, so Dad, Hannah, and I did a little exploring while the SNL crew was on hiatus. Given my interests, that studio is basically hallowed ground.

Leaving Manhattan proved troublesome. We were taking a train out of Penn Station, which would have been a breeze any other day of the year. But this was the day before Thanksgiving, and there was a fire in the tunnel out of the city. We waited for a while. It took so long that I couldn’t tell if they were putting out the fire or building a new tunnel.

Our train was crowded, a Red Sea of people with no Moses to part it. The wheels finally kicked to life and we lurched forward, everyone cheering.

We arrived late at night and had no trouble falling asleep. When I woke up, many hours after everyone else, it was basically time to eat. Lisa’s Thanksgiving dinner toast was a thing of beauty: “Here’s to shoving stale bread up a dead turkey’s ass!”