6:00 am. There is something brutal and savage about stepping off a red-eye flight into the flickering fluorescent wash at Philadelphia to the tune of stock classical music, like a low-budget stage production of Clockwork Orange - any second now, I fear, my generally unorthodox wardrobe will spark senseless violence and mayhem. Then again, anyone voluntarily leaving California - especially as we begin this inevitable march towards Winter - is clearly expecting a rude shock to the system. Cats meow from somewhere in the open-concept holding cell known as The Waiting Area; before my sleep-deprived sensory apparatus has time to square this with the whole airport thing, a woman starts jerkily dancing along with the classical fare over out front of Gate B-13. There is a scent of rank feral desperation about the place, augmented by the ringtone interjections of crudely-produced hip-hop. The double shot of bourbon back in SFO has long worn off, leaving me woefully unequipped to handle the sort of ultraviolence that is surely headed my way. I hear they still have Public Lynchings in those pleasant atavistic backwaters of this fine country, and I can certainly muster enough blasphemy to make the ticket...

God Jesus! It seems the spirit of Hunter S. Thompson has crept into my brain, a direct frontal assault from the pages of my newly-finished copy of Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72. If you would claim to understand the intricate meanderings of politics, read this book - a better account of the haphazard chaos behind your average televised presidential campaign has never been given. No major newspaper could print this with a straight face without immediately forcing the termination of half their editorial staff, with the heads to be mailed to Washington for public display...and it seems my connecting flight is boarding, judging by the impatient queue slowly lurching towards the open gate. More to follow...

Had the chance to wine and dine in the famed wine-producing region of Napa Valley this last Saturday. I decided to don my only suit jacket (and no socks - hey, it's laundry day) for the occasion so as to meet the requisite minimum standard of pomposity. (I should really source a monocle, kerchief, pocket watch, and top hat. As a general rule, you don't argue with anyone who is actively employing all these objects in the service of highbrowdom.)

The Stanford Canadian Club Thanksgiving dinner was a resounding success as measured by the excess of available foodstuffs; there was turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie in abundance. Yum. Maybe this whole gastronomic shindig should be a weekly affair (or fortnightly, at the very least.) In true seasonal fashion, the leaves are Monty-Python-style suicide-diving off the trees in droves; the air is crisp with that familiar decay-scent, something I had not expected to find this far south.

Important news flash: I just saw a rainbow out the shuttle window. If I were inclined to believe in such nonsense, I'd say that was a good omen for the day.