Guess who blew into town for a few hours? Straight from the Trailer Park! Mizz Daisyfae was passing through Manhattan en route to a business trip on Long Island and I thought it would be appropriate to show her a few of the sights. I assumed that after dealing with the horrid LaGuardia airport, she might require a drink or two. What?! It’s medicine to calm the nerves!

I had a pretty grand scheme. I thought she should take in the Edward Hopper exhibit at the Whitney and see at play in the evening. (She is, under her skin, an actor.) But a biblical rainstorm saturated the area so instead of landing at around 1:30 as scheduled, she didn’t get into town until 6:00. Poor thing! She had to settle for the abbreviated tour. Fortunately, by the time she got to town, the clouds parted and the rain stopped.

She showed up none the worse for wear at our appointed meeting spot at Grand Central Station. It was rush hour and the place was as busy as…well…Grand Central Station. I pointed out the restored ceiling mural, took her down 42nd Street so we could gawk at the beautifully illuminated Chrysler Building and headed for Bryant Park.

The ice skating rink is up and running. Thank you, Citibank! At the north end of the rink is a fun little restaurant/pub called Celsius. There’s indoor seating on a second level but on the ground level you can take a table outside right next to the rink. The War of the Worlds-type devices hovering above the tables are heating elements that keep you roasty-toasty warm. You feel like a french fry under the lamp at McDonalds. They’re very effective.

The menu includes several hot drinks that are all infused with the spirit of Christmas, if you know what I mean. Daisy had two cups of Christmas cheer to my one. She’s fast! We watched people fall on their asses and slam into the boards. It’s like drinks and a show. I had a bowl of chili that was way, way better than you could expect from a restaurant that only exists for two months out of the year.

Daisy and I sat and kvetched about all of you. The rink was surprisingly empty when we got there! I think the afternoon storms kept people away. By the time we left, it was pretty full of holiday revelers.

We took a little stroll up 5th Avenue to Rockefeller Center. The tree is lit and, again, the crowds were kept to a minimum by the mid-day tempest.

Miss Fay takes in the big Rockefeller Center tree, skating rink and statue of Prometheus.

I took her from 30 Rock, past the neon façade of Radio City Music Hall and down through Times Square. I showed her the ball that drops on New Years Eve and she said, “It’s smaller than I thought it would be!” Boy, if I had a nickle every time I heard that. Ba-dum-bump. I’m here all week.

I accompanied her on a downtown subway to Penn Station, got her ticket for the Long Island Railroad and chucked her on a train. Not bad for three hours.

C’mon! Who’s next!? Step right up.

I’ve been feeling [with apologies to Anthony Burgess] all boo-hoo-hooey recently because I came razor-thin close, but didn’t get, a pretty good position in a big, fat, successful investment bank. I even took it out on the poor, old, feeble Pope in my last post.

I’m about to leave for The Great Buckeye State for the long Thanksgiving holiday and I didn’t want to drag everybody down into my swamp so I took drastic evasive measures to improve my mood. [Note to overseas readers: Thanksgiving = the worst thing that ever happened to Native Americans.]

I like to visit Carnegie Hall two or three times a year. That place is one of the reasons to tolerate the filth, crowds and other sundry horrors that are inherent in New York City living. I sought healing at a piano recital. Evenings like that are a real joy to me in small doses. I always go alone because I don’t know anybody who would tolerate that crap, but I don’t mind one bit. It’s actually cathartic to sit in that cathedral by myself.

I’ll tell you one thing; the audiences at Carnegie Hall sure know how to behave themselves. You don’t hear a chair squeak, a candy wrapper crinkle or, best of all, a cell phone chime during the entire performance. Not like those pigs on Broadway.

A really odd thing happened. The lights dimmed, someone walked out onto stage and announced, “There is a change in the program. The [mumble-mumble] by Bach will not be performed. Instead, the [mumble-mumble] by Handel will be performed. What do you suppose that was all about? He wasn’t channeling Bach that night? I would have liked to hear the conversation in the dressing room. (Head in hands) “I simply kahnt perform that piece tonight.” Artists are so temperamental. The Bach piece is what drew me to the evening in the first place but I, uncharacteristically, got over it right away.

If you close your eyes, and if you can fight off to powerful urge to fall asleep, the music really can transport you somewhere else. Somewhere not inside my head, which is just where I wanted to be. At the end of what was a really moving evening, I stood to leave. The elderly woman sitting next to me was starring off into the air. She suddenly snapped to and said, “Oh! Please forgive me! I was lost in the ecstasy!” They really do talk like that out here, folks.

The Rose Museum is a small room inside Carnegie Hall that contains memorabilia relating to the Hall’s history. There are lots of programs and tickets and news clippings. There’s the golden trowel that Andrew Carnegie used to lay the ceremonial cornerstone in 1890. Did you know that they almost demolished Carnegie Hall in 1962 to make room for a hideous red skyscraper? Probably the same jack-offs who tore down the original Penn Station to build Madison Square Garden

Here’s a program signed by The Beatles on February 12, 1964, just three days after their historic appearance on the Ed Sullivan show. They played two :30 minute concerts that night. Don’t strain yourself, boys.

Take a look at what they did to poor Paul McCartney’s name! Ha!

Regular readers know that the current recession has kicked me in the plums pretty hard. For the past 22 months, I’ve worked as a consultant at about a half dozen investment banks, none of whom are in any mood to hire on staff.

Back in 2009, I went through a three-month period of unemployment. Since then, I’ve had scattered 2-3 week outages of work. I consider myself fortunate because I know some folks who haven’t weathered this recession as well as I have, so I’m not complaining. Much. We were never in any financial distress. My Bride and I live frugally and that helped keep panic at bay.

But something wholly unexpected happened during those work stoppages. I tasted what life is like when I’m not obligated to sit in an office all day, every day. And the sweet flavor has lingered in the windmills of my mind. It’s like the time I was gifted a first class upgrade on a flight. Worst thing that ever happened to me! All it did was show me how barbaric coach is.

There’s a lot of life going on outside my Manhattan office window. And seeing The Daughters and Mrs. Wife in the evening is what it’s all about, isn’t it? But that kind of lifestyle takes money. Lots of money. I’m just a regular guy.

I went for a walk at lunch yesterday. It’s been sunny and cool all week. I wound my way through the Village and as I passed the Greenwich Village Bistro on Carmine Street, I heard music.

I poked my head inside and stumbled onto this scene.

These three old rattlesnakes—one on a beaten upright piano, one playing a trumpet with a mute and one playing a trombone—were pumping out New Orleans jazz tunes. At 1:00 in the afternoon on a Wednesday! They were masters of their craft. This is why I love this town so much. You can go out for a walk and it’ll show you a magic trick. Presto!

I took a seat at the copper top bar and ordered some split pea soup. The barmaid called me “hon” and chatted me up. There were only two other tables of customers. They were playing to an empty house.

There was one other person sitting at the bar. A soft, pudgy black guy who was working on a music score. At one point he yelled over to the musicians, “I’m gonna sing one, okay?” The piano player started a mid-tempo chug, the trombone came in, then the trumpet, and the guy sitting next to me sang, in a silky-smooth voice, a song about missing New Orleans. I almost wept into my soup.

There was a guy sitting at a table typing away on his Mac. How did he do it? How did he maneuver through life so that he’s able to spend his afternoons in this grand manner? [Interesting factoid: The waitress in this pic is the piano player’s granddaughter. What a joy it must be for both of them.]

I think it’s too late for me. Do you know they just opened an Edward Hopper exhibit at the Whitney? I love Edward Hopper! He’s a Raymond Carver short story on canvas. Why am I sitting in an office all day? For the past nine years I’ve spent close to four hours a day commuting. There doesn’t seem to be any end in sight. I wouldn’t say that I’m wallowing in some Kafkaesque abject nightmare—I’m not suicidal—but life could, and should, be so much sweeter. Don’t you think?

This is the LAST thing I would have expected unemployment to teach me.