A post for Daisy Fae, who enjoys New York stories.

In 1986, a renovation project was completed on Carnegie Hall. The acoustics of Carnegie Hall were something that musicologists and the city always took great pride in. But, post-renovation, music purists insisted that the sound had somehow been compromised, particularly in the lower registers. There was a growing theory that a thin layer of concrete that hadn’t been there before was installed under the stage floor. Officials involved with the renovation adamantly denied the existence of the concrete. They said the story was pure fiction and they dismissed the critics as conspiracy theorist crackpots.

Well, as usual, the crackpots were right. In 1996, Hall administrators announced that there WAS INDEED a heretofore unknown layer of concrete below the stage and it was removed. The reviews were unanimous. The Hall’s warm acoustics were returned to their original form.

Can you imagine!? I was amazed by that. At the end of a concert, someone turned to their date and said, “I enjoyed the adagio, but it sounds like they’ve mistakenly installed a thin layer of concrete under the stage.” I’ll never be that perceptive about anything.

In other words, Happy New Year!

Nurse H and I took a trip down to Chinatown to help our Chinese friends ring in the New Year. It’s 4707—the year of the Ox.

The Chinese New Year celebration lasts 15 days. You’re not supposed to say anything negative about anyone for 15 days. That’s quite a challenge, especially in a place as opinionated as New York City!

We strolled up and down Mott Street and watched the dragons parade. The dragons are followed by a team of percussionists. They dance at the entrance of each merchant. To ward off bad luck, the merchant ignites a firework that shoots a big wad of confetti into the air that frightens the dragon away. He then hands a red envelope filled with cash through the mouth of the dragon.

Sometimes, the dragons are invited into the restaurants to parade. I was in the middle of a big plate of beef chow fun and a dragon came in and tried to eat the proprietor.

Mott Street is closed to vehicular traffic and it becomes a big pedestrian mall. (That’s Nurse H in the blue hat.)

I paid a visit to the one and only Carnegie Hall for a piano recital.

J.S. Bach! Maurice Ravel! Franz Schubert! Leoš Janáček!

Waitaminute. Leoš Janáček?! Who the hell is Leoš Janáček!? They always throw in a wild card. Well, three out of four is batting .750 and that’s pretty darn good.

The acoustics in that place are mind-blowing. When they come to a quiet passage, you can actually “feel” the silence on your skin. It’s a phenomenon. I can’t describe it.

Brief, one-sentence rant: People who cough during the quiet passages of Bach’s Partita No. 2 in C minor should be punched in the throat for breaking the spell.

The arc of my taste in music is pretty strange. It seems like it was just the other day I was listening to Rush’s Fountain of Lamneth off of their seminal third album Caress of Steel. Now look at me! Digging a recital by a world-class, award winning British pianist with a bunch of Upper East Side high-brows and European tourists who probably never used a copy of 2112 to clean the stems and seeds out of their weed! What a bunch of losers! I should turn in my bong and be done with it.

God, it was good. Simply beautiful. Close your eyes and drift away…

My old pal bobzyeruncle was here in town from London. He’s the reason I started a blog in the first place. He’s been keeping one since 2003—long before blogging worked its way into the mainstream. I always admired his blog and thought it would be fun to have one of my own. My rational for NOT having a blog—“who gives a shit what I ate for lunch?”—finally crumbled away last spring and The Unbearable Banishment was born.

We met at the Guggenheim. I’ve always loved the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed building and I hadn’t seen it since the scaffolding came down from a multi-year exterior renovation. Multiple layers of paint were stripped off the façade. The exterior had been painted various shades over the years. The facelift was done for structural integrity reasons, but they also went back to Wright’s original plans and matched the color to his specs. It looks as fresh (and correct) as the day it opened. Take a look at this beauty:

Isn’t that incredible? It looks so—I don’t know—clean. You should see it in person. Never mind what’s inside, the building itself is a work of art. I remember reading a critical review of the building from some gasbag architect and he called it a “toilet bowl” and the interior a “parking ramp.”

I knew virtually nothing at all about the two exhibits, photographs by Catherine Opie and theanyspacewhatever, which includes contributions from 10 artists. They were, quite frankly, awful. It was contemporary art/photography at its absolute ugliest and most pretentious. The visit was saved by the exterior renovation and the Kandinsky and Expressionist Painting before World War I exhibit, which I liked very much.

We needed to flush the stench of bad art out of our nostrils, so we walked down to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which is always a home run. I never get sick of that place, no matter how many times I go there. We paid a visit to her:

Someone wrote a children’s book about Mr. Degas’ young dancer. The author even incorporated the hair ribbon into the story. It’s one of 7-Year Old Daughter’s favorite books and I promised to bring her into the city to see it.

We went for one hell of a long walk. We started at the Guggenheim, which is on 5th Avenue and 89th St., walked all through that museum, walked down to the Met on 85th, walked through there and then down 5th Avenue along the east side of Central Park. Most of the holiday tourists are gone and that left the museums and sidewalks clear and easy to navigate.

At 58th Street, I was surprised to see that Bergdorf Goodman still has all their Christmas wreathes out.

Isn’t that nice? bobzyeruncle stopped into Brooks Brothers and bought a stack of dress shirts for him and L. The British Pound is more powerful than the mighty American Peso, so the shirts were a bargain. We got the subway at Rockefeller Center which means we walked a total of 41 blocks PLUS two museums! It was a great way to spend an afternoon. If only I can parlay that into some kind of money-making scheme…

In yet another blatant attempt to get 7-Year Old Daughter to look beyond the noise, filth and insanity of New York and see it for the shining jewel on the hill it is, I brought her into the city for some holiday tourist hijinks.

We met Nurse H for dinner at a diner. We ate at the Stardust Diner on Broadway and 51st. The food was ghastly, but it has its charms. The waiters and waitresses have musical theater aspirations and they take turns singing with a wireless mike. The singing goes on constantly from the time you walk in until the time you pay for your overpriced food. Some of them can carry a tune but I suspect that most of them are going to be working at the diner for a long, long time. That’s showbiz! You can’t give up your dream, even when faced with your own mediocrity.

The three of us hoofed two avenues over, past Radio City Music Hall, to look at the big Rockefeller Center tree. It was glorious! I do it every year and I never get sick of this stuff. Honestly! When I get tired of doing this sort of thing I’ll move.

Daughter’s favorite display is the snowflakes splashed across the façade of Saks Fifth Avenue.

I prefer the Cartier holiday bow wrapped around the Cartier mansion just a few blocks north of Saks.

A big New York City Merry Christmas to all!