I went to a play last night and this old buck in front of me had his glasses on wrong. The temple was OVER his ear instead of tucked behind it.

How could he be so unaware of this? Wouldn’t it hurt or be uncomfortable? Finally, midway through the performance, he touched the side of his head and fixed it. It seems the older we get, the more easily we’re distracted. I’ll bet his underwear was on backwards, as well.

It must have been crazy geriatric discount night because the 80+ year old crow sitting next to me was LOUDLY sucking hard candies throughout the entire play. I could barely concentrate on the performances because it sounded like the person next to me was eating a big pork chop with her mouth open.

And then, of course, her cell phone went off at the exact wrong moment. It was set to extra-loud to compensate for her deteriorating hearing. But that sort of thing isn’t just the geriatrics. A cell phone goes off at every single performance I attend.

I hope when I get old I don’t annoy people in public. Although, my dream was to stay in my New York apartment until I became the crazy old guy with the big apartment who everyone wishes would croak so they could get their hands on my real estate.

I saw the recently opened and well received Everyday Rapture. What really impressed me was that she was the co-author of the piece. It’s not enough that she has a successful stage career, can sing and act. No. She has to be a writer too. People like that make me feel I’m not trying hard enough.

The play stars Sherie Rene Scott as Sherie Rene Scott—a somewhat fictionalized version of herself. The arc of the plot takes her from her humble beginnings as a Mennonite raised in Kansas to the filthy streets of Broadway.

It’s basically a one-woman show except for the musical interludes when she is joined by her two back-up singers, the Mennonettes. (Yes, she wrote the songs, too. Grrrr.) She is torn between two loves; Jesus Christ and Judy Garland. She pokes fun at religion without ever disrespecting it. Come to think of it, she gives theater the same treatment. It made me laugh.

Last night, a Nissan Pathfinder loaded with propane tanks, gasoline, fireworks (?!) and a detonator was parked on 45th Street and Broadway—right in the heart of Times Square. The detonator went off but it failed to ignite an explosion. It was discovered around 6:30 p.m. I’ve been through that area at that hour and it is choked with beautiful, happy tourists. Those wonderful people who come to New York and help to feed, and feed off of, its greatness.

A quick-thinking T-shirt vendor, who is now a local hero, saw smoke coming from the back of the car and alerted a mounted police officer. The officer smelled gunpowder and Times Square was evacuated.

Then, these tough motherfuckers from the bomb squad moved in and did their thing. Who ARE these guys?!

Brendan McDermid/Reuters

The very good Mayor Bloomberg held a press conference at 2:30 a.m. Apparently, he was at an event because he typically doesn’t dress like this when talking to the media.

Hiroko Masuike for The New York Times

I’m exhausted with sadness. I don’t want to live through another 9/11. Mrs. Wife and I had an apartment just a mile and a half from the World Trade Center and I’ve experienced all the terrorist activity I care to for one lifetime. And PLEASE spare me any lectures this morning about how other parts of the world suffer this fate on a daily basis. I’m not a blind idiot. I feel for them.

But New York is my home, so this cuts deep and it’s personal. I love this city so much and I don’t want it all fucked up. Again. It’s like watching someone try to hurt somebody you love.

Today is the 50th anniversary of the publication of To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s the single most important book in my life.

I didn’t read a book until I was 20 years old. It’s true! They attempted to force-feed me while attending my below-average schools, but I made it clear that I would only read a book under protest and made every effort to not finish it. I usually succeeded.

Flash to age 20. I’m in the Coast Guard (no university for me, thanks!) and freshly arrived in New York City. I didn’t know a soul. I’d not felt so isolated and all alone before or since. At that time, New York was a dirty, overwhelming, scary mess. But I got sick of sitting around and starring at my shoelaces, so I decided to go exploring.

I took the R train from Whitehall up to Central Park. On the way, I passed a street peddler who was selling books. I gave birth to, what I imagined was, the most original and exciting idea ever conceived. I was going to sit in the park and read a book. I thought that voluntarily reading a book was a courageous act.

I looked over the books spread out on the sidewalk (I can still picture it to this day) and saw a tattered, worn paperback of To Kill a Mockingbird. I remembered that some of my friends in school had to read it, so I thought I’d give it a try. Plus, it was thin and that appealed to me.

I sat down on a Central Park bench, opened the book and began reading. I was a different man when I got up off that bench. It was a defining moment. That book sucked me in and I haven’t stopped reading since. It opened a door for me. I became a reader because of To Kill a Mockingbird. What a gift!

In 2005 I got the notion to write to Harper Lee and tell her how much her book meant to me. I wrote that, because of her book, I’m living a better and more interesting life than someone without a college degree could have expected to. I wrote that I’m a better father to my daughters and honestly don’t know what would have become of me if her book hadn’t introduced me to reading. I worked hard on the letter and was pleased with the results.

Harper Lee is a recluse who shuns publicity. All I knew was that she lived in Monroeville, Alabama, so I sent the letter to Harper Lee, c/o Monroeville, AL. I never expected it to arrive, much less be read by her, but I had to get that off my chest.

Just a few short days after I sent my letter, I received the following:

The fact that I moved Harper Lee to write such an elegant thank-you note is meaningful to me. The funny coda is that a few days after that, I received ANOTHER note from Ms. Lee. She couldn’t remember whether or not she sent a thank-you note.

“Forgive me if this is a repeat letter; I’m old, my eyesight is failing and I’m FORGETFUL. I may have forgot that I replied to you, but I know one thing: I’ll never forget your letter. In 45 years of receiving fan mail, I never had a letter mean so much to me. Thank you for it.”

Happy birthday, Atticus. Thanks for saving me from a boring life.

I was walking through the tunnel that runs under 42nd Street trying to get to the A train when I stumbled across this guy.

I’m not a believer so I’m pretty sure that qualifies me as being “wicked,” which means that eventually I’ll be “turned into hell.” There are lots of folks like this in the city. People who want you to know that unless you walk the same path they do, you’ll be damned to hell. 98% of the time I don’t care what they have to say. They don’t mean anything to me. But if I’m having a 2% day, it can get under my skin. Don’t judge me. You fuckhead.

I’m doing some consulting work at an investment bank. I stepped into the men’s room, closed the stall door and sat down. This was stuck to the door. It’s at eye level when you’re sitting.

Or worse? What do you mean? Like, your careless habits can result in someone’s death? And I like the accusatory, guilt-ridden “you know who you are…” I can’t put my thumb on it but this note has a certain charm to it.

I lost my job at J.P. Morgan back in December, which was a blessing in disguise if ever there was one. Since that time, I’ve worked a series of consulting/freelance projects and have, by and large, remained gainfully employed. Mrs. Wife and I have always made a point to live below our means, so money hasn’t been a huge problem. Mrs. Wife, to her credit, doesn’t give a shit about material things. We don’t need much to get by.

I seem to be on the threshold of a job offer. I’m probably speaking too soon but even if this one doesn’t work out, the economy is on the mend and I suspect a hire offer isn’t that far into my future. Until then, there seems to be plenty of freelance work floating around.

This has caused me to reflect on the time between projects when I didn’t have work. I’ve had two or three week periods where nothing much was happening. I, as I’m sure all of you, have always suspected that not working would be a pretty sweet deal. I like what I do for a living and I don’t mind working. But what I didn’t realize, and now know, is that not working is FUCKING AWESOME to the 10th power, especially if you have New York at your doorstep.

I know lots and lots of stay-at-home mothers who insist that raising kids is a full time job and that they are, de facto, “working.” I respect that. I prefer Mrs. Wife stay home and take care of The Daughters. I believe they’re happier for it. Raising kids is a lot of hard work but, I’m sorry, it’s way more satisfying than the grind of commuting 2x per day, sitting at the same desk under the same florescent lights, Monday through Friday and being surrounded by people who, by and large, you wouldn’t choose to associate with. Not working is the BEST. But the pay is terrible.

Here are some things I learned while unemployed.

• I learned that if you visit any of the art museums in Manhattan during the week and get there just as they’re opening, you can have the whole place to yourself. Especially the Met. The Met is so vast that it disperses the crowd pretty well. The galleries are gloriously empty and you don’t have people walking in front of you while you’re studying a painting. Same goes for the art galleries in Chelsea.
• I learned that during the day, the gym is empty. Nobody postures and preens. Nobody is texting or cruising for tail. All the equipment is available. Get in, do your thing and get out.
• I learned that sleeping in is overrated.
• I learned that there’s an entire subculture in New York City of people who don’t work and don’t seem to have money problems. Central Park is full of people out enjoying themselves in the midday sun and I’m not counting the tourists. You can tell the visitors from the locals. I don’t know how they do it! Who are these people who are able to jog around the reservoir at 3:00 in the afternoon?
• I learned how to paint the interior of a house. I never knew! Seriously! The painting is a drag but the end results are pretty satisfying.
• I learned that having breakfast with 3-Year Old Daughter and being home when 8-Year Old Daughter gets home from school to help with her homework is a worthwhile expenditure of my time.