We’re heading back to the East Coast tomorrow. It was nice visiting Cleveland but I’m looking forward to seeing New York City again on Monday morning. I’m not making any comparisons. It wouldn’t be fair. They’re in a different weight class. You don’t put Oscar de la Hoya in the ring against Joe Frazier. You compare New York to London, Paris and Tokyo. You compare Cleveland to other medium-sized cities like Seattle, Tampa and Baltimore. Clevo is a nice enough town as compared to those other fine municipalities, but NYC is deep under my skin and I miss it. Do I sound like a snob? I hope not. I don’t mean to.

At Benevolent Dictators, Inc., we outsource a significant amount of work to Mumbai. I hope my colleagues there are okay.

The end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade traditionally signals the official start of the Christmas season in New York City. Personally, I always kick off the season by reading The Santaland Diaries by David Sedaris. If you’ve never read it, do yourself a big favor and pick up a copy. If you’ve read it in the past, read it again because I guarantee you’ve forgotten just how funny it is. It’s clever and dark. It’ll jingle your bells.

My other traditional holiday read is Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. I’ll pick it up about a week or so before Christmas. One day, I hope to own a first edition that includes the eight beautiful illustrations by John Leech—four woodcut and four hand colored etchings. This one is my favorite: Mr. Fezziwig’s Ball.

In case I’m on your gift list, I think you can get a pretty decent first edition for about $20K. Until then, I’ll have to make do with visiting the copy that the Morgan Library puts on display every season.

Snow.
Rain.
Snow/rain mix.
Howling, biting wind.
Sleet.
Snow falling horizontally.
Slush.
Leaden skies.

Nobody comes here for the weather, but they are generous with the anchovies on their pizzas, and that counts for PLENTY.

And the gas is cheap.

And my family seems genuinely happy to see me, although I suspect that might have more to do with The Daughters than me.

Tomorrow, the alarm on my nightstand will sound at 4:00 a.m. About :45 minutes later, with the daughters loaded in the back seat and (hopefully) fast asleep, we will begin the long drive to lovely Cleveland to see my family for Thanksgiving. If it were just Mrs. Wife and I, the drive would take about eight hours. But throw a 7-year old and a 2-year old into the mix and you have to tack an additional two hours onto the trip.

We have a portable DVD player to anesthetize the kiddies during the long, dull drive. When I was a kid, in order to combat the boredom on long car trips, we had to count road kill. Most shocking road kill ever: a black bear in Pennsylvania.

If you are in your car waiting for a red light to change and you need to turn left, but there’s oncoming traffic at the opposite side of the intersection who are also waiting for the red light to change who have the right-of-way but you don’t want to wait for them, even though they have the right-of-way, so that when the light turns green you punch it and turn in front that first oncoming car who has the right-of-way and cut them off because you couldn’t wait your turn, guess what?

You are a SHITHEAD.

I was leaving the Pret where I occasionally get a morning cup of coffee and I stopped to use the bathroom on the way out. It’s a small, one-person bathroom and I certainly thought I had locked the door behind me but a minute later while I was on the throne, pants around my ankles, typing out a text message, the door swung open wide and a Pret employee wearing a Pret baseball cap and Pret polo shirt walked in, looked down at me, yelled, “OH, SHIT!” and ran out. I can’t tell you how embarrassed I was. Am. I don’t dare show my face in there ever again.

As I mentioned yesterday, I spent this week on a razor’s edge worrying about my job, so after work last night I met Nurse H for a badly needed libation. I met her on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Although I lived in New York City for two solid decades, I spent very little time on the Upper East Side. I lived in downtown Brooklyn and the Lower East Side, so 23rd Street felt like uptown to me.

The Upper East Side has always been one of the safest neighborhoods in the city. Consequently, a lot of single women live there. It was a long subway ride from where I lived and the only time I took the 6 train was when I dated someone from up yonder. Plus, it wasn’t my kind of energy. It was (is, always has been, always will be) monied and I never had any, so I felt out of place there. But the homes are incredibly beautiful.

In the early 1990s, I met a girl who I thought was the love of my life, but she didn’t see it that way. When I walk up 3rd Avenue near 91st Street I’m reminded of those happy/sad days.

Nurse H and I met at JG Melon which is a BAR bar on 3rd and 74th.

We’re in December-budget-crunch mode so we sought out something reasonable which, in NYC, can be quite a challenge. It was windy and frigid out, so there would be no pleasant strolling down the Avenue. After drinks and a bowl of chili (perfect for a cold winter’s evening) we hustled to the nearest movie theater to watch 007 go through his painful motions. It’s going to be a long, long time until they make a Bond movie that’s as good as Casino Royal. Movie ticket = $12.50. Small popcorn + small soda = $10.50. So much for the budget crunch.