Mr. Checks
Distinguished Member
- Joined
- Mar 12, 2006
- Messages
- 1,253
- Reaction score
- 2
Strangers in our own land, Team Checks made its second annual assault on New York City recently. Five days later, my senses are still overwhelmed at the sights, the sounds, the smells...
- Highlights included a behind-the-scenes tour of a major fashion magazine, more trips to Bergdorf Men than my skinny wallet justified, and pizza made the way God intended (firm and thin crust, light cheese, light and tangy sauce).
- Shopping was concentrated on casual clothes (PPD jeans, cap, tee shirts) but I stopped for a visit at the shrine at 346 Madison, if only to get a half-dozen pocket squares.
- My visit to J. Press was more memorable for the ferocity of the staff than the moving sale then taking place (the old man bitterly mutters "Jes-us Christ" every time the phone rings, and another says "whadda ya want?" as I scan the belts).
- The British gent at Paul Stuart seems thrilled - thrilled - to sell me a baseball cap, for which I'm thankful. I wanted the car coat but college tuition looms.
- At 10 minutes to curtain, I decide to go to the Met, walk 3 blocks from the hotel, score a wonderful ticket for $20, and I'm in my seat three minutes early. Can't do that at home.
The Met Orchestra is a national treasure. Ben Heppner mildly disappoints.
- Halfway through the Fagles Iliad and having just finished Thucydides, I am awestruck at the enormity and quality of the Greek exhibits at the other Met - did they leave anything behind in Greece? I spend my entire alloted two hours in those two rooms. The guard keeps a close eye on me.
I sneak back later for the more typical whirlwind tour of Rembrandt, Vermeer, et al.
- I operate the (Leaper-less) Jag like a local, almost-getting-killed-by-a-cabbie only twice. Our marriage survives some tense moments when I decide to "f*^k this traffic jam" at the Lincoln Tunnel and drive 138 blocks north to the Geo Washington Bridge (The Lovely and Talented Mrs. Checks would rather stay politely in line than abandon previously-made plans; it's a Lutheran thang and if you don't understand that, you've never been married to one and you probably don't simultaneously laugh and cry at A Prarie Home Companion, as I do).
With the Manhattan skyline in my review mirror, I've already begin to calculate, scheme, and conjure a way to make the numbers work: drop off the Gifted One at college, sell the house and all three cars (why do I have three cars?), leave two good/great jobs, buy a tiny one-bedroom, live on $2.75 pizza slices and rush tickets at the Met...
No, not fresh out of college like everyone else who comes here, but in the thick middle of my years, abandoning foundations built many miles away.
It's a ridiculous notion. Patently unreasonable.
And utterly compelling.
.
- Highlights included a behind-the-scenes tour of a major fashion magazine, more trips to Bergdorf Men than my skinny wallet justified, and pizza made the way God intended (firm and thin crust, light cheese, light and tangy sauce).
- Shopping was concentrated on casual clothes (PPD jeans, cap, tee shirts) but I stopped for a visit at the shrine at 346 Madison, if only to get a half-dozen pocket squares.
- My visit to J. Press was more memorable for the ferocity of the staff than the moving sale then taking place (the old man bitterly mutters "Jes-us Christ" every time the phone rings, and another says "whadda ya want?" as I scan the belts).
- The British gent at Paul Stuart seems thrilled - thrilled - to sell me a baseball cap, for which I'm thankful. I wanted the car coat but college tuition looms.
- At 10 minutes to curtain, I decide to go to the Met, walk 3 blocks from the hotel, score a wonderful ticket for $20, and I'm in my seat three minutes early. Can't do that at home.
The Met Orchestra is a national treasure. Ben Heppner mildly disappoints.
- Halfway through the Fagles Iliad and having just finished Thucydides, I am awestruck at the enormity and quality of the Greek exhibits at the other Met - did they leave anything behind in Greece? I spend my entire alloted two hours in those two rooms. The guard keeps a close eye on me.
I sneak back later for the more typical whirlwind tour of Rembrandt, Vermeer, et al.
- I operate the (Leaper-less) Jag like a local, almost-getting-killed-by-a-cabbie only twice. Our marriage survives some tense moments when I decide to "f*^k this traffic jam" at the Lincoln Tunnel and drive 138 blocks north to the Geo Washington Bridge (The Lovely and Talented Mrs. Checks would rather stay politely in line than abandon previously-made plans; it's a Lutheran thang and if you don't understand that, you've never been married to one and you probably don't simultaneously laugh and cry at A Prarie Home Companion, as I do).
With the Manhattan skyline in my review mirror, I've already begin to calculate, scheme, and conjure a way to make the numbers work: drop off the Gifted One at college, sell the house and all three cars (why do I have three cars?), leave two good/great jobs, buy a tiny one-bedroom, live on $2.75 pizza slices and rush tickets at the Met...
No, not fresh out of college like everyone else who comes here, but in the thick middle of my years, abandoning foundations built many miles away.
It's a ridiculous notion. Patently unreasonable.
And utterly compelling.
.
