What can a son say, about his father?

Yesterday night, the Princess and I met the parents at the Metropolitan Opera in the evening to see Strauss’s Die Fledermaus.

We’d had a tete-a-tete at Rosa Mexicano on the corner of Columbus and 26th, with a few Margaritas in front of their piece of installation art…

A tiled wall (with those tiny blue tiles they use in municipal swimming pools) with water rustling down, and many, many little plastic divers swan-diving down the wall in slightly imperfect synchronization.

Die Prinzessin was aglow with good Tequila and the 1.2 carat H color VS1 clarity diamond stud earrings she’d gotten for Xmas.

I was just as happy with, but not wearing, the singing Rudolf the Red-Nose Reindeer I’d gotten from the Queen Mother.

The operetta was delightful. Light, pleasant viennese romantic comedy, a funnier, more care-free Nozze di Figaro, complete with slapsticks humor, updated in-jokes and a delightful cast. Perfect for the season, it had us skipping back to the car despite the mordant winter wind knifing between the buildings of Manhattan.

Felt like walking back from the perfect party!

Recovering from Eggnogzilla, a stunning bottle of Topaz late harvest, a beautiful 15-year old Margaux, and a old-rhum flambeed Xmas pudding, so I’ll keep it brief:

Y’all have a wonderful Xmas day, and see you again (with pictures) in a bit!

Princess makes homemade candy bars.

What can I say… I got lucky on Yahoo Personals

Brancusi is my favourite sculptor, and sculpture is my favourite of the beaux arts.

This particular piece, however…

Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t want to find myself face to face with it while taking a stroll thru a museum with my daughter.

It’s not that she doesn’t know about the birds and the bees… it’s just that I’d rather ignore the fact that she does.

Does that make me a bad father?

Or is it enough to keep her bank account full from the other side of the Ocean, to compensate for not being there, even for xmas?