OTAS, you found it

At lot of very little happened over the last few weeks. Things that are happening in 2006 seem more like an inflated sequel of where I was about two years ago: living in the city, heading out to the opera from time to time, and hanging out in the bars and going shopping.

One thing is different: My enthusiasm. With what seemed like a year of clawing my way to getting salary increases, moving up the corporate ladder, and moving back to Manhattan, I have to say that the long, tortured path here – via Georgetown, Chicago, Mercer and MMA – feels, well, bitter.

After all that time and effort put through working with Mercer I left feeling exploited. They promised career advancement, I got none. They promised London, I got Chicago. Then I start working with some major ass holes at MMA. Finally, I get this job – the promotion I had long deserved. But do we really have to beg, lie, and cheat to get what we deserve. Why can’t a company, recognizing they have a good employee, do right by them?

Well, they don’t. They extract every ounce of goodwill, exploit all the naiveté, hoping you’re dumb enough to keep the job and continue working for peanuts. Sure, people tell me that you generally have to change jobs to get your first real promotion (this doesn’t count moving from “analyst” to “senior analyst”). But I guess I didn’t realize the extent to which they were correct.

That’s my ten cents.

Went to see Brokeback mountain. At one point, I actually thought that I didn’t like romance movies because, well, there’s little in them for gay people. But now I know that I just don’t like romance movies. Period. Homo, hetero, bi, whatever, they are not for me. Some gay people I know said I wouldn’t be able to sit through it without crying. But there was no lugubriousness from me, or anyone else in the theater. Sure, all the critics can’t be wrong – it MUST be a great movie, right? I guess we all have our “thing” in life: The romantic movie is not my thing.

Enough of what I don’t like, let’s get to something I do. Friday night, to honor the 250th anniversary of Mozart’s birth, Max and I went to see The Magic Flute at the Metropolitan Opera. I was excited, it was a new Julie Taymore production (The Lion King) and couldn’t wait to hear the Queen of the Night’s big arias.

I have to say I was a little disappointed. The production was a little stupid. I mean, it’s one thing to turn Disney characters into some sort of puppet. But taking Mozart’s and turning them into archetypes was a little disconcerting. The production was like that of a bad fusion restaurant: Mozart, Kabuki theater, and game show (the sets looked like those from the $10,000 Pyramid), all rolled into one. Of course, everyone else loved it. But The Magic Flute is a pinnacle of human achievement, and should be treated with dignity, not as some forgettable Disney flick. (I’m probably missing something profound that everyone else got.)

My family, for all its quirks and nuances, has been relatively functional. The immediate family gets along and I’ve simply ignored problems with other parts of the family, then befriended only a select few of the remaining. This strategy has served me well.

Oddly enough, on my father’s side of the family I know very little of my aunt and her family in Seattle. For those who don’t know, my aunt moved off to Seattle, married a famous jazz musician, and has lived there for my entire life. Her family has always been a mystery to me, with my seeing only her and my cousin a handful of times in my life.

But, apparently, my cousin is getting marred and having a child. And this seems to have changed her strategy of isolation. . . she put me in touch with her stepdaughter, Dee, who was in New York this week.

Dee: “Hey, there, dude, how’s it goin’”

My thoughts were that this woman is a quintessential Seattle music personago. And the conversation goes on to confirm it. We make plans to go see her friend play guitar later that week.

Part of me was not looking forward to it, and part of me was curious. I’d never met this cousin in my life.

So I meet her at her Midtown hotel to discover Dee decked to the nines. This was not what I expected either. I like her already, someone to respects the Big Apple nightlife. And I find out the jazz musician she was taking me to see was playing at Lincoln Center’s new Jazz space in Columbus Circle. My God he must be good. The night is shaping up.

We get there to find a fancy jazz lounge with the backdrop being a wall of windows overlooking Central Park and the Upper East Side skyline. (Time for a martini.) They seat us in the front row where the musicians come out and start playing just inches away. They were playing marvelously, the acoustics were wonderful, too. . . not too loud. They cranked out Gershwin, Cole -- all the jazz greats -- along with some creations of their own. I had a great time.

Afterwards we go to a bar in hell’s kitchen to meet up with some people traveling with her. It was all downhill from there. Hooch started flowing, I started talking about economics (and arguing) and before I knew it I was three sheets to the wind aty 1:30 am, on a weeknight.

The next day --I guess they weren’t completely repulsed by me -- we had a lovely meal at the Algonquin. The more time I spent with her, the more I loved here. Two people, who couldn’t be more different, having a great time (and hung-over like hell)

I need to get to Seattle.

It seems like the guests will keep pouring in this month. After EricÂ’s visit at the beginning of the month, some friends from Georgetown came up last weekend. What started as one person coming by turned into two, then what seemed like the entire Economics department was visiting. My apartment looked like a slave ship.

Most were just finishing up taking their comps, so they were in the mood to let loose. Mucof thehalcoholll from the New YearÂ’s Eve party was drunk, and the meatloaf I cooked for the week was eaten in a single day. God, IÂ’ve forgotten what it was like to be a college student.

So Saturday night I took them to my favorite spots in the Village – Rose’s Turn and the Monster. And we were also able to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Time’s Square, and the Meatpacking District. Of course, a good time was had by all. But between the eating, drinking and cramped quarters, five years were taken off my life.

All worth it, of course. But, dear God, I’m glad to be back at work – I’m no good on my own.

Now all I have to do is brace myself for my parents coming in at the end of the month. Hopefully, IÂ’ll live through it.

. . . to Birgit Nilsson, the great Wagnerian soprano that reigned supreme over a glorious 30-year career singing the most difficut roles. She will be missed.

I remember the first time I heard her --a tape at the 100th anniversary of the Metropolitan Opera (1987). By meerly walking on the stage, she brought the house down -- and at 70 sang Isolde to the envy of most young sopranos.

2005 was definitely a transition period for me: I moved from Washington to Chicago and back to New York and held three different jobs. And all this, shall we say, exploration, has been useful. I’ve found out a few of important things about myself.

• I’m in New York to stay
• I’m a labor economist, but don't want a PhD
• I'm no metrosexual (don't know where that one came from, I felt I needed three)
  

So after all this self-actualization, what does one do to ring in a New Year and bid farewell to one?

Some friends were in town and instead of going out on New Year’s Eve, I through a house party, cooked some food, and bought enough booze to choke a horse. And with the right friends, this is – as they say – a “slam dunk.” (Dear God, did I just use a sports metaphor -hack). I would go into details about what a good time we had, but these pictures do a much better job than I ever could.

Relative civility as the guests arrive.

We all ring in the New Year with a group shot.

Things then get a little sloppy!

Things get a LOT sloppy.

OMG, it was an act of god that got us through that night alive.