43 and me

She wasn’t home.

This is a classic reminder of what’s important.

What I’m about to share isn’t profound—unless you’re there, about to be, or looking back.

A solid birthday that landed squarely on a Friday. Backdrop: Manhattan. Inbound: my brother-in-law. Up next: three days of heady conversations stretched across bars, restaurants, and clubs—followed by retrospection this Sunday with Sinatra playing in the background. So what happened? How is 43?

Let’s roll.

First—context is everything.

I was 42 on Thursday, June 26. On Friday, I wasn’t.

Thursday was a quick tour of the neighborhood with multiple pit stops at Pete’s (iykyk). We started with Indian cuisine, then hit a private members club, Pete’s (again), a rooftop in the Bowery, smashburgers, late-night pizza, and yes—back to Pete’s. We met people from Alaska to London. Each conversation revealing a little more of the human experience. From someone’s last day in NYC to my first complete two weeks—it’s wild how the excitement was the same on both sides.

This city draws people in. The chase inspires many, captures some, and holds only a few beyond two years.

Now, I’d be lying if I said turning 43 didn’t carry its own sense of mortality. I’ve said before—I never truly understood the concept of “time” as referenced by business greats or ancient stoics… until this past year. Amplified now by 43.

When an actor dies, I tend to look up how. Then I retrace their career to see how old they were when they hit their stride. The answer? Almost always somewhere between 32 and 52. That gives me calm. A lot can happen in a year.

I digress.

Friday to Saturday - we hit a comedy show. A classic New York eatery. We went hard—always looking for the next place, another cocktail, less people, more people, music, dancing, something. We had chinese food with a good friend, we had midday beers from Soho to Little Italy.

But the entire time, in the back of my mind, I couldn’t shake something I’d heard just two weeks earlier.

She and I had met an antique dealer here in Manhattan—a native New Yorker. I love hearing locals talk about how the city changes: the people, the politics, the generations, the constant coming and going. At one point I asked him, “What’s the best martini in NYC?” I was insistent—had to be ice cold, perfect glass, killer ambiance, price didn’t matter—I ran through the whole checklist.

He said: “It’s the people you’re with, not the martini.”

I pushed, “No, but really—where’s the best martini?”

And he just said it again, this time so I got it:

“It’s the one you’re having with the person you’re with.”

And that, folks, is what it’s about.

If I had to summarize three days of antics into one guiding thought at 43—it’s that. The moment with the people you already have is what matters. Not the pursuit of more, or better, or different.

It’s the classic ending to Ferris Bueller:

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Cheers to us.

Footnotes, random conversations and NYC notables…

Michael Crichton had writers block until he was supposed to be on one of planes on 9/11. Got stuck in Chicago rented a limo to Los Angeles and wrote Prey. He was 6 ft 9. - heard this on a rooftop bar.

A bug may have got me a small key into the world of hard to get Manhattan restaurants - thanks Guiseppe.

Honorable mentions Grisley Pear, Toad Hill, Spring Lounge, Pete’s, Minetta, GupShup, Union Square Cafe, Loosies, Smashys to name a few.