New York, New York. There's a saying: it's so nice, they named it twice. With one day down, we had found nothing to contradict this. In fact, we surprised by the randomness of strangers. The previous night, Susan, a New Yorker -- and self-ordained artist by profession -- stopped us in the street and asked us what we were looking for. A jazz club?! That revelation began a five... no TEN minute rant about jazz clubs in New York and how West Village is full of "bullsh*t and drunk NYU students." Susan made it very clear that we should head over to East Village. And, oh my, Denver is nice.

Sunday morning was a difficult wake-up call and we all grumbled out of bed. Part of our hotel's "romance package" (hey, it was the cheapest way to get a suite) was a free breakfast in bed. We chewed on the eggs and pancakes thoughtlessly, trying to mentally yank our bodies into consciousness. In our Sunday's best, we stepped out into the ghost town. Joggers pounded their way along 50th Avenue and a few stray church-goers disappeared quickly into taxi cabs and subway stations.

We alighted from the E-train at Hoyt Street in Brooklyn. Looking up and down the littered street, there was very little to suggest that New York was a thriving city of 8 million. We followed the only people in sight, a couple carrying their Bible's, to the Brooklyn Tabernacle -- it's world-class choir and noted pastor, Jim Cymbala, were not easy to pass up even if it was 6AM Mountain time.

Months before in our planning process, I had purchased tickets for The Producers, Mel Brooks' musical take on the (hopefully fictional) life of Max Bialystock, a down-and-out Broadway producer. The show was the cornerstone of our New York trip; we would dress "snappy casual", having eaten lunch then shopped at the wallet-throbbing H&M clothing store. This was the plan, and it went off without a fault.

The cabbie dropped us off four blocks from the St. James theater promising us that it was "oh about two blocks down that way." We shoved our way through Times Square and there we were, staring up the light bulbs of the theater sign. I've never really been a fan of musicals. Too much singing, which tends to draw out the dialogue unnecessarily. Two months prior, I had been cohersed by friends to see The Phantom of the Opera movie -- a film that met my low expectations in every way.

Yet, I was hopeful. Afterall, The Producers was the real thing.

Indeed, it was everything I expected of Mel Brooks and less: witty, offensive, crude and sometimes even funny. He successfully offended a majority of races, religions and sexual preferences, all within the space of three hours. Some would call that comedic genius, I suppose. Maybe Susan helped him write it.