We tried like hell, but we did not get to see your show today. We're back at our hotel. Miley Cyrus is your featured guest. You're talking to her right now.
We picked up standby tickets in the NBC gift shop, as directed, at 10am. Then we walked around Rockefeller Center like the tourists from Indiana that we are. We saw Mario Lopez and Kit Hoover do Access Hollywood from the same outdoor loop where Al Roker high fives farmers from Kansas. We watched Scott Evans do a live look-in from the skating rink.
I was gonna go up to Scott and tell him - "Hey, my wife thinks you're hot. Can she take a photo with you?" But my wife didn't think that would be appropriate for a divorce court magistrate from Indiana. She gave me "el ojo," which translates loosely as "you better not dare effing do that."
We had lunch at Bill's Burgers on the first floor of 30 Rock. They have gluten-free sandwich bread, which is good since I don't eat gluten. It's a real thing, you know.
We got in line for your show at 1:30 pm. After a couple hours, a very polite page informed us that we were the last two people to make the cut. Whoopee. They ushered us through security and had us wait in the stairwell. I hadn't been that excited since filing into The Hollywood Bowl to see Dead & Company.
I informed the head of security that I have a little trouble with elevators. For 18 years, I smashed into elevators at the Chicago Board of Trade with dozens of other sweaty men. One day, I retired. The only thing left from those days is a fear of crowded elevators. It's a thing, just like gluten.
An NYC cop said "no problem" and took me to a special bank of elevators. It might even be where you go up. The cop and I went up in our own car, although I had in my fingers on a healthy dose of Xanax in case there was a problem with the cabling. There wasn't. In a flash I was standing outside of your theater. The warm-up comedian was kind of funny, but not nearly as funny as you. I would never have waited all day to see him. Nor would my wife.
I met an NYC cop, who suggested that I treat my wife to a dinner at Bobby Van's across from 30 Rock. I texted that to myself. It said - "Bobby Van's. New York cop. Order shrimp scampi."
I kept looking at the elevator for my wife to come up. She's pretty easy to spot, a hot Mexican-American woman who looks like she's been married to a dumpy white guy for 30 years. I kept looking. The NYC cop kept looking. But no wife of 30 years.
Right before you were set to come on, a young woman in an NBC mask appeared. "I'm sorry. I know that you and your wife waited all day, but you will not be able to see Seth today." I could look in and see the stage. I was that close, Seth. So was my wife, who stood at the elevator downstairs. She had even turned her cellphone off, as directed.
Oh well, Seth. we tried. Once or twice a month when we can stay up that late, we watch you at the end of our bed. You make us laugh. You have improved immensely since you first started. You're relaxed and confident. I can make that judgment, Seth, because, like you, I host a show every day. But unlike you, I do it in relative anonymity. I can go to a restaurant, even in Indiana, and no one asks for my autograph.
The woman who told us that we were the last two out asked for my email. She expressed remorse and offered tickets for tomorrow. I told her not to worry about it. We have to get back to Indiana. My wife has a court to run, and I have a show to host.
There is a silver lining - that NYC cop who suggested Bobby Van's. We walked out of 30 Rock and into the restaurant. I explained that we had just been bounced from Seth's show and could we please, please, please have a reservation for 7:30 pm.
"We're a bit booked... but since you've been through so much, let me see what we can do." Gabby squeezed us in, warning, with a wry smile, that we might be surrounded by revelers who just got out of the Seth Meyers show.