Every day is opening night.

Ladies and Gents,

Fleet Week is upon us, and if you’ve felt a sudden uptick in biceps per square foot, you’re not imagining things. The city has once again flung open its arms—and its inhibitions—to welcome our seafaring servicemen. As anyone who spent the better part of the “aughts” living vicariously through the exploits of Sarah Jessica Parker’s television alter ego, Carrie Bradshaw, knows, there’s no better time to be single in the city than Fleet Week. It’s a time when even the most cynical New Yorker dons a smile (and, often, a revealing top), and Broadway, in all her sequined glory, salutes the troops with just a bit more pep in her high kick.

This year, the cheeky and charming (and Tony Award–nominated) musical Operation Mincemeat, with its clever libretto and sneakily moving score, is doing its duty in style. On Wednesday evening, the production will host two dozen military personnel for a special performance, and in between shows, they’ll recreate the American Theatre Wing’s legendary Stage Door Canteen at Sardi’s—swing music, strong cocktails, and lots of mixing between fresh-faced chorines and seamen. It’s the perfect show to commemorate Fleet Week: a spirited salute to service, strategy, and the theatricality of military misdirection. And “Dear Bill”—the showstopper of the year—is a literal love letter to sacrifice that lands like a benediction.

Of all the memories I’ve tucked away from Fleet Weeks past, one remains indelible: the year was 1982, and Raquel Welch—having just stepped into Woman of the Year—hosted a backstage audience with a group of enraptured Navy men. Perched along a staircase like a pin-up deity, she received their bashful declarations of love with grace, wit, and a kiss on the cheek. I watched it all from just out of frame, and I’ve never been filled with such patriotic pride.

This year, my thoughts are with families of América Yamileth Sánchez Hernández and Adal Jair Maldonado Marcos, the two brave members of the Mexican Navy lost in the tragic accident at the Brooklyn Bridge. May their memories be a blessing.

Tidbits from around town…

Spotted David Remnick browsing the architecture section at Rizzoli, then purchasing a tome on Brutalism with a sigh that said, “It’s time.”

Caught Michael Riedel confidently mispronounce “Eugene Vakhtangov” during a heated debate at Bar Centrale.

Overheard Piper Perabo on the 7 train having a conversation with an older woman in French (and with far better pronunciation than Mr. Riedel’s Russian).

A toast of something sparkling to you and yours!

Kisses,