Fifty Feet Underground

While a passenger on the Number 1 train yesterday morning, a man got on carrying a small American flag. I logically assumed the flag was a prop for an impending subway car performance. However, life is full of surprises, especially on a New York City subway. The fellow walked right past me and entered the adjoining car without so much as a peep. This transpired on my downtown ride. On the return trip home, the same man appeared, but this time he didn’t disappoint and promptly launched into his act. In good voice, he sang “God Bless America” while waving his little flag.

After the last verse, “God bless America, my home, sweet home,” the subway songster announced that he was not “homeless, hungry, harmful, or pregnant.” He then got to the business at-hand. “If you like what you hear,” he said, “I’d appreciate a donation.” To prove that his act was multi-dimensional—and included ample doses of comedy—he added, “If you do not hear what you like, I will take a bribe to shut up!”

This rather unique subway show was far from over as the man performed for the Spanish-speaking riders. He belted out the familiar folk song “La Cucaracha” and then supplied us with some blue biographical information. He referenced his previous night’s roll in the hay with his randy third wife. By the blank looks on their faces, I don’t think too many of my fellow passengers appreciated the width and breadth of this guy's talents. After mentioning the enchanted evening with his wife, he pretended that he was reliving it—on the morning after—and became breathless and temporarily lost in space. When he returned to earth—and the subway car—from this heavenly recollection, he thanked all of us for being “a captive audience fifty feet underground.”

I typically give to panhandlers on the subway—homeless or otherwise—but didn’t make the effort to bequeath anything to the man of song. I don’t exactly know why. For one, it’s not easy to get money out of your pocket when you’re crammed next to somebody on a subway seat. Perhaps I was thrown off my usual routine by his unusual routine, which was hardly run-of-the-mill subway entertainment.

Interestingly, just as the songster-comedian exited the subway car, another chap entered. He, however, said he was homeless, had experienced a run of bad luck, and was in dire straits. This time, I made the effort to unearth a dollar bill from my pocket. But I should have also given the “God Bless America” guy a “donation.” After all, his parting salvo noted the many payments that he accepted, including “credit cards” and “gift cards.” If there is a next time, he’ll get a well-earned couple of bucks from me.

(Photographs from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Old Ironside

Recently, I purchased the third season of Ironside starring Raymond Burr. Why the third? No special reason. It wasn’t that I remembered it as a stellar season or one that contained favorite episodes. I only know that—a couple of decades ago—I purchased the first two seasons of the show on VHS tapes. I would receive one tape every six weeks with four episodes on it. Getting the whole kit and caboodle at once wasn’t an option back then, which—if nothing else—prevented binge watching.

Just having the opportunity to revisit an old show like Ironside again, which was hard to come by in reruns, was pleasure enough. And even when old TV classics turn up in syndication nowadays, the commercial time has mushroomed well above the allotments of network television when Ironside first aired. Taking meat cleavers to shows from yesteryear—and chopping them down by ten to twelve minutes—leaves a lot unsaid. To make matters worse, it’s often clueless individuals who are given the task of gutting the likes of Ironside by some twenty percent. Doing this to Blue’s Clues might not blow holes in the plot, but 1960s and 1970s crime dramas lose a great deal in their abridged translations.

Anyway, back to Ironside, uncut and in living color. The show has got a winning opening theme by Quincy Jones. With its burly lead character, Chief Robert Ironside, wheelchair-bound throughout Ironside’s eight-year run, I will concede that the intro and episodes themselves have a somewhat campy feel all these years later. The irascible Chief twisting, turning, and chugging along can be a bit distracting at times. Let’s not forget that the man also loved canned chili, which he consumed regularly with undisguised glee. Although it always crosses my mind when the chili-loving is brought up, flatulence was never once addressed—as far as I know—on the show. It’s funny that Detective Columbo was partial to chili as well. A coincidence? If only Ironside and Columbo had done a crossover episode. They could have enjoyed a bowl together.

The filming side of Ironside runs the gamut: some atmospheric location shots in San Francisco and the surrounding area at one moment, then the actors sitting in front of a screen featuring moving traffic or some such thing. The Ironside players—the Chief, Mark, Ed, and Eve—are, too, frequently going to bat for friends, former lovers, or relatives in trouble. I suppose it’s not uncommon in life to have a pal who is accused of murder or an old classmate who is up to his ass in alligators with the wise guys. It just hasn't been my experience yet.

Now that Ironside’s peculiarities have been cataloged, I must say that I fancy it. I didn’t watch the show when it originally aired. In fact, when I was very young, the opening segment featuring the Chief getting gunned down—in the back no less—gave me the willies. Instead, I discovered Ironside in 1980s reruns, when New York City local stations showed such stuff during the afternoon hours and before the commercial deluge took so much away.

I can’t help when I watch shows like Ironside—and spy the copyright—but feel nostalgic. I find myself imagining what my life was like when an episode originally aired. Season three of Ironside appeared on the 1969-1970 prime time schedule. I was in the second grade at St. John’s grammar school. I had one of my all-time favorite teachers, Mrs. Kehayas, that school year. She had show-and-tell sessions. I recall bringing a clock that I received for Christmas—a unique timepiece that didn’t actually keep time. Rather, it chugged along—like Chief Ironside—in five-minute increments. It’s five after two; it’s ten after two; it’s a quarter after two. I believe I showcased my proficiency in telling time to my seven-year-old peers. If only I had that special clock now on my curio shelf. Apparently, though, time waits for no man and no woman, including Old Ironside and me.

(Photographs from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

An Inconvenient Truth: We Are Living in a Bizarro World

This past weekend, I inadvertently stumbled upon two street trashcans with different tales to tell. One was a hipster receptacle in Battery Park City, home to hipsters and little hipsters on scooters who don’t watch where they are going. The other overflowing can underscored both New York’s incredible diversity and insatiable consumption and waste. It contained everything from a pair of sneakers to an empty wine bottle; decorative flowers to tiny plastic bags containing canine waste. The sight of this garbage reaffirmed to me that we are living in a Bizarro World.

Further reaffirmation occurred yesterday when I found myself in some serious traffic and staring out a car window. I spied numerous street vendors peddling a potpourri that included hot dogs, smoothies, and lamb and rice dishes, too. Fortunately, I was a passenger and not behind the wheel of the vehicle. The logjam was on Manhattan’s tony Upper West Side and the byproduct of our American president being across town at the United Nations. As if entertaining that thought wasn’t horrifying enough, crawling along streets and avenues at the antithesis of warp speed got me thinking. Yes, about the Bizarro World again. For only in this world would the President of the United States be best known for nastily insulting people whenever he feels inclined, which is often.

When I first attended grammar school in the late-1960s, the Cold War was still pretty frigid but there was ample evidence of a thaw. For instance, my classmates and I weren’t performing civil defense duck-and-cover drills—hiding under our desks—in anticipation of a nuclear exchange. I recently finished One Man Against the World: The Tragedy of Richard Nixon by Tim Weiner—a compelling read from beginning to end. In 1972, Nixon traveled to China in what was largely a symbolic visit. But it was so well choreographed. Despite the gangster-like goings-on behind closed doors and hidden microphones in our nation's capital, Nixon understood what the public expected of a president in public and, most especially, on the international stage. His successor—45—is completely undisciplined and the essence of boorishness. Like a Seinfeld character, there is no learning or growth. It’s not possible with him. On his best day, Trump couldn’t pull off anything close to Nixon-like diplomatic theater. This is, after all, a Bizarro World we are living in. The president threatened today to “totally destroy” a country lead by a bona fide nut job whom he dubbed “Rocket Man.” Perhaps, duck-and-cover drills are poised to make a comeback.

There’s so much more to this peculiar contemporary existence of ours than an insecure, narcissist in the White House: a man who would have been—by any measure in the pre-Bizarro World—deemed intellectually, psychologically, ethically, and aesthetically unsuited for the job. In yesterday’s slow-moving travels, I found myself passing through Columbus Circle and then on Columbus Avenue proper. It got me thinking about the New York City statue police considering removing “offensive” statues like the one of Columbus at Columbus Circle. I’m sorry but a statue of Christopher Columbus at Columbus Circle—with Columbus Avenue in the vicinity—seems quite logical. Columbia University is just a few miles north as well. Ah, yes, one thought led to another in this Bizarro World, which includes a key component to all the bizarreness: social media.

In the previous world I knew, Columbus Day was merely a Monday holiday and three-day weekend during the school years. Despite parades in parts of New York City and elsewhere that are essentially Italian-American pride parades, I never equated Christopher Columbus with my paternal Italian heritage. He was a fifteenth-century explorer, discoverer, and conqueror who, no doubt, committed a fair share of atrocities. But those were cruel times—a Bizarro World very different from ours—and it’s been quite a multi-layered evolution from that point to this point. Well, actually, we’ve been devolving quite a bit of late.

Nevertheless, like so many relationships on Facebook, Columbus Day and the reason for it is complicated. However, if it makes you feel better: Put up your anti-Columbus memes in the coming weeks. Preach to the choir or get into unpleasant, pointless arguments with people who hold different opinions. I will survive this annual silliness and—just to be on the safe side—be under my desk.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Turn and Face the Strange

I was in Battery Park yesterday morning. It was a comfortably crisp, bright sunny day. While Hurricane Irma was ravaging the state of Florida, New York Harbor was the picture of serenity. People have a knack of compartmentalizing. If it’s not happening to us in real time, it’s a CNN image, Facebook post, or Yahoo news story. Anyway, as is always the case in the environs of Wall Street, tourists were omnipresent with their smartphones working overtime. With imposing backdrops such as the Statue of Liberty, the Charging Bull, and, of course, the “Freedom Tower,” lower Manhattan is a photographic haven—a selfie paradise.

In my wanderings, I was thinking about today, the sixteenth anniversary of 9/11, a dreadful snapshot in time that seems—four Spellman cycles later—almost inconceivable. How could something like that have happened where it did and with such unimaginable consequences? Sitting on a tree-shaded bench on the grounds of Battery Park City, just due west of where the Twin Towers stood and fell, it was hard to envision what that peaceful setting was like on 9/11/2001. I remember that it was a September day not unlike yesterday—a winning weather hybrid of identical amounts of summer and fall.

Battery Park City was covered in toxic debris—a couple of buildings even damaged by airplane parts—after the two towers went down. All of the structures therein were evacuated and many residents couldn’t return for lengthy periods of time. A considerable portion of the area was deemed a crime scene. Approximately fifty percent of the city in a city’s residents permanently moved from Battery Park City because—for months—the air quality in the vicinity of Ground Zero was suspect. Ponder this: It was everybody out at a moment’s notice and no returning home until God knows when. No relocation help was afforded residents by the powers-that-were, either, and hotel rooms in New York City were near impossible to come by. And to add insult to injury, some of those who returned after their extended absences found their apartments ransacked. It took lower rents and some government subsidies, too, to convince people that Battery Park City was a nice place to call home. But that was then and this is now.

Ch…ch…ch…ch…changes: Battery Park City is presently where the elite meet to eat and then some. Built on landfill from the original World Trade Center’s construction, this development on what were then obsolete, decaying piers on the Hudson River took a while. For a spell there was what looked like a big sandy beach in the shadows of the Twin Towers. Just do a Google search on “Battery Park City landfill” or some such thing and see some amazing pictures of what that part of lower Manhattan looked like not too long ago in the scheme of things. I wish I had navigated that scene in the dirty-old-New York 1970s, which most definitely had a perverse charm—one that gets more charming with each passing day in this increasingly gentrified, Starbucks universe—but I was too young to explore that far a field. While New York City was a much more interesting place back then, it also was more dangerous.

In the original planning of Battery Park City, some low-income housing was included, but fierce opposition squashed that idea. And I don’t anticipate the soon-to-be reelected Mayor DeBlasio will be locating homeless families in transitional housing in that prized locale, which is not having any problem with vacancies nowadays. The bottomless bottom lines are there to stay and need no further enticements.

(Photographs from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)