The Next Stop: Crazytown

“That’s the signpost up ahead. The next stop: Crazytown.” Considering how the political deck is currently stacked, this is my reflex response to a highway beautification sign on the Henry Hudson Parkway near the 79th Street exit. My friends, these are strange times and—by the looks of things—getting stranger.

On a vehicular voyage through the heart of Manhattan yesterday, I was repeatedly reminded of the time of year. Not quite autumn in New York means that primary day is just around the corner. In fact, it’s today. I cast my paper ballot and received a little round “I VOTED” sticker for performing my civic duty. Personally, I think the New York City Board of Elections could cut their cost of doing business by eliminating the stickers and nobody would bat an eye.

There were actually some contested races this year—increasingly rare occurrences in these parts—including Governor Andrew Cuomo facing an unusual opponent. Attacking him from the left has been Cynthia Nixon, actress, Sex and the City star, and lesbian. While I’m no fan of Cuomo, it was pretty obvious from the outset that Nixon didn’t have a clue. Her numbers—and just about everything else—didn’t add up.

There has also been a truly competitive state senate battle in my district with the sitting Democratic senator dubbed a “Trump Republican.” From his left flank, a progressive challenger with a familiar political name has a fighting chance—from what I’ve read—to pull off an upset. Meanwhile, Cuomo, scores of Democratic politicians, and virtually every local union have endorsed the so-called “Trump Republican.” As with the governor, I’ve got no love for the incumbent. But I nonetheless voted with—par for the course—minimal enthusiasm for the known over the unknown.

During the past couple of months, I discovered that my vote this year actually mattered to some people. I received a personalized handwritten postcard imploring me to vote for the insurgent “real Democrat” in the state senate race. Recorded phone calls from local pols have been ubiquitous. Volunteers have been going door-to-door and checking their lists for swayable resident Democrats. Still, big turnouts, or even a fair to middling ones, in primary elections are uncommon. And if my moment at the polls this morning is any barometer of the bigger picture, the final turnout won’t amount to a hill of beans. But some prognosticators are anticipating an insurrectionary swell that will topple a giant or two. Only time will tell.

While on the inane subject of politics, I noticed a couple of signs in an old apartment window near Central Park. The building might have been ancient, but I’m certain the rents reflect contemporary times. One of the signs featured an upside down American flag with the words “NOT MY PRESIDENT.” The other read: “IT’S Miller TIME.” What exactly is the correlation of these two statements, you ask? My guess is that it’s easier to exist in Crazytown while having the Miller Time of your life—or a suitable substitute. Oh...wait...that bottom sign reads: "IT'S Mueller TIME!" It is indeed. And don’t forget to vote early and often!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)