Never Play Leapfrog with a Unicorn

Walking along the not-so-mean streets of the Bronx—in the tony Fieldston neighborhood—I encountered a unicorn looming high above the roadway in somebody’s front yard. Not the genuine article, but the unusual visual nonetheless resurrected thoughts of a 1970s detective show called Banacek, one among several in the rotating NBC Wednesday Mystery Movie wheel. The show’s lead, the always-suave Thomas Banacek—played by the always-suave George Peppard—recited Polish proverbs at the drop of a hat. While they more often than not left those in earshot befuddled, they typically supplied all concerned with food for thought. “A truly wise man never plays leapfrog with a unicorn,” Banacek said almost a half century ago. True dat!

I wonder what Banacek would think of contemporary society? His proverbs for any and all occasions would no doubt assume new and more urgent meanings in the zany new millennium. For instance, I just read a news story concerning tomorrow’s lighting of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. The piece detailed the enormous security measures now taken—by necessity—in the world we know, not the world we knew. In the latter, Depression-era workmen once upon a time raised a twenty-foot Balsam fir—and decorated it with paper garlands, strings of cranberries, and a smattering of tin cans—unintentionally inaugurating a renowned yuletide tradition.

But that was then, 1931, and this is now. The Rockefeller Center website describes the annual ritual, hallowed location, and—its centerpiece—tree as “a gathering place and reflection of what was happening in the world around it.” I suspect that reflections on that consecrated soil in 2018 will be worlds apart from those who reflected in that considerably smaller tree’s luminous shadow in 1931. “When an owl comes to a mouse picnic, it’s not there for the sack races,” Banacek opined in a decidedly different time. Traveling around New York City nowadays, we are regularly reminded to be ever vigilant—for that owl in sheep’s clothing.

Security checks notwithstanding, Christmas has yet again been unleashed in the City that Never Sleeps. The Grinch movie is not only playing in various theaters around town but being advertised everywhere from underground subway stations to tacky floating billboards. One such promo featured the Mean One with the words: “Rude. Loud. Angry. New Yorkers are my kinda people.” I know there are some individuals on Facebook—New York natives—who take genuine pride in being “rude, loud, and angry.” My free advice to these Big Apple neighbors of mine is this: Exhibiting those aforementioned traits, as a rule, is hardly a badge of honor. Seek therapy, perhaps, or, at the very least, recite, “Pins and needles…needles and pins…it’s a happy man that grins.” Of course, feel free to change man to woman to suit the moment. Remember, too, what Banacek said, “A wise man never tries to warm himself in front of a painting of a fire.” 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Big Wave: Then and Now

Tomorrow is Election Day. As has been the case—unstintingly—since 1981, I intend on exercising my civic responsibility by voting. What’s very deflating, but not unusual, is that I will be doing so with little to no enthusiasm. Why? Simple arithmetic: Each and every contest on my ballot is not a contest at all, but a foregone conclusion. There are some initiatives on the ballot’s flip side, but as of this moment I haven’t a clue what they are. Perhaps I will finally peruse the non-partisan “Voter Guide,” which arrived in my mailbox a couple of weeks ago, and find out. It’s been sitting—unopened and unread—on my kitchen table. 

With the historical mid-term election of 2018 as a backdrop, permit me to briefly return to a decidedly different time, 1973, and place: Sister Joanne’s sixth-grade Language Arts class at St. John’s grammar school in the Bronx. More specifically, her reading to the class Pearl S. Buck’s The Big Wave. Now, let’s fast-forward forty-five years where there is talk of another big wave. Will it be red or blue? I sincerely hope it’s the latter. If the Land of the Free ever needed checks on the executive branch of government—presided over by an unhinged bad seed—it’s now. Nevertheless, I am not—and have never been—a fan of Team Blue’s penchant for identity politics and insistence on wearing the PC straight-jacket. Why do so many people vote against their best economic interests? That's why!

All of this is playing out on social media, an exasperating, but very revealing, portal into the American psyche. Recently, I came upon a series of hysterical back-and-forth wrangles on Facebook. The American Civil War was said to pit brother against brother. Now it’s brother against brother; brother against sister; and sister against sister. Some time ago, I was asked if I wanted to be a moderator in a benign Facebook group devoted to old photos and memories. While I appreciated the offer, I declined, knowing that I couldn’t stomach what sometimes needed to be moderated—political turf battles that quickly turn ugly in a place that they don't belong. There are a fair number of people out there who obviously have no self-control, no sense of decorum, and no sense of decency. Three strikes and you're out! These folks believe that freedom of speech means they can say anything, at any time, and anywhere. Sorry, Charlie and Charlene! That’s not how it works.

Just yesterday, I encountered an intelligent, thoughtful post by someone from the old neighborhood. His abiding message was to—come what may—vote blue on Tuesday. The response to him was fast and furious from others from the same old neighborhood. What many of them said in reply to their old friend was grounds—in my opinion—for a permanent divorce. Brother against brother. I’ve seen this kind of thing play out time and again. It’s why, I suspect, reunions of all stripes are going to be sparsely attended in the future.

Case-in-point: I have a Facebook friend who regularly rails against liberals and progressives. He calls them all kinds of names—Democraps, libtards, and commies for starters. When I met him in person just prior to the last presidential election, he assaulted me with a political rant, not knowing or caring where I stood or whether or not I agreed with him. I didn’t by the way, but opted not to engage him in political debate, which would have been futile on one hand and increased my blood pressure to dangerous levels on the other.

A flashback footnote: Thirty-five years ago, I referred to Republicans as “Re-poop-licans.” The wind beneath the wings of this word play was a government professor of mine in college. From the former Czechoslovakia, he pronounced "Republican" with phonetic flair, emphasizing the second syllable, the poop part. My father’s rebuttal to me was calling Democrats “Dumbo-crats.” Those were simpler times indeed.

To be fair there’s the equally maddening other end of the political spectrum and another friend for example. This particular woman is wont to go on and on about diversity and white privilege. And where does this white gal choose to live? A tony, lily-white town—that’s where! And what kind of lifestyle does she enjoy? I’d venture to say a textbook one of white privilege. Free advice: You can find much more diverse places to call home, if that is what you truly desire. And if you are feeling guilty about your white privilege, live a life of less of it. It would be a lot cheaper. 

Okay…no more politics, please. Autumn is in full swing with the holidays just around the corner. I think I’ll go back to recounting memories of days gone by—when walkie-talkies were all I wanted for Christmas, when grammar school trips on the subway to Radio City Music Hall were an annual tradition, and when Ronco products for that special someone could be purchased at the local Woolworth’s. Oh...and when there was no social media and friends were really friends.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)