The Go-Go Girl and the Music Man

It’s life in a nutshell—or, in this instance, a New York City subway car. Yesterday, my experiences therein ran the gamut from the sublime to the ridiculous. Well, not exactly, but close enough. For starters, a woman’s stroller had me and several other passengers pinned down—helplessly trapped in our seats—for several stops that seemed like an eternity. While her two children playfully dueled across the aisle with their lightsabers, Ma seemed oblivious to it all. In a different setting, I would have said the kids were quite cute in their youthful exuberance—and uttered the appropriate “Ahhhhh!”—but not in a jam-packed subway car. When the trio exited, I, for one, heaved a huge sigh of relief.

Being annoyed, though, is par for the course—and a never-ending story—in the Land Down Under. Shortly thereafter, two middle-aged women entered the train. They were in spirited conversation as they walked through the doors and never broke stride as they located seating. I immediately profiled them as irritating Manhattan elitists. Their haughty tone and the subject matter of their long-winded exchange spoke volumes.

When a young homeless man materialized, my profile of the two women was confirmed. He promptly informed we straphangers that he had recently lost both his job and apartment. The poor fellow added that he felt embarrassed to be doing what he was doing. While asking for money for food, or food itself, he apologized for the intrusion. One of the elite Chatty Cathys—the more annoying of the two—eventually held out her hand while simultaneously snapping her fingers and saying, “Go…go…go!” With her beach ball-shaped head and short, stylish haircut, she reminded me of a woman I know named Peg. So, permit me to call her "Peg-head" from this point forward.

Peg-head summoned the homeless guy over with her hand outstretched. She had a dollar bill wedged between her index finger and middle finger and a twenty-dollar bill between her ring finger and little finger. Peg-head, however, made it abundantly clear that the former and not the latter was his for the taking. But what was that all about?

Anyway, the grateful man accepted the dollar bill, said “thank you,” and continued his appeal. But Peg-head desperately wanted the guy out of her space once and for all. He was clearly cramping her style.

So, Peg-head cried out once more, “Go…go…go!” But this go-round she dismissively motioned with her hand for him to “Go…go…go!” To his credit, he would have none of it. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he said. “That was very rude!” His parting salvo was “I don’t want your money!” The homeless man handed Peg-head back her dollar. She was smugly unfazed and returned to her heart-to-heart with her partner in the crime. I got the impression that this interchange meant very little to them. And that it probably wouldn’t be brought up at their next cocktail party or co-op board meeting. I was nonetheless impressed with this homeless fellow’s resolve and fighting spirit. Even in his darkest hour, he wasn’t going to take lying down—for a measly dollar—such a belittling humiliation.

And now for something completely different! On my return trip, loud music could be heard on the train as various passengers entered. Those already in the car looked around, wondering who among them was the offending party. Nowadays, people typically blast music into their ears only. But this scenario was something of a throwback to the Boombox 1980s. In due course, I pinpointed the culprit and the mini-sound machine on his lap—a twenty-first century boombox, I surmised.

The Music Man resembled a goon from Central Casting. He wore this smirk on his face that dared anyone in earshot to say something to him. Nobody did. I didn't like his hip 'do, either. Just before we parted company, the Music Man stepped between cars at the 181st Street—George Washington Bridge—station, which is closer to the center of the Earth than most. At first, I thought he was moving to the next car, which would have been fine by me. But the Music Man remained stationary, so I figured that—the next best guess—he was relieving himself. The guy then roared out—at the top of his lungs—“Help!” I didn’t think he really needed any and none was forthcoming. Moments after this primal scream of his, the Music Man returned to the car—with a sneering smile on his face—and left my world for good at the next stop. Music still playing and singing right along, it was good-bye and good riddance.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Truth, Justice, and the American Way

A hodgepodge of recent winter—but not especially wintry—photos accompanies this essay on what is George Washington’s actual birthday. He would have been 287 today had he not passed away 220 years ago in the presence of eighteenth-century doctors performing eighteenth-century medicine. One solitary neighbor of mine had his flag flying in honor of the Father of Our Country. But I’d hazard a guess that the majority of locals didn’t make the connection. If they know of Washington at all, it’s probably because his regal visage is on the dollar bill and that a nearby bridge—and very busy one at that—is named after him.

When I was a boy, the George Washington-cherry tree tale—“I cannot tell a lie”—was widely disseminated as testament to the man’s impeccable character. No longer one, I suspect that even he may have fibbed a time or two in his life. And who could blame him? But one thing leads to another here in the virtual ether—one George to another in this instance. Reruns of the Adventures of Superman, starring the ever-agreeable George Reeves, were must-watch television during my grammar school days in the 1970s. The show’s memorable opening theme, which I’ve almost certainly seen several thousand times, famously climaxed with a confident of Man of the Steel—hands on his hips—proudly standing in front of a furiously flapping American flag. This evocative visual was the picture-perfect backdrop for an overly solemn announcer’s intonations as to how Superman “fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice, and the American Way.”

Of course, when the series was filmed in the 1950s, truth, justice, and the American Way excluded a fair share of the population. Still, when George Reeves perfected his patented “Superman trot” just before becoming airborne, things were clearly looking up. The American Way was pointed in the right direction and becoming slowly but surely more inclusive. The passage of time and the passage of legislation eventually transformed the landscape for the better.

Fast-forward sixty years and kryptonite—or some such mysterious thing—has apparently found its way into our water supply. There’s a Wrong Way signpost up ahead and then another one and another one after that, but all too many Americans—of varying political stripes—are ignoring them. And that’s not a good thing! I would strongly recommend heeding the signs’ warnings—both the real and metaphorical ones—on life’s highways and byways. But, sadly, that's unlikely to happen. Political agendas now trump—no pun intended—truth, justice, and the American Way. Due process and innocent until proven guilty have been supplanted by mob rule—by shoot first and ask questions later in an increasingly hysterical court of public opinion. I think it best that we remember that while George Washington wasn’t a proponent of lying, some individuals are—and I’ve known a few of them. 

From George Washington to George Reeves to The Three Stooges we go for one last lament. I recently came upon a recommended video on my YouTube homepage. It was a Three Stooges compilation clip of their best slaps, smacks, and pokes. Now, Moe, Larry, and Curly—and later Shemp, my personal favorite—were the antithesis of Supermen. Their various shorts were, nevertheless, television staples—just like the Adventures of Superman—during my youth. Introduced by an imposter policeman, “Officer Joe” Bolton, WPIX in New York regularly aired the Stooges. And without fail, Bolton supplied a preamble before each viewing, grandfatherly explaining to us boys and girls that Moe, Larry, and Curly were not really poking each other in the eyes and violently slapping and punching one another. I must say that in my Three Stooges rewind, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed watching Moe employ a blowtorch on Curly’s backside to encourage him to climb a telephone pole. While the threesome panned for gold, I’ve likewise relished seeing Moe bash Curly on the head with a pickaxe. The blow, by the way, damaged its blade. What struck me most about his over-the-top slapstick is that The Three Stooges are, actually, too hot for contemporary television—not politically correct in the new American Way—the Wrong Way. The question of our time: Would Superman still be willing to fight for it?

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Random Thoughts on Lincoln's Birthday

Once upon a time, Lincoln’s birthday was a school holiday. It still is in some places, I see, but not around these parts. In my grammar school days, I remember being off—as we used to say—on both February 12th and 22nd. Back in the day, Abraham Lincoln and George Washington received their well-earned due. Now, the third Monday in February is the uninspiring, virtually meaningless Presidents’ Day.

I was thinking a lot about Honest Abe today. I’ve read a fair share of Lincoln-themed books through the years, including personal favorites: Lincoln and His Generals, Reflecting Lincoln, and Team of Rivals. The Google search page didn’t even acknowledge this giant of a man on his natal anniversary. On Thursday, though, it will be festooned with hearts and cuddly Cupids for Valentine’s Day and—the following Monday—with presidential visages that may include Lincoln in some silly animated montage.

What would Lincoln have to say about the state of the Union he believed was so important to save? I don’t know. Perhaps that it wasn’t worth it after all. He’d certainly be surprised at the perpetual hysteria on social media, which—in and of itself—would be the real shocker. How can thee offend me? Let me count the ways.

While the February birthday boys would be hard pressed to recognize contemporary America, they probably would be amused at being pitchmen for Presidents’ Day car dealership blowout sales. Providentially, Washington and Lincoln never knew a car salesman, but they certainly knew wintertime in an age before calcium chloride crystals, the ubiquitous ice melter.

Speaking of that pelleted devil, I almost took a spill yesterday while exiting a bank—one that had covered its front sidewalk, which is on an incline, with twenty pounds of ice melter. It reminded me of this grade-school example of the concept of irony: "Olympic swimmer drowns in bathtub." Well, I've got a new one: Man slips, falls, and breaks his neck on ice melter. Why throw the slippery stuff twenty-four hours before any snow and ice is expected? Beats me! Go figure: Banks are notoriously stingy with just about everything except ice melter.

Washington and Lincoln also never experienced the wonders of Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram—and the countless dunderheads sounding off in the virtual ether—but they did interact with pigeons in their travels. Recently, I witnessed a food vendor on Central Park West tossing a heaping helping of yellow rice out of his cart. The local pigeon population was ecstatic at this unexpected and generous feed. I surmised, though, that the peddler’s motive was not concern for hungry birds on a cold winter's day. No, he was buying into the urban legend that rice expands in birds’ stomachs causing them to—eventually and very literally—explode. Now that wouldn’t be a very pretty sight around the man’s food business. But the joke’s on him. The pigeons merely feasted on some delectably cooked rice that will do them no harm. And—rest assured—they’ll be back for more and more! It's the patrons of this wagon master with the open windows—and ravenous pigeons furiously flapping around just outside them—whom merit my concern. I wouldn’t be surprised if customers found a few feathers in their lamb and rice platters, Philly cheesesteaks, and gyros. What would Washington and Lincoln think about all this? Heaven only knows.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Fate's Huge Hand

As he looked at the world for the last time, Dr. Richard Kimble—once upon a time—pondered his fate. Considering his circumstances, it’s not surprising that he saw only darkness. But the “huge hand” of fate—as it is wont to do—had something else in mind. The train carrying Kimble to death row violently derailed and the wrongfully convicted man miraculously escaped into the night. Thereafter on the run, he encountered the very best and the very worst of humanity for four television seasons.

Not quite as dramatic as The Fugitive premise, I recently looked at the world—through the sullied window of a subway car—and saw Mr. Ootwear. I also spied in the distance, my old grammar school, St. John’s. While the Archdiocese of New York still owns the property, the building is currently leased to the New York City public school system. With the church’s ever-diminishing flock, the extra revenue no doubt helps pay some bills and, of course, the countless lawsuits against misbehaving priests past and present.

Prior to laying eyes on that formerly hallowed ground from the Number 1 train, I found myself riding with a subway conductor whom I affectionately call “Choo Choo Charlie.” And it’s not because he uses Good & Plenty candy to make his train run. No, it’s because he deviates from the standard, workmanlike station calls and announcements with a uniquely personal style all his own. One of his recurring lines is to make room in the subway cars so “that baby carriage can ride the Choo Choo with us.” It certainly breaks up the monotony of a trip.

When I boarded the Bronx-bound train at 23rd Street, I promptly heard the dulcet tones of the aforementioned Choo Choo Charlie. Regrettably, a couple of stops later—at Penn Station—a crazed lunatic materialized. One of the downsides in riding in the last car on the uptown trip is its penchant for attracting undesirables. Inaudibly raving at first, this fellow quickly kicked it up a notch. Flitting all the while, he was quite vulgar and downright threatening. The smattering of passengers in the car were well aware of the raving maniac in their midst but were pretending—not very convincingly in my opinion—to be blissfully unaware.

When the man lit up a cigarette, it dawned on me that—yes—I’ve been in his company before. It was part of his intimidating shtick, I sensed, daring anyone in earshot to say something. From my vantage point, the menacing mumblings alone were reason enough to make like a tree and leave, but the wafting cigarette smoke in a hermetically sealed subway car in an underground tunnel was the clincher.

It was not in my plan to part from Choo Choo Charlie so soon, but fate moved its huge hand one more time. Eight minutes later, I found myself on another train where I encountered a decidedly different sort of madman. I actually knew this fellow’s name, Matt, and face from past poetry readings—twenty-five years ago—in the old neighborhood. He was super-intelligent then and I have little doubt that he is still Mensa grade. But Matt was also a bona fide screwball then and—take my word for it—is still one all these years later. That’s usually how it works.

Sporting his perpetual sneer, Matt sat directly across from me. His beady eyes combed his surroundings—for something to annoy him, I supposed, or an ear to engage in some uncomfortable conversation. He does that. Matt changed his seat a couple of times before exiting the car altogether. I don’t exactly know why. He was the only reason I could see for anyone moving into an adjoining car.

The lesson here is that one never knows what’s around the corner. A deranged eccentric forced me into the metaphorical arms of another. I didn’t fear the latter might physically harm me, which made riding in his company a more tolerable sideshow. I just wonder how old Matty would have reacted to his gibbering predecessor with the smokes. He probably would have just moved to the next car and continued on his unmerry way. That’s fate for you.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

What a Difference a Day Makes...

Twenty-four little hours. Saturday began quite cold, the tail end of a mini-Arctic blast, but Sunday felt like spring. I was bundled up in my travels on the former, jettisoning the extra sweater, gloves, and wool hat on the latter. I prefer to travel light when I can.

On the colder side of this weekend with the split personality, I encountered a group of tourists on the subway. I took an educated guess that they weren’t native New Yorkers when I heard their Dolly Parton accents. A fellow among this southerner contingent—who sat directly across from me—eventually caught my eye. And this eye-for-an-eye inspired a conversation that commenced with a series of questions: “Are you from New York? Have you lived here all your life? Is it always this cold?” My replies: “Yes. Yes. No.”

Actually, my answers were a tad more elaborate than that. Representing my fair city, I naturally wanted to make a good impression. Yes, we periodically receive blasts of bitterly cold weather in wintertime. And some winters are worse than others. This one has been rather benign, with no measurable snow in these parts since before Thanksgiving. Ushering in the deep freeze of the previous week was a super squall—a ten-minute blizzard—in the late afternoon, which was followed by a beautifully cold sunset. No shoveling, though, was required for that winter-weather trailer.

Anyway, the southern-fried straphangers informed me that they were visiting from South Carolina. They told me, too, that New Yorkers were moving down there fast and furiously. I was asked whether I would consider moving south. I responded, “I certainly can understand why people do.” After a little Christmas cold weather, I could do without winter. But I apprised them that in the end, I wouldn’t likely be moving to the Palmetto State or, for that matter, the Sunshine State, which was, once upon a time, the preferred destination of the Big Apple’s restless senior set.

Take my word for it: It was quite frigid when I snapped this photo.

The weather and the seasons may change, but robotic millennials addicted to their smartphones likely won't.

Winter certainly has its moments.

The Hudson River on ice was such a pleasing visual that it kept me in the Great Outdoors longer than I had anticipated.

The brackish Hudson in wintertime...

With its ever-adaptable, hearty seagull denizens.

One lucky bird is savoring its catch.

It depends on what the meaning of "sculpture" is. Looks like a roller coaster track to me.

I'm no fan of hipsters, but I think poisoning their lattes in avocado shells is a bit extreme.

A day later...feel the thaw...

But be careful on those steps. Last week a woman with a baby carriage fell down a flight of subway station stairs. Her baby was unscathed, but she died. They are not always the easiest steps to navigate, particularly in inclement weather and when smothered in ice melter.

There are countless lessons to be learned on the streets of New York. Life-saving facts and information abound in places that run the gamut from bus shelters to...

Pay phones.

This would be an ideal location for a Deep Throat museum.

Oprah is not welcome here.

Say it ain't so: The Best Pizza has raised its prices a whopping twenty-five percent...

But, happily, a couple of doors down the "Best Coffee in Town" can be had for a buck...

And not too far away is yet another bargain. They still exist in increasingly pricey New York City. You just have to know where to look.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)