Epic Croissants and the Moment

While minding my own business on the streets of Manhattan last week, I learned of a boy named Zach’s humbling 1250 SAT score. This past weekend—about a-mile-and-half south of that discovery—I encountered a group of hipsters. Resting on a park bench in Washington Square Park, I noticed one of them carrying a small white paper bag. The mystery of what was inside became apparent when he exclaimed, “These croissants are going to be epic!” Well, these pretzels are making me thirsty. From that same park bench, I watched a father pushing his very young son back-and-forth on a swing. One hand kept the swing in perpetual motion while the other cradled a smartphone. Evidently, Dad had more pressing things on his mind than his toddler's obvious exuberance—like checking Facebook, Twitter, and Snapchat. I couldn’t help but wistfully recall past spring days—from an age before distracting technologies so completely choreographed so many lives. 

Once upon a time we could actually live in the moment on a pleasant April day. In the Great Outdoors, I like nothing better than being free from all the foolishness and fuss. I waste enough time on Facebook and aimlessly surfing the Internet while vegetating indoors, which—by the way—is where I confine my personal telephone conversations. Really, Zach's dilemma was none of my business. So, let's live in that moment...

And watch the grass grow here.

On more than one occasion, I vowed  to—never again—willfully give myself indigestion.

But a Nathan's hot dog from a street truck—cooked on a griddle—has this mystifying allure. I was even tempted to order the greasy French fries, but resisted. True, indigestion ensued, but it would have been a whole lot worse had I succumbed to the French fries.

Chief Justice Earl Warren once said, "In civilized life, law floats in a sea of ethics." It's too bad we don't live in a civilized life anymore.

In the Land Down Under, life is at once civil and uncivil. Civil one minute and uncivil the next. This is why it's vital to remain alert at all times. The unpredictable is so predictable.

There's a lot of finger pointing down there, too.

"There is no point in pointing fingers," said Hansika Motwani, "because there are three fingers pointing back at you."

New York City subway conductors would lose their jobs if they took the Indian actress's advice.

Point made.

I would like to believe that this act of vandalism is a joke that fell flat. But, nowadays, more often than not the joke's on us.

Not certain if this is the ultimate bad review or a bookmark?

The traditional New York City street-wagon frankfurter—famously wallowing in dirty water—has long been the Sabrett brand. They have lost their allure over time and, too, give me indigestion.

This youthful squirrel in Washington Square Park has got a lot to learn. It had what appeared to be a French fry or Cheez doodle in its tiny clutches, only to carelessly lose it in the pachysandra.

The New School is expanding in Manhattan. I'm old school.

Hey, Man, it's spring...enjoy.

During jury orientation in Bronx County some three decades ago, I remember this rather condescending warning about lateness: "You'll get the shock of your life" and be "turned around and sent home!" And the real kicker was that the tardy party would be "marked absent...and absent for the entire day." That meant that he or she wouldn't receive his or her daily jury-duty recompense, which was twelve dollars plus carfare in those days. Opening the above door and stepping out of it, I'd hazard a guess, would supply an even greater shock than getting sent home from jury duty.

 

I'm visualizing Robert Shaw in The Taking of Pelham One Two Three.

Coming home with the Fonz! Whoa!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)