The Uncle Kevin Channel

I had hoped not to channel Uncle Kevin ever again. But I suppose it’s inevitable that I do every now and then. In case you don’t know, Uncle Kevin’s not actually my uncle. And he’s been dead a very long time. Uncle Kevin was a veteran of World War I. The aforementioned is a personage from the old neighborhood—someone whom I remember well from my youth. You see, Uncle Kevin stood out from the pack—in what were very interesting times with an intriguing local ensemble—because he wore a wooden leg. Then as now, it was a pretty rare thing. Uncle Kevin was a very private fellow but a real gentleman, I've been told. In my presence, I don’t recall him uttering a syllable, but I’m certain—away from my prying eyes and ears—that he did.

It’s Uncle Kevin’s noticeably stiff and laborious gait—courtesy of that darn wooden leg—that I channeled again a couple of days ago. Without fair warning, my ordinarily reliable C-Leg decided to go south on me when I was a long way from home. In other words, my prosthetic knee didn’t bend when it was supposed to bend. And when this unexpectedly occurs in the act of walking, the tendency is for one’s upper-body to rush forward, leaving one’s flesh-and-blood leg in the dust. The lagging leg then valiantly endeavors to catch up—to where it was meant to be in the best of times—with an awkward and perilous thrust of its own.

So, before I channeled Uncle Kevin on Christopher Street in Manhattan, Monty Python’s Flying Circus sprang to mind. “Yes,” I said to myself upon the knee’s unanticipated and unwelcome locking, “I just affected a ‘Ministry of Silly Walks’ step.” Naturally, I hoped my newfound complication would be something minor—a glitch that could be easily remedied on the sidewalk where I stood. But, considering the age of the knee—now over five years and just past its warranty—I made peace with the fact that Uncle Kevin would accompany me home, which he did. 

In the waning hours of my functioning knee, I encountered a transit employee reading a book during a break. One doesn't see that too often nowadays.

When I entered the subway car, the sole passenger inside was perusing a newspaper. That's pretty uncommon, as well, in these uber-technological times. A staggering one-two visual!

This, by the way, is a mysterious cage at the 125th Street subway station. I have long wondered if this is where fare beaters get their comeuppance.

In the backdrop of these venerable water towers, the clouds were impressive. But, little did I know, my fluid steps were numbered.

A pleasant summer's afternoon with low humidity...the perfect day for a stroll. That is...

Until technology does a nosedive. Further evidence as to why I don't ever want to be a passenger in a computer-operated automobile or computer-operated anything else.

Strange, but approximately a year ago, I penned a blog entitled "Sex and the City," where I noted the peculiar advertisements on the front bumpers of New York City's fleet of buses. Drivers complained that the prominently placed "Museum of Sex" promos were making them the subject of ridicule and worse than that. The Metropolitan Transit Authority brass promptly acted and removed them.

But now they are back and in the same place as before. Go figure! And, again, how is it that the Museum of Sex can afford this massive ad buy? If you're interested, the museum's located at 233 Fifth Avenue at the corner of East 27th Street.

No dial tone...no kidding.

Place your favorite "Bill" here.

As a nation, I'd say, we're definitely going the wrong way. Skeptical? Pore over the past month's news.

Think of all the things that we once assumed were immortal that have largely disappeared. Like typewriters, camera film, and record players. While pay phones haven't vanished entirely, their numbers are fast dwindling. In many parts of Manhattan they are—quite literally—shells of their former selves. No dial tone...no phone.

The optimist in me is still clinging to an infinitesimal thread of hope that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

The trashing of the environment for our every little convenience needs to hit the pause button, I'd say. Uncle Kevin not only valiantly served his country—losing a limb along the way—but left a minimal carbon footprint as well.

On my recent journey, I just knew that the reading of physical books and newspapers would be short-lived.

Oh, I remember when my favorite team, the New York Mets, lost an exhibition game to the expansion Toronto Blue Jays. The year was 1977 and this weird guy named Bob—not surprisingly a Yankee fan—ribbed me about it. That said, I've just finished reading Here's the Catch, Ron Swoboda's engaging and honest memoir of his life and, of course, the 1969 "Miracle Mets." I always liked Swoboda who was—after his baseball career—a sportscaster for WCBS-TV news in New York. Ron Swoboda also made the greatest catch I ever saw. Wow, it's hard to believe that it's been fifty years since the miracle!

Even as a junk food-loving kid, I never liked Little Debbie stuff. That's saying something and nothing at the same time.

Some years ago, an older man who lived in this building told a younger man that "sooner or later" he had to "face reality" and get a "real job." Well, reality bites! The now even older man was recently informed that he could not drive anymore because of his failing eyesight. From what I hear, he's had some difficulty facing reality.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)