We Need An Early Christmas

Recently, I read an online article that discussed the Christmas rush, if you will—how vestiges of the holiday seem to appear earlier and earlier every year, like Christmas music playing in stores all throughout November and people decorating their homes weeks before Thanksgiving. These things were pretty much unheard of when I was a kid. The author of the piece admitted to once complaining about the Christmas season commencing the day after Halloween. He has, however, thrown in the towel and gone with the flow. His reasoning makes sense to me. Bring Christmas on sooner rather than later because it’s a welcome diversion from the insanity that abounds on so many fronts in the wider world.

This morning, in fact, I encountered Christmas tree salesmen setting up shop in front of a local drug store. Believe it or not, I was actually concerned they wouldn’t turn up. Last year they were peddling trees before Thanksgiving, which was almost a week earlier than it is in 2019. Lo and behold, though, the boys are back and could be open for business as early as tomorrow.

The sellers could be the same guys from last year—I can’t be certain. Don’t know what it is about Christmas tree peddlers, but they kind of all look alike to me. First impressions are that the men in question are suitably slippery for the task at hand. Really, I have to give these folks credit, to call home for an entire, rather chilly month a plastic covered lean-to just off Broadway and only yards away from the El. I suppose the drug store is where they go when nature calls, but what about bathing? There are a couple of dive motels in the vicinity—by-the-hour, cash-only fleabags that have remarkably stood the test of time—which may have functional showers. I would, however, recommend showering with one’s shoes on and BYOT (Bring Your Own Towel).

Yes, Christmas, bring it on, because soon after it will be a new year, 2020, full of posturing and politicking. It never really ends nowadays. Former New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg just threw his expensive fedora into the ring. I voted for him three times, but tired of his Nanny State-mentality and meddling. Nevertheless, despite being quite up there in age and down there in height, I could stomach the likes of him as president. As far as billionaires go, he’s the pick of the litter.

To digress further: My father had a penchant for purposely mispronouncing people’s names, with a particular love for butchering politician’s. He called Bloomberg “Blum-berg” and Giuliani, “Ghoul-iani,” which is particularly fitting now. A ubiquitous New York pol from yesteryear, Herman Badillo, who pronounced his name “Ba-dee-yo,” was “Ba-dill-o,” which rhymes with pillow.

It’s a mad, mad, mad world we live in—annoyances flourish in places they never did before. Leaf blowers, for instance, are not only driving their fellow man and woman bananas, but doing a number on insects, too. Since so many species reproduce in clumps of earth and leaves that are now blown away with a perpetual ferocity, it makes perfect sense. Across the street from me is an apartment building with a super’s helper who parades around with his ear-splitting leaf blower every single morning, often before nine o’clock. Rather than pick them up, he blows the leaves into the street, which is against the law. And while generating this daily racket, the guy simultaneously talks on his phone. It’s nutty, but unfortunately the norm, and not good for man nor bug. So, I say once more: Bring on Christmas now!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

On the Outside Looking In

I have a friend who is a therapy aficionado. He spent many years on the proverbial couch “getting in touch with good stuff.” I remember him once saying that he was “on the outside looking in” during a session. The image that sprang to my untrained mind was Ebenezer Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present wiping away a winter window’s condensation and peering into the Cratchit family’s living room.

Yesterday, I witnessed a lunatic literally “on the outside looking in.” He was a fellow subway rider for several stops, making everyone nervous with his beady eyes and mutterings, which were largely benign but borderline menacing. The man didn’t appear homeless nor did he panhandle. He just seemed way out there. This oddball became fixated on a passenger with an adorable yellow Labrador puppy at his side. Along with increasingly creepy commentary, he made a series of weird and wild faces at the dog. The pup’s master was not amused. For he had finally calmed his young pooch down, enough at least to ride in an earsplitting and hectic New York City subway car. And then along comes this peculiar straphanger and it was back to square one.

Happily the lunatic exited the train in pretty short order. When the doors closed, I—among others, including a young canine—heaved a huge sigh of relief. Having crossed over into the realm of creepy, the man, though, refused to go quietly. Before the train pulled away, he supplied us with a parting volley of bizarre facial contortions through a window. 

And here he is officially "on the outside looking in."

Now for a completely different head: Patrick Stewart's.

Here's Patrick Stewart's head defiled at another station. By the way, in 1993, I saw him perform a one-man A Christmas Carol on Broadway sometime during the first week in January. The show was lauded by critics, but I found it a real snoozer.

Sorry I missed this one.

Sad to report that it's not my grandfather's Little Italy anymore. As for the "Mommy's 'Little Meatball'" tee, I sincerely hope the Cuomo brothers don't see that. Somebody's liable to get thrown down a flight of stairs.

The same could be said for the Joey Pepperoni's Pizza logo.

Good luck with this, I say...

Because this is all around me...

And this.  

Well, this was an off-year election with a lot of local matters decided. Congratulations are, nonetheless, in order.

Prescriptions filled while you eat. That's a new one.

Channeling Nipsey Russell here.

Credit where credit is due. Why not?

After you bet your bottom dollar, what else have you got?

Had to Google this one. Blackbear is an American musician and Anonymous, an album of his.

I ask you: Do you judge a book by its cover? Do first impressions create lasting ones?

If you know where to look, you can get the most bang for your buck in New York City. This guy might not be number one at anything, but you can find him and his dollar frankfurters at Union Square.

Time to go home and see what that indefatigable subway station vandal has left for me this week.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Sunshine Boys and Girl

Throughout this past year, I’ve encountered the work of a tireless vandal. This unknown person plies his or her graffiti skills and literary flourish with a black magic marker in a certain subway station. Recurring anti-Trump messages appear, disappear, and appear again. Transit maintenance crews can’t scrub them away fast enough. In my travels this weekend, I came upon the most recent scrawl, which began: “November 2020. We all can do better.” Well, I pondered, that shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish.

Nevertheless, I don’t especially like what I see on the better front. Last week, a former labor secretary, whom I generally respect, said that the Democratic presidential primary race was down to three people: Joe Biden, Bernie Sanders, and Elizabeth Warren. Nobody else mattered and the dozen or so nobodies still in the contest should pack up their bags and return to their day jobs.

I found that mindset shortsighted, unfair, and why politics is such a turn-off. It’s months, after all, before even one vote has been cast. Why should everyone else running for president stand aside for the Sunshine Boys and Girl, whom I feel would be among the worst candidates to face the Orange Man in the general election? Don’t get me wrong, I believe that any one of them would stand a better-than-fair chance of defeating him, but I’d prefer—at this critical moment in time—a slam dunk. There’s got to be more to choose from than three senior citizens with conveyor belts full of baggage. In fact, I know there are. Take a moment, look around, and support the most qualified and electable man or woman.

Personally, I would use either one exclamation point or three. 

Okay, that's it for political speak. A drink and a manicure. Well, that's certainly a unique combo. Hey, it pays to distinguish yourself in business nowadays.

A twenty-dollar haircut for Joe and Bernie. Sure, they can afford it, but seniors on fixed incomes probably don't think the price is especially classic.

For decades I got my haircut in a place called Roma's. I remember the proprietor, Tony, cutting the hair of a young preppie guy on trial for strangling his girlfriend. It was a major local story in the mid-1980s. Ultimately, he served a sentence for manslaughter and is now in prison for drug dealing, which is also where he gets his present haircuts.

I wouldn't expect any deviled eggs or devil's food cake here. But get those Juul electronic cigarettes while you can.

From the I Must Be Getting Old file.

From where I sit with my racing caffeine heartbeat, a cup of Folger's trumps a cup of Starbucks' on any given morning. Channeling Mrs. Olson.

On Third Avenue: The only surviving business on the block. Now, that's what you call a dynasty.

This sandwich board is chained to a lamppost. It's the false soul mates out there who would otherwise make off with it.

I recently took a DNA test and found out I'm two percent Irish.

Honk only if you like Felix Unger.

It's not Ralph Kramden's pool hall anymore.

It's also getting near that time of year again. And I'm old enough to remember commercials on local television for B. Altman and Company's department store. Its jingle went something like this: "All you want for Christmas at Altman's." While the store is no more, the building lives on as a "full-service event company" for the folks who don't sweat twenty-dollar haircuts.

A little good news for a change: The iconic Colgate clock is back!!! It just needed a little brushing, I suppose.

 Clouds in my 1980s coffee.

Saw this...

Then moments later this...

Telling me only one thing: It's Christmastime in the city.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)