Attention Surplus Disorders

While in the environs of Madison Square Garden and Penn Station this past weekend, I took particular note of the humongous, ever-changing electronic billboards all around me. For the next mile or so north through Times Square and the theater district, such prominent advertisements are everywhere. Many of them feature larger-than-life promotions for movies, television series, and plays. Images of actors and actresses lording over streets teeming with people—from all over the world in the case of New York City—are omnipresent.

I couldn’t help but wonder how these entertainers must feel upon seeing their glittering, over-sized names and likenesses on the big, big screens above Manhattan streets. How could it not go to their heads? Perhaps this explains why so many Hollywood-types think their opinions matter more than others and that their you-know-whats don’t stink. It never ceases to amaze me how men and women worth multiple millions of dollars feel they can speak for the little guys and girls. If an individual has a net worth of, say, fifty million dollars, he or she is in quite a different league—a league of their own—from the person sweating the rent, electric bill, or college tuition.

That said, celebrities have the right to speak out just as everyone else does. I have a platform—this blog. They, typically, have more heady ones in which to pontificate. In 1989, I attended a Harry Belafonte concert at the Cape Cod Melody Tent. Harry, as usual, put on a great show, but at some point rambled on about the recently elected president, George Herbert Walker Bush, whom the leftist performer found wanting. It was an awkward moment, as I recall, since the majority of the attendees were older, conservative white folks. My parents saw a show in the same venue with singer Steve Lawrence as the headliner. From the opposite side of the political spectrum as Harry, Steve nonetheless ventured into that same dicey area, which no doubt offended a portion of the audience. My father, in fact, got up from his seat to go to the bathroom during the spiel. Lawrence joked, “He must be a Democrat.” Wrong, Steve, that lifelong Republican was just answering nature’s call, a non-partisan act, which he did countless times in countless places. 

It's not your grandfather's advertisements anymore. Not by a long shot.

Alfred Hitchcock would have relished being on one. "Do they ever stop migrating?"

I WO ND ER as I WA ND ER. How much did Macy's pay McMann & Tate to come up with this Christmas advertising slogan? AN SW ER: Too much.

Hope this includes debit cards!

Okay, I came upon this no longer functional—dead as a doornail—bicycle still tethered to a post. A life metaphor? If not, a dead one.

The catbird seat with a bird's eye view of the Flower School.

This place didn't appear all that big inside and I, for one, never heard of them.

What next? Wonder, though, if the museum has a 2016 election exhibit?

I am digging the Guardian Angels' new outfits. Certainly beats the red berets and satin jackets.

I sincerely doubt that any of those aforementioned Hollywood big shots get their haircuts here.

This place might be more in their league.

Now, what is it with barber shops branching out these days? I've seen more than a few offering watch repair as an additional service. Is that sort of thing taught in today's barber schools?

This is one of the luckier benches in Manhattan. The longer you sit there, the better the chances that Lady Luck will shine on you.

Not as lucky, but a park bench for the loners among us.

A sobering thought for sure.

No bull, the Wall Street area and Battery Park can be very, very tacky.

Colorful, however...

As 2019 nears an end, one final salute to the 1969 World Champion New York Mets. It was a real game then.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)