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)