Benjy's Rule in the City

When I was a young, I’d—yes—listen to the radio…waiting for my favorite songs. Well, actually, no, when I was a boy, I listened to Met games on the radio and not much else. When the games were played at home, at Shea Stadium, the loudly spewing engines from jet planes landing and taking off at nearby LaGuardia Airport were music to my ears. It supplied incredible ambiance to the storied American pastime—when it was a game—and youthful exuberance and wonder took it from there.

By the way, a visit from Kingsbridge, my Bronx neighborhood, to Shea Stadium in Flushing, Queens, was an outer borough to outer borough experience—a thirty- or so minute drive—never once dubbed a trip into the city and back. The excursion nevertheless furnished us with a bird’s-eye view of the city at the Triborough Bridge. This ever-busy locale is where three New York City boroughs come together in heavily trafficked disharmony—the Bronx, Queens, and Manhattan—hence, the bridge’s moniker. Well, no, not anymore. Politicians couldn’t leave well enough alone again and renamed the bridge the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. Of course, most everybody, as they should, still calls it the Triborough. Anyway, I—once upon a time—referred to trips into Manhattan as “going into the city” or “going downtown.” It was part of the local vernacular. Despite the fact that the Bronx, just like Manhattan, was a borough in good standing in New York City, it was—as the song says—uptown.

In fact, “going into the city” didn’t even cover the entirety of Manhattan Island. I could walk from Kingsbridge in the Bronx to Marble Hill, several blocks away, and technically be in Manhattan, but—hilly terrain notwithstanding—that brief stroll didn’t rise to the level of being in the city. “Going into the city” or “going downtown” were more or less references to mid-town—shopping at Macy’s, seeing a play, or checking out the Rockefeller Center tree at Christmastime. Most of my youthful adventures “downtown” were in that same general vicinity, except, of course, when the family welcomed visitors from afar. For instance, when my father’s cousin from Italy turned up with her young son, it was off to the Empire State building for a long climb—my one and only—and further south to the Statue of Liberty, Wall Street, and a free ride on the Staten Island Ferry.

Actually, all these years later, I still refer to “going into the city” and “downtown.” But as time has passed, I came to appreciate that there’s a lot more to the city than mid-town and its madness. Lower Manhattan—further downtown—is worth wandering through. Last weekend—in this most wacky of moments—I executed a twofer: from Rockefeller Center to the Battery in one fell swoop. The Number 1 train made it all possible. That’s why, of course, it’s the Number 1 train.

This is the Henry Hudson Bridge that connects Northwest Manhattan with the Northwest Bronx. My forebears picnicked on the Manhattan side of the bridge—in Inwood Hill Park, a.k.a. Inwood Park—before it was even there. My father swam in the then extremely filthy, feces-laden waters. They lost their little private beach and piece of heaven when the bridge was built.

This sign is in Inwood Park—in Manhattan, but not the city—with the last vestiges of virgin forest in the borough.

Feeding the pigeons, I suppose, feeds this more aggressive than ever creature of the night and day.

Like Frosty the Snowman, the Radio City Music Hall Box Office, I'm confident, will be back again someday...maybe even in 2021.

And the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree viewing won't be employing the "Benjy Rule"—a ticket and a mere five minutes of viewing while six-feet apart.

What's the "Benjy Rule," you ask? Well, approximately forty-five years ago, a neighbor family up the street had a rare lot of green grass next to their humble abode, My grandfather, an iceman, had looked at the very same property for sale when he was considering relocating to Kingsbridge in the Bronx from Manhattan's Morningside Heights. He thought it the dream home with space for a considerable garden. But, alas, my grandfather needed a house with a rent-paying tenant to help with the mortgage and, besides, there were still some empty lots around for planting gardens. So, the place ended up the residence of some bona fide smart people—doctors who didn't practice medicine with a genius son named Benjy...

And the family had a couple of pear trees in their field of green...

One day my friend Johnny and I rang their doorbell to ask if we could pick some of the pears, which they, evidently, had no interest in picking. They were the baking kind, very hard, but we would eat them...

Anyway, son Benjy answered the door and agreed to let us pick pears but with a time constraint. "You have five minutes," he said and the man meant it. How do I know? Benjy came out exactly five minutes later and shouted, "Your five minutes are up!" And that was the end of that.

While I haven't seen it in many years, A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving was seriously underrated as a classic, somehow lost between the Halloween and Christmas specials.

Peppermint Patti shined, if memory serves, in the Thanksgiving episode. She really looked out for the ever-demeaned, often-bullied "Chuck."

Bazaar indeed...

In my younger days, Torneau Corner TV adds were ubiquitous on local television. This is the one on Sixth Avenue near Bryant Park.

President-elect Biden has said that he will encourage the citizenry to wear masks for one hundred days after his inauguration. Honestly, the vast, vast majority of us are wearing masks in buildings, supermarkets, and on public transit. The minority of buffoons who don't wear them get an inordinate amount of publicity. The big spike in COVID cases seem to correlate with the changing seasons and spending more time indoors.

In any event: Life goes on...

And three cheers for American ingenuity...and, I daresay, the free market...

For their rapid development of vaccines...

Count me in...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Haul Out the Holly

I’ve noticed outdoor Christmas décor appearing earlier than ever this year. While the recent trend line has been moving in this direction, the wild and woolly 2020 has established a new standard…and why wouldn’t it? Yes, we need a little Christmas, right this very minute. But, first, let’s enjoy a heaping helping of Thanksgiving…even if it is one unlike any other. Despite the myriad warnings, millions of people apparently believe that there’s no place like home for the holidays.

We actually do have a few things to be thankful for this year. For starters, an initial vaccine is debuting in a couple of weeks. That’s encouraging news. And by hook or by crook, Donald Trump will be a private citizen in less than two months. His Keystone-Cop legal team has just about shot its last round of blanks. Historian Michael Beschloss asked on Twitter today for suggestions on a city for the Donald Trump Presidential Library. Columnist Jonah Goldberg offered “Atlantic City.” Works for me.

I am pretty much tired of politicians in general, including my Emmy Award winning governor, who received flack when it was revealed he would be hosting his eighty-nine-year-old mother and two daughters for Thanksgiving. I believe the invitation to his mother—at least—has since been rescinded. I presume Andrew Cuomo gets tested for COVID regularly. So, why would a gathering of four people wearing masks and practicing social distancing cause such a stir? It’s the sanctimonious politician ricochet rule at play. Okay, enough of all that…

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

 

The Big Balls are back in town...

And Radio City Music Hall has, at least, turned on its lights for the season...

"The place is here...the time is now..." But this too shall pass.

"How lovely are thy branches..."

I'm surprised the powers-that-be didn't settle for just the felt banner this year...

They come in boxes, too: the Rockefeller Center Christmas decorations. 

The steam pipes are beginning to belch for the season. Always a welcome sight.

If you're visiting the big city this year: Here's a restaurant/tongue twister near Rockefeller Center to consider.

No, they don't...

If nuts are your thing, you really can't beat New York City in wintertime...

Pandemic or no pandemic: The show must go on...

Granted, it's not the Lunt-Fontanne...

My camera just won't take a clear picture of it...

"Neon signs a-flashing...taxi cabs and buses passing..."

In 1980, New York Mets shortstop Frank Taveras said, "Ding happen." He was right.

There were some visitors in and around Rockefeller Center and Times Square this weekend, but, then again, too few to mention.

Every discarded wig in a Manhattan bike lane has a story to tell...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Eggs Omelet Style

 

I had almost forgotten about her: Eggs Omelet Style. For identification purposes only—I don’t know her real name—that’s her given handle. I would on occasion see her—once upon a time—in our mutually favorite diner. But I hadn’t encountered her—until yesterday—since the pre-pandemic days: that simpler snapshot in time before all New York City eateries were relegated to takeout and delivery orders only. They can now operate with twenty-five percent indoor capacity—but for how long is the question? I have yet to return for a sit-down meal.

Anyway, I’m happy to report that Eggs Omelet Style is none the worse for wear and has thus far weathered the pandemic. Why, you ask, the curious nickname? Elementary: That’s how this woman wanted her breakfast eggs cooked in the diner. Despite a rather high-strung waitress explaining to her that there was no such choice available, Eggs Omelet Style was unbowed. She would not accept that scrambled, over-easy, sunny side-up, etc., were the be-all and end-all and continued to demand her eggs be cooked omelet style. Her exasperated brother and dining companion vainly attempted to calm the stormy seas.

Full disclosure: Eggs Omelet Style is a bit off, if you will, and prone to turn seemingly trivial matters into high-drama. Not surprisingly, the eggs omelet style request—with an inflexible, harried waitress—inspired an increasingly contentious scene. Fortunately, the diner’s long-time cook, who knew Eggs Omelet Style’s myriad idiosyncrasies, extinguished the fire when he came over to the table and said: “No problem. I’ll make your eggs omelet style. He served her up a couple of runny scrambled eggs with her bacon and all was well.

If I were Eggs Omelet Style’s sibling, I’d take a pass on dining with her in a public setting. She would be on my no dine-list for sure. Going out to eat, for me, is meant to be a pleasant experience, a break from the norm, and free of awkward incidents. Certain people will always find fault with something: the food, the temperature inside the dining room, the noise level. If you want to play twenty questions with the waiter or waitress, forgive me if I stay home and have a pizza delivered. I’d bet the ranch that Eggs Omelet Style has made some special lunch and dinner requests, too. I know this fellow who regularly asks the restaurant staff he’s patronizing if the chef can make him something that’s not on their full menu. Seriously, if you go to an Italian restaurant with a substantive roster of house specialties, do you really need to special request broccoli and spaghetti, which is not among them? No, you don't.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Tablet Kid and Related and Unrelated Thoughts

The past few weeks, I’ve noticed this kid zigzagging to and fro the immediate area with a tablet in hand. I’d guess that he is a teenager—late high school or early college age. At my more advanced one, determining other people’s no longer comes easy. Anyway, the kid seemed especially interested in two nearby apartment building parking lots. He appeared to be zeroing in on the cars entering them and recording some sort of data and/or snapping pictures. As he crossed from one side of the street to another and then back again, he occasionally looked to be surveying the nearby surroundings

My initial thought was that this peripatetic young man worked for Google or some such interloping enterprise. But witnessing him—time and again—covering the same grounds and doing the same things made me reconsider. During my latest sighting, I observed the kid scurrying—upon a car’s approach to an entrance—from one parking lot to the other. This hurried act inspired me to take my Columbo raincoat out of mothballs. Perhaps this individual was a special needs kid, I posited, with a peculiar compulsion—recording makes of cars or license plates—who was presently without access to in-classroom learning. Once upon a time, I charted cars in the Bronx. If this is indeed the case, it’s sad to contemplate the many kids—particularly those with special needs—completely without or with limited access to in-person learning. Then again, this nomadic youth could be studying engineering and merely doing his homework. Whatever the case, it’s kind of unnerving watching somebody with a technological device in hand—day after day after day—behaving like a proverbial pinball on these city sidewalks, busy sidewalks.

Speaking of schooling: New York City closed its public schools today. It seems that the arbitrary citywide COVID-positive testing benchmark of 3% was reached. Doesn’t seem to matter to the powers-that-be that the in-school COVID-positive testing rate is 0.29%. In the meantime, the Big Apple’s private and charter schools remain open. The losers: kids, parents, and teachers. When the dust settles on all of this, it isn’t going to be pretty.

And now for something completely different: Somebody posted on social media this food for thought question: “Which 1970s, 80s, or 90s sitcom characters would be into QAnon today?” I encountered many interesting answers, including Kramer and Newman from Seinfeld, Wojohowitz from Barney Miller, Joey from Friends, Frank Burns from M*A*S*H, Chrissy and Ralph Furley from Three’s Company, and Schneider from One Day at a Time. Fred Sanford of Sanford and Son got a few mentions, but I would beg to differ here. Not his kind of thing. For what it’s worth, I offered up Sanford and Son as my favorite TV show in Mr. Tursi’s seventh-grade Values Clarification class. What exactly this particular line of questioning clarified remains to be seen forty-five years later.

A final note on the week leading up to Thanksgiving: Rudy, it’s really time to go into assisted living and flush the hair dye down the toilet. To quote my one-hundred-year-old aunt: “He’s not right in the head.” Speaking of which: Regarding Lou Dobbs, could it possibly be the hair dye? As for the president, if the last two weeks haven’t convinced you what the next four years could have wrought, then nothing ever will. A healthy dose of Old Joe tranquility—and a vaccine—in the near future, I believe, is just what the doctor ordered.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Gentlemen, A-Pizza!

Many, many, many moons ago, while working at a mom-and-pop shop called Pet Nosh, an oh-so-vital decision was called for each and every day at approximately the noon hour: “What are we going to have for lunch?” When the owner, Rich, was on the scene, he would dutifully recite the alternatives, which ranged from deli sandwiches to burgers to pizza. The latter and popular option always merited a distinct query: “Do you want to get a-pizza?” The “a-pizza” was enunciated in an exaggerated Italian accent with the “a” more-or-less silent.

As with countless other words, dialects, and sounds, Rich relished saying, “a-pizza!” Among our many customers at the time was a bona fide Italian guy from the old country, who raised parakeets. In his exaggerated Italian accent—the genuine article—the man would regularly request “a fifty-pound bag of para-KEET”—with the emphasis on the last syllable. In the rough and tumble of the retail frontier—where you repeatedly encounter the same people with their singular idiosyncrasies—it was not surprising that “para-KEET” assumed a life of its own. It was fun to say for a spell and Rich, more than anyone else, ended up with “para-KEET” on the brain and on a recurring loop on his tongue.

I vividly remember this saleswoman setting up a then state-of-the-art—now extinct—credit card machine for the store. Rich and I were the only others inside at the time. Hovering quietly nearby, he suddenly let loose with a very loud and pronounced “para-KEET!” Assuming it was directed at her—nobody else was around after all—the saleswoman pivoted, but immediately determined that Rich was there but not there. The “para-KEET” cry—whatever it represented—remained a perplexing mystery to her as she returned to the job-at-hand.

Back to “a-pizza”: While in Manhattan this weekend, I recalled another seemingly trivial moment from the past. For some unknown reason, my brothers and I found ourselves at a pizza place in the Dunwoodie section of Yonkers. We ordered a whole pizza to eat inside and the owner told us to have a seat and relax. He would personally bring the pie to our table when it was ready. And the proprietor did just that, presenting it to us as such: “Gentlemen, a-pizza!” Some thirty years later, I’m happy to report that the shop still exists. There’s something uplifting about neighborhood pizza shops that adapt, endure, and thrive through changing times, tastes, and demographics.

Speaking of “a-pizza,” I see that the phrase pays homage to the Italian “Neapolitan” immigrants responsible for bringing pizza to American shores. It seems uniquely attached to the style of pizza made famous in New Haven, Connecticut, the kind with the thin, oblong, and charred appearance. Whatever, I encountered a variety of pizza joints in my recent travels that ranged from a place called “Artistic Pizza” to “99 Cents Fresh Pizza” to “Ben’s Pizzeria,” dubbed “The Most Famous Pizza In The World.” The dollar pizza place had a fresh pie in its window that looked pretty tasty and worth the bargain price. But looks can sometimes be deceiving. While these establishments didn’t appear to be technically “a-pizza,” by Rich’s definition they very definitely were. I even passed by a pizza shop with a sign that said, “No mascara…no entry.” Spanish for “mask,” I reckon.

The Little Caesar’s guy says, “Pizza…pizza!” I say, “A-pizza…a-pizza!” with the “a” silent. And, all the while, I remember when…

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Odd Couple: 2020, 1975

While living in a fast-paced technological age has its pitfalls, it also has its benefits. Information, for one, is at our fingertips. It’s a moment, for instance, when people can broadcast the most trivial bits of nostalgia and strike a resounding chord with those of us who remember a slower-paced, less technological time. A time when Los Angeles PI Jim Rockford had a rare telephone answering machine at home and, while on the road, pulled over to street pay phones to retrieve his messages.

Today, by the way, is November 13th—Friday the 13th if you are keeping score—the day that “Felix Unger was asked to remove himself from his place of residence.” And in case you’ve forgotten: “That request came from his wife.” Although it never did especially well in the ratings, The Odd Couple, starring Tony Randall and Jack Klugman, was nonetheless a classic 1970s television series that lasted five seasons. In my opinion the show’s humor holds up rather well. Yet, it rarely appeared or appears in syndication. The opening theme and montage of the lead characters, Felix Unger and Oscar Madison, out and about on the streets of the Big Apple gave the show a real New York feel, despite it being filmed before a live audience on a Hollywood sound stage.

When The Odd Couple ran in prime time, New York City was a gritty metropolis slipping and sliding towards insolvency. Crime was up and services, like sanitation, down and it certainly showed. I’ve heard some contemporary talking heads compare the goings-on of the 1970s with the present decline. Short and hapless Abe Beame was the mayor when the excrement finally hit the fan in 1975, the year the last episode of The Odd Couple aired. Tall and hapless Bill de Blasio is the mayor when the most recent excrement hit the fan—and it's splattering all over us as I speak. But there the similarities end.

There’s a great photo site on Facebook called “Dirty Old 1970's New York City.” It’s a pictorial tribute to the New York of the 1970s and, too, the early-1980s, which—you guessed it—was dirtier in look and feel than what came before and what came after. A friend of mine remembers his father’s reaction to what New York City had become in the 1970s. Born in 1915 Manhattan, this man moved north to the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx in the 1940s, which was then positively quaint—an urban enclave with empty lots and a distinctive small town feel. New York City subways were clean and relatively efficient back then. By the 1970s, the very same subways were prone to breakdowns and covered in unsightly graffiti. So, understandably for a man of his generation, he felt palpable despair. The city he lived in for his entire life had morphed into a veritable sewer on life support.

I, on the other hand, was a teenager in the 1970s. I noticed the graffiti on the subways and just about everywhere else. I noticed the parks were rundown, filthy, and not being maintained. There were a lot of muggings and break-ins in the neighborhood, too. But I found it a great time to be a kid growing up in New York. When many of us look at pictures of Dirty Old New York City, we remember when—when, for one, The Odd Couple was on the air and Shea Stadium stood proudly in the flight path of LaGuardia Airport. I recall an episode when Felix and Oscar’s apartment was burglarized. It was the 1970s, after all, and that was a fitting plotline for a sitcom fictionally situated in New York City. Food for thought: Murray the cop was on the same police force as Theo Kojak, while Jim Rockford independently plied his trade three thousand miles away.

Let’s queue up the opening themes now: The Odd Couple, Kojak, and The Rockford Files. Listen, this is precisely why there is no comparing 2020 New York City to its 1970s predecessor—or Los Angeles in Jim Rockford’s case. Dirty Old New York City unofficially marked the beginning of the end of old New York. It was often coarse, sometimes scary, but very, very colorful. Look at all those mom-and-pop stores, luncheonettes serving up egg creams, and neighborhood bars with Schaefer Beer neon signs in the window. “But he also knew that someday he would return to her”—and he did. Happy November 13th!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)