Practice Makes Imperfect

There’s nothing quite like visiting a neighborhood family practice—a “land of doctors,” if you will—that accepts and encourages walk-in business. It’s not a fun place to be on the best of days. This morning the joint was jumping with people of all ages, sizes, and backgrounds. A cacophony of coughing resounded through the waiting room, but only one person—a non-cougher—wore a mask. Her name—I learned—was Angela. She asked a receptionist if anybody in the room had the coronavirus, because she was desperately afraid of contracting it. This prompted Jonathan—a Star Wars convention attendee-type—to mutter aloud, “How would they know?” Jonathan, you see, had no inner-monologue and, too, difficulty checking in at an electronic kiosk.

The icing on the fruit cake was the appearance of this couple—two for the price of one, as it were. I had seen them on the streets from time to time and always wondered about the nature of their relationship. Were they husband and wife or brother and sister? I could always say with absolute certainty that the pair wasn't playing with a full deck between them. 

The better half of the zany duo appeared to be well known at the practice—a clamorous Chatty Cathy and simpleton familiar to the staff. Her mate, with a comparable IQ, was definitely the more nefarious of the two. When I encountered them in the great outdoors, they invariably were bickering like wacky sketch characters from a Saturday Night Live skit. Suffice it to say that it’s best not to be confined—if at all possible—in a room with this peculiar twosome. What mostly troubles them, though, I don’t believe is contagious. As for the coronavirus, I just hope and pray Angela emerged unscathed.

Yes, everybody has a story. Sometimes even a breakfast sandwich has one.

A few days earlier I was in yet another medical waiting room. While it also had its share of characters, this one at least had a nice view.

Sometimes it's the little things that help get you through the day.

Watching the planes coming and going from LaGuardia Airport is a nice diversion for a couple of hours. But after that the law of diminishing returns sets in and the feeling is "Seen one plane, seen them all."

Happily, there's more to life than visiting doctors. This weekend I noticed the Best Deli & Grill erected a new sign, which you can see from outer space. Remember: the best never comes easy.

Dreary start to February of a rather uneventful winter thus far. I am not complaining.

No matter the time of year, it's imperative to know right from wrong, especially on the streets of New York.

And, too, that time waits for no man and no woman. It's hard to believe that this year will be the fortieth anniversary of my high school graduating class. I wasn't yet eighteen on graduation day, which was my entire lifetime. I've since lived another two rounds of eighteen and then some.

I take solace in the fact that life remains ever-mysterious with so much to more to learn and uncover.

Solace, too, in discovering good pizza.

I don't suspect bird brains ruminate on such matters of life and death.

So, let off some steam, I say, but do it in the privacy of your own home and not at a doctor's office—please.

When I was eighteen, I was loath to wait on line for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. A five-minute wait might have been tolerable to me back then. Now, I'm down to zero minutes, even if the waiters and waitresses sing and dance while serving hamburgers and BLTs. 

You know you accomplished something in life if somebody made Way for you in death.

I wonder how old they are?

No need to: Absurd has embraced us.

And so I've lived to see the death of the subway token and birth of the MetroCard. OMNY, contactless payment, has now arrived.

And I fear the beginning of the end of the MetroCard is upon us.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)