Doing a 180 in 2020

Half a year is just about in the history books. It began in the fledgling days of what turned out to be a non-winter in these parts. In its waning weeks, New Yorkers braced themselves for a post-plastic bag world, which seemed—believe it or not—like a big deal at the time. On March 1st, when the plastic ban kicked in, Lazarus risen from the dead appeared—for all intents and purposes—to be the Democratic nominee for president. I had hoped that my vote in the forthcoming New York presidential primary, scheduled in April, would carry some meaning, but I bowed to the inevitable.

Fast forward a few weeks and New York State was in a lockdown—as was most everywhere else—because of the unremitting spread of COVID-19. We had heard about the virus for months, but it didn’t seem to concern many people, including our clueless leaders who, it seems, could have prevented the worst of what was to come. And, lo and behold, Governor Andrew Cuomo—a notorious Queens-accented bully boy not known for his wit and charm—morphed before our eyes into a wise and reassuring leader. His daily news conferences became must-watch TV. In fact, the tri-state area was inundated with briefings, with Cuomo’s often sandwiched between New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio’s in the morning and New Jersey Governor Phil Murphy’s in the early afternoon. Andy boy shined in contrast with the bumbling, unctuous de Blasio and tedious Murphy.

As the non-winter morphed into a non-spring, things got pretty bad for a while. Except for a seven o’clock salute in the evening—when individuals materialized en masse to bang pots, blow bugles, and applaud the health care heroes and other “essential workers”—the streets were deathly still. Eventually, most of us were masked while out and about, with some folks leering at their neighbors as if they were radioactive. As the weeks passed and things began improving, the citizenry at large assumed a less anxious posture and the radioactive factor noticeably ebbed.

Finally, when there was real light at the end of the tunnel, the George Floyd death occurred, which sparked protests and legitimate calls for police reform. But as is often the case with a noble cause, the protests and their demands Jumped the Shark. From top to bottom, our American politicians looked remarkably inept, making one silly decision after another and saying the darndest things.

So, this is where we are now: Calls for “de-funding the police,” removal of statues, and autonomous zones. COVID-19 still lives but in now the Theater of the Absurd. In retrospect, America’s favorite pandemic governor certainly earned his “A” in theater, but his decision-making throughout the crisis is presently under well-earned scrutiny by friends and foes alike and the man, a bully by nature, doesn't like it.

April showers turned into June humidity and the New York State primary as well. Several weeks ago, I received a Board of Elections notice informing me that I was entitled to vote by absentee ballot. So, for the first time ever, I did so by mail. It works for me. Many of the original presidential candidates remained on the ballot. Thus, I voted for Andrew Yang and his delegate slate. For in this unfortunate, crazy snapshot in time, I remembered him fondly as an interesting, humorous, forward-looking fellow—a positive and civil person in a sea of shrill and pandering politicians.  

Now playing in the Theater of the Absurd: A local micro-brewer recently announced a new beer for the month of July called "Defund the Police." When I first heard about this, I wondered, "What were those guys thinking?" Their product is popular in area stores and bars. I've even purchased it from time to time, but never again. Some things are just beyond the pale—ale in this instance.

They've certainly got us covered.

A masked man and his unmasked best friend.

We take no chances, too. Hand sanitizer before entering a disinfected subway car.

And with a mask on and gloves for the most squeamish.

Most of us comply...

But some throw COVID-19 to the wind.

This is Lincoln Center in the Theater of the Absurd.

It depends on what the meaning of short is.

The neon lights are still bright on Broadway, but nobody's there to see them.

Studio 54 ain't what it used to be. But, then, what is?

Long live Columbus, Columbus Circle, Columbus Avenue, Columbia University, and Columbia, Pennsylvania, too.

How I pine for the days of Johnny Carson, when late-night comedians were actually funny.

I stay home for Yu. What about you?

One of the many casualties of the pandemic is our organic recycling. Due to budget shortfalls, it has been temporarily suspended until June 2021. So the powers-that-be say.

The streets are dirtier, too, courtesy of the suspension of alternate-side parking rules and curbside cleaning. They are coming back, I hear, but in some less clean incarnation.

Friends don't let friends drink and drive, nor discard used masks on the sidewalks and streets. In the above image, it's on a boardwalk in Van Cortlandt Park. Masks and gloves are all over the place.

Sadly, not quite as much as I once did. And the worst is yet to come, I fear!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

And This Is 2020...

While walking in the street this morning to avoid a woman with her dog and smartphone, an SUV pulled up alongside me. Its masked driver called out: “How you feeling? Better?” “Yes,” I replied, despite not feeling poorly of late and not knowing who wanted to know. The mystery man then flashed me a smile and a thumbs up and drove away.

                       

I thought the guy looked familiar and concluded he had driven me—via a car service—to a hospital at some point and assumed I was ill at the time. My compounding assumptions didn't hold water for very long because—later on in my journey in a different part of town—I heard the words: “Sir! Sir! Sir!” Out of the corner of my eye, I assumed—again—that it was this annoying fellow who is always asking for spare change. As I was within his panhandling coordinates, I ignored the calls—but the sirs just kept on coming. Turns out it was the guy who had asked me earlier—but on foot this time—how I was feeling. He told me that his wife—who must have been in the vehicle with him—believed he had mistaken me for a chap named Tony. I sincerely hope Tony is feeling better because, alas, I cannot speak for him. This second encounter was quite a coincidence and I got a second thumbs up, too.

It’s been a strange year and promises to get stranger yet. On Saturday—for the first time in three months—I took a subway ride. The trains are disinfected every night and they were cleaner than I'd ever seen them. I rode in a car that never had more than a handful of people in it. One and all wore masks. So, we were not violating any pandemic dictums. It was interesting to walk around parts of Manhattan, which in normal times would be overrun with travelers and tourists. But these aren't normal times and the streets were pretty quiet. Not as eerily so as they were a couple of months ago, but nevertheless startlingly tranquil.

The unchained melody began here...

In a subway car as clean as a hound's tooth.

Reminders abounded both below ground and above ground...

To maintain proper social distancing...

And wear masks. I assumed this guy was distributing free masks. However, he didn't appear overly interested in his task. Yes, I keep assuming...

Businesses in New York City are getting decimated...and not just by looters.

How are these gift shops going to survive without tourists? It remains to be seen when people can and will start coming back here.

Phase One of the reopening has not been very impressive. Yesterday, Governor Cuomo threatened to "shut down" Manhattan and the Hamptons on Long Island in Phase 1 and Phase 2 respectively. It seems that there were various large gatherings outside of restaurants and bars this past weekend, with many folks unmasked and not practicing proper social distancing.

I hate to say this but the governor has lost some of his moral authority. By essentially green-lighting the never-ending protests—social-distancing nightmares—his righteous indignation in decidedly lesser matters leaves a lot to be desired. That said: There's a fair share of fools in our fair city and out on Long Island, too.

Speaking of fools: I wish it were an Onion story, but apparently it's not. Mayor de Blasio has instructed his army of COVID-19 contact tracers to not ask those who test positive for the virus if they attended any Black Lives Matter protests. Silly me: I just assumed the point of tracing was to trace. Another wrong assumption, I guess.

Head of the New York City council's health committee Mark Levine had this to say recently: "Let's be clear about something: If there is a spike in coronavirus cases in the next two weeks, don't blame the protesters. Blame racism." Is that a scientific opinion?

If nothing else, these are heady times for bicycle riders.

For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, but lose his soul?

Once upon a time on school field trips at Christmastime, we would travel en masse from the Bronx to Radio City Music Hall on very, very dirty subways—the 1970s editions. We would leave in the early morning hours and not get home until dark. In those good old days, the Radio City experience began with a full-length movie, followed by an intermission, and climaxed with its famous Christmas show featuring the Rockettes. That all took some time.

Believe it or not! This is 2020.

Some people network, looters and arsonists "netwerk."

Would you want to become a police officer in this day and age?

I didn't think so.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Not Helping Grandma…Anymore

What a difference a few weeks make. Once upon a time we were in the midst of a deadly pandemic and Hollywood celebrities were self-righteously imploring one and all to stay home and, of course, wear masks and practice social distancing. We were doing it for Grandma—keeping her safe first and foremost—they said. These cloying public-service announcements made me think of Mrs. Margaret Mann and her little Depression-era grocery store. Even though she’s been dead for sixty-nine years, I continue to wear a mask for her. Fast-forward to the present and the very same celebs in many instances—from their multi-million dollar homes in gated communities—don’t seem all that concerned about Grandma anymore, despite the fact that COVID-19 is alive and well.

I see actress Natalie Portman had her woke bona fides stamped recently when she fell on her white-privilege sword and came out in support of de-funding police. I’m certain she arrived at that position after doing copious, painstaking research on the subject. This made me think of a Depression-era policeman named Edgar Kennedy. He’d be out of a job. Officer Kennedy may have been on the bumbling side, but he was a good cop at heart. And so was Officer Joe Bolton for that matter.

On the matter of police de-funding: Perhaps we should take a page from the Old West or Mayberry, even, and have each American town hire its own sheriff and deputy to oversee a one- or two-cell jail. You know: the kind with a solitary rectangular window with bars, which allowed in fresh air and flies. This would save a lot of money and hopefully appease Natalie Portman with her $60 million. Those charged with alleged crimes could wait for a circuit judge to arrive and stand trial before his or her peers. More savings.

If you’re not paying attention, maybe you should be. The woke folk will get you if don’t watch out. I sang that today like Darla Hood once sung “The Love Bug will get you if you don’t watch out.” Why? I just saw a news story that a police presence was in Manhattan’s Columbus Circle guarding the statue of Christopher Columbus there. I hope the NYPD dispatched some officers to the Port Authority to protect its statue of Ralph Kramden, who wasn’t especially woke. Bang…zoom!

From essayists Samuel Johnson to Ralph Waldo Emerson to James Baldwin to Christopher Hitchens to…George Clooney—star of The Facts of Life after the show had Jumped the Shark. If I am to believe the Yahoo news headlines, it seems that Hollywood is now in the business of lecturing and “taking down” people. This is especially true of late-night comedians like one-trick ponies Colbert, Kimmel, and Oliver. The good old days of Johnny Carson seem like such a long, long time ago.

I first registered to vote in 1981 as a Republican. My college years turned that upside down and I graduated a lip-service leftie. The faculty was comprised predominantly of men and women on the left, but there was no frothing-at-the-mouth conformity of thought like there is today on campuses. I had great respect for many of my professors whose lives took them to places and found them in circumstances completely foreign to most contemporary academia nuts, who can’t abide their students thinking for themselves for fear they might see a world with more nuance than their rigid one-world.

A favorite college course of mine was “Great Issues in American History.” I actually looked forward to attending it, which is saying something. A liberal-minded professor and product of the 1960s Civil Rights and anti-Vietnam War movements taught it. He presented the facts absent an ideological bent and encouraged discussion and debate. I recall one lecture touching on the Civil War and slavery. I don’t remember the particulars of what inspired it, but a classmate said at one point, “I don’t think you can compare slavery to the Holocaust.” His opinion made an African-American peer visibly angry and a heated but civil discussion ensued. That’s what a college education used to be about: differences of opinion freely aired—more speech, not less.

The wokies are particularly emboldened now. Pay absolute total obeisance to them or they might be coming for your job or that statue of St. Francis of Assisi—he must have said something or done something un-woke in 1200—on your front lawn. Forgive me, though, for still thinking of Grandma and still wanting to help.

Mrs. Stern, Matilda’s Law, Prissy Butt, and More

Some random thoughts on lockdowns, looting, and assorted other things: Commencing with the “Mrs. Stern Moment.” I have written about this phenomenon before. For those unfamiliar with it, permit me to elaborate: Mrs. Stern was a customer in a store that I—decades ago—worked in called Pet Nosh. She was a very nice woman, albeit on the neurotic side, who fed stray animals and financially assisted others who took in homeless cats and dogs. The lady was also a Nazi concentration camp survivor. She never talked about that experience, but I couldn’t help but notice the tattooed serial number on her arm. Mrs. Stern was also a gifted pianist who invited me to a recital at her home at some point. In retrospect, I should have attended, but didn’t.

Anyway, one day Mrs. Stern came into the shop even more apprehensive than usual. She had just had an encounter that so moved her. While waiting at a traffic light with her car windows rolled down on a pleasant summer’s day, Mrs. Stern sneezed. And a man in the car alongside of her said, “God bless you.” Not just any man, but a black man. Mrs. Stern considered that little interplay so incredibly special—the bridging of races, as it were—that she was practically in tears.

Now, I have experienced “Mrs. Stern Moments” through the years, although less dramatic than that extraordinary meeting at a red light. For instance, yesterday, I was at a drugstore, which is finally allowing patrons inside again. As I waited my turn—cognizant of Matilda's Law and the importance of social distancing—a young black man was speaking with a cashier about our current, troubled state of affairs. He was the quintessential voice of reason in explaining that the police need to get their act together in weeding out the bad apples among them. But he also expressed sympathy for the difficult job they have to do. I thought, then, about all the hysterical people on social media—and just about everywhere else—taking one side or the other side with no room for compromise. When the man exited the store, he passed me by and we both said, “Take care” or some such parting salvo. It was yet another Mrs. Stern Moment.

Speaking of social media, there are more than a fair share of “prissy butts” speaking their pieces in the virtual ether. Mary Ellen called Erin a “prissy butt” in The Homecoming, the movie that inspired the TV series, The Waltons. Actually, it’s the only time I ever heard that expression used. Justice Potter Stewart once explained how obscene speech, such as hard-core pornography is not protected speech. “I know it when I see it,” he famously said. The same thinking applies to a prissy butt—I know one when I see one. Examples of prissy butts: Men and women who sit around at home with their smartphones encouraging looting and arson far away from the looting and arson—the same people, by the way, who several weeks ago were up in arms because the local supermarket didn’t have their preferred brand of toilet paper, favorite Starbucks drink, or any liquid soap at all.

A reporter asked Governor Cuomo at his daily briefing yesterday about the considerable police presence in New York, particularly New York City. She wanted him to explain how that helps a volatile situation that is grounded in police overreach. He explained to her what should have been incredibly obvious: It’s to stop the looting and arson of innocent people’s property. The governor essentially told the reporter that she wouldn’t be asking such a stupid question if her home or business was threatened. I would have asked him about the demise of Matilda’s Law.

While on this subject, how about ESPN reporter Chris Martin Palmer’s tweets. One moment he comments on a photo of a building—low-income housing in Minneapolis—set afire during the riots and tweets: “Burn, that shit down. Burn it all down.” A few days later when the looters are closing in on his neighborhood, he tweets: “They just attacked our sister community down the street. It’s a gated community and they tried to climb the gates. They had to beat them back. Then destroyed a Starbucks and are now in front of my building. Get these animals TF out of my neighborhood. Go back to where you live.” You have to love these armchair arsonists.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

“Thank You For Listening to Me”

As I was ascending Riverdale Avenue this morning, I noticed an elderly black woman in the distance. She was standing in the street at a bus stop, peering down the steep hill and looking, I surmised, for her bus, which wasn’t on the way up. By the time I approached her, she had moved onto the sidewalk, still, by the looks of things, waiting for a bus. Her face mask was pulled down and, as a matter of fact, so was mine as I passed the lady in clear violation of the six-feet social-distancing decree. There was no good morning or any such salutation forthcoming, just unsolicited commentary on the mad, mad, mad, mad world of 2020 that we both called home.

Being extra-polite in these troubled times, I lent her my ear, expecting it to be brief. As I slowly inched away—my not-so-subtle cue that I wanted to move on—the lady inched along with me. We then walked up the very big hill together—the bus be damned! The woman had a mouthful to say and spoke with a heavy island accent of some sort—maybe Jamaican—so I had difficulty comprehending fifty percent of what she said. I got the gist of it, though.

We found mutual agreement on the horror of what happened to George Flake and, too, the state of our president’s mental health. He was pouring gasoline on the fire, she said, and I concurred. The woman seconded former Secretary of State Rex Tillerson’s opinion of our fearless leader when she dubbed him a “moron.” I couldn’t argue with that. So, I listened and listened some more until we parted near the hill’s apex. She was off to a doctor’s appointment a few blocks away, I learned, and would have taken that bus one stop if she hadn’t found an ear instead. The good lady thanked me for listening to her and, as we parted, I advised her to watch that blood pressure.

And this is 2020. Just a few ancillary observations from this past week: School and neighborhood reunions are nearing extinction, I fear. Actually, I don’t really fear that. When so many people from our pasts sound off without restraint—from the far reaches of both sides of the political spectrum—it’s impossible to let it all pass unnoticed. You gotta love these armchair anarchists supporting looting, rioting, and arson safely away from the looting, rioting, and arson. They vegetate at home—smartphones in hand—justifying the destruction of other people’s neighborhoods, businesses, and livelihoods. By and large these are folks who obviously have never built a business—and likely couldn’t if they tried—and whose sources of income remain uninterrupted.

I saw this quote in a news story this morning from a Manhattan small business owner calling himself “Harri,” whose smoke shop was ransacked last night: “We worked hard to build up a business and within a second, someone does this.” Funny, but many of the armchair anarchists have been hyperventilating about mass gatherings for the last couple of months, equating them to bacterial wars on grandmas and grandpas everywhere.

What passes for clever social commentary—via memes—has also taken a turn for the worse, which I wouldn’t have imagined possible. Criminals setting fires and breaking into stores and walking away with Rolex watches, 70” flat-screen TVs, and bottles of Jack Daniel’s have been ludicrously compared to the soldiers storming France’s Normandy Beach to liberate Europe from the Nazis. Go figure: There were more than 200,000 Allied casualties there, by the way. 

As I type these words, I hear police sirens and emergency vehicles racing past my front door. One of the vehicles had a cracked window—from a recently thrown hard object, I’d wager. I go outside to see if the commotion is too close to home. Fortunately, it isn’t. A female passerby says to me: “It’s crazy.” And so it is. I say: Justice for George and for Harri, too.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)