Return to Semi-Normalcy

The return to semi-normalcy is underway. The Rockettes are raring and ready to go for Radio City Music Hall’s annual Christmas Spectacular, which was cancelled last year courtesy of the pandemic. It commences on November 5th. But don't forget, the proof-of-vaccination check is the law of the land here in New York City for entry into a variety of venues. Recently, though, I patronized a couple of pizzerias in Manhattan, ate my slices inside, and was not proofed. And I believe these businesses fell under the vaccination-before-service umbrella. Honestly, I can understand the proofing thing for some establishments more than others. Crowded theaters like Radio City Music Hall—of course—but mom-and-pop eateries? I’d cut them a little slack. It’s been a rough year and half for them no matter how you slice it.

Best pizza in New York?

That's what the Food Network says. Just sayin', but I think its reviewers need to get out and about a little more.

Again, not the "best pizza" in New York, but better than the "Best Pizza in NY," in my humble opinion.

"World Famous" and "Gourmet Pizza" that was okay but nothing to write home about.

Now, here's a pizza pie that I must try one of these days. Joe's Pizza boxes are literally all over the streets of Greenwich Village. By the looks of things, the place has very little space for indoor dining.

For years now, I've passed this eatery with its "Best Chinese Food" sign in the window. While the interior always appeared quite dingy to me, I understood that—in the taste game—one should never judge a book by its cover, particularly a Chinese take-out joint.

Well, the sign's powerful allure at long last drew me in for a chicken and broccoli to-go this past weekend. The cavernous inside was indeed dingy but the dish was edible enough. Still, I suspect if you traveled the world over, you could find better tasting Chinese food, maybe even on the next block.

There is nothing quite like a New York City bagel.

Okay, you can't judge a book by its cover or restaurant by its front signage. But, personally, I'd invest in a power washing.

It's been an especially tough year and then some for barkeeps...

But the signs abound that it's high time to return to some semblance of normal.

The annual Tunnel to Towers 5K Run and Walk was back this year after falling prey to COVID-19 in 2020. The event raises money for the families of First Responders who lost their lives on 9/11.

How can you not feel safe with this member of New York City Police Department's anti-terrorism on the scene...

I saw this Starbucks employee sweeping out a mess of water-logged garbage from inside onto the front sidewalk. A Department of Sanitation inspector car pulled up to a traffic light in front of the place. He stared out the window at the trash and moved on when the light turned green. 

Outdoor dining on Minetta Lane in Greenwich Village: no vaccination check required. Many of the outdoor dining sheds, in fact, in Manhattan were teeming with customers and packed to capacity during the past weekends. Outdoors, yes, but sardine cans in practical reality.

The journeys into the belly of the beast began here in the Bronx. Masks are required on mass transit regardless of vaccination status. And, I'm happy to report, compliance is generally the rule.

Arizona in the Bronx. Once upon a time there were Dairylea orange drinks in cardboard containers that cost fifteen cents in Pat Mitchell's Irish Food Center. Simpler times...

I'd recommend visiting the environs of Battery Park for a variety of reasons. Not the least of which is that it's got more bathrooms per capita in New York City than any other locale, including this incredibly clean public restroom in Battery Park City. They don't come any better than this.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Hitting Some Out

A few miscellaneous thoughts on a variety of unrelated things beginning with a blast from the past. As a boy in a pre-smartphone, pre-Internet age, a group of us would assemble on a summer’s day or early eve and one among us would pose the immortal question: “What do you want to do?” This would invariably prompt a follow-up query that on occasion would be: “Do you want to hit some out at Vanny?” I thought about that summer pastime the other day—and the peculiar phraseology, too—when I passed the very ballfields at Van Cortlandt Park where we, once upon a time, hit some out.

One of the main protagonists in this youthful adventure of ours has since met his maker. And time has done a considerable number on the rest of us. It was both a long time ago and not long at all—certainly not in the grand scheme of things. Hitting some out was a simple pleasure that required baseball mitts, bats, and balls—and that’s the long and short of it. It was simultaneously a vigorous workout and good old-fashioned fun—no state-of-the-art devices needed.

I remember one June evening while hitting some out, this kid I went to high school with turned up with a bunch of his friends. They wanted to play on the field we occupied. The ensemble asked us to move to another one nearby. Our fearless leader—older than the rest of us—refused the request as a matter of principle. My secondary school peer informed me the next day—in no uncertain terms—that we should have moved. He believed that his summer escapade—a planned game with more bodies involved—should have taken precedence over four individuals hitting some out. You see, the adjoining two baseball fields in Van Cortlandt Park were worse for wear—it was during the city’s fiscal crisis—and their outfields bled into one another, which created a unique set of additional problems. However, utilizing these mangy ballfields were on a first-come, first-serve basis. No reservations were required. And we were there first and got the pick of the not-so-impressive litter.

Fast forward to the present. While we were hitting some out all those years ago, climate change was not an issue, although In Search Of… hosted by Leonard Nimoy, aired an episode on an impending Ice Age. Exhibit A: Buffalo, New York had an awful lot of snow in 1977. Those were simpler times indeed when we accepted the results of elections, even the ones that didn’t turn out in our favor. And we felt free to offer contrary opinions and utter words like “woman” and “he” and “she” without fear of censorship and condemnation.

Did you see what the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) did to a quote from the late Ruth Bader Ginsburg this week? The organization employed her words—just not all of them—to underscore its support for abortion. Ginsburg said: “The decision whether or not to bear a child is central to a woman’s life, to her well-being and dignity. It is a decision she must make for herself. When the government controls that decision for her, she is being treated as less than a full adult human responsible for her own choice.” The ACLU, though, wasn’t content to let her words stand on their own. Instead, “woman” was excised and changed to “person,” in brackets, of course, with “her” changed to “their,” and “herself” changed to “people.” Follow the bouncing ball off the cliff. Now, this is the ACLU, mind you, rewriting history. What right do these people have in altering a person’s words? Yes, person, man or woman.

Considering this latest development in insanity, I thought I would look at some popular songs and how they might be sung in an Orwellian future. Whitney Houston’s “I’m Every Woman” would be “I’m Every Person.” Roy Orbison’s “Oh, Pretty Woman” would be “Oh, Pretty Person.” Carlos Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” would be “Black Magic Person.” Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman” would be “When a Man Loves a Person.” And, last but not least, John Lennon’s “Woman” would be “Person.” Let’s sing it together now: “Person, I can hardly express, my mixed emotions at my thoughtlessness…”

I liked the world better when we were hitting some out. Jimmy Carter was the president then and In Search Of… merely speculated on the various doomsday possibilities awaiting us or maybe not. On that scruffy ballfield more than forty years ago, I never could have envisioned where I, and the rest of us, would be headed in 2021: to Hell in a handbasket or maybe not.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Catch of the Day on Life Support

(Originally published on 9/3/2012)

With the 2012 summer season effectively in the dustbin of history, I can add a further nail into the “having a catch in the backyard” coffin. Once upon a time in this neck of the woods—the Northwest Bronx—baseball mitts rested in countless front hallways and were called into action regularly during the spring, summer, and autumnal months. Playing largely on concrete, though, our gloves’ neat leatherwork and lacing took a beating, eventually beyond repair.

When we utilized bona fide baseballs on fields that weren’t green, their stitches and coverings took a licking. It wasn’t uncommon to see us playing with hardballs wrapped in black electrical tape to extend their lives. Eventually, the rubber hardball came along, which supplied us with the ideal orb to have a catch and play games of “errors” and “pitcher and catcher” in our concrete backyards. Sure, the concrete is still there today—albeit a cheesier, monochrome variety—but very few kids are having catches atop it.

Actually, outside of seeing today’s youth staring into iPhones on the mean streets, I didn’t notice much else going on throughout this urban summer. Walking about while simultaneously staring into these technological gizmos paints a rather depressing picture to me. It conjures up images of tacky horror films from yesteryear with human automatons bloodlessly roaming the highways and byways. If we were becoming a smarter and more interesting people, perhaps a winning case could made for walking around while texting, tweeting, and talking on the cell—and not looking where one is going—but that ain't exactly happening.

So, the backyard catch is no longer the catch of the day. And on life support, too, in the big city—it should be noted—are clothes hanging out on clotheslines. Well…longstanding as this old tradition may be, its demise just might not be a bad thing. Progress…yes...let's embrace it.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Proof Is in the Pudding

In my travels this morning, I noticed that the local McDonald’s was now hiring—all shifts the outdoor sign said. If my eyes weren’t deceiving me, the franchise had also shuttered its indoor dining again—round three if memory serves. Why? Because it’s the law that restaurants and other indoor venues in New York City must check their patrons’ vaccination status. I’m guessing that this McDonald’s—and other fast-food chains in the area—just don’t think it is worth the trouble. That is, having an employee or employees policing their sit-down dining rooms all day long.

Speaking of trouble, have you seen the video clip of a Manhattan restaurant hostess getting physically assaulted by three women from Texas, including a mother and a daughter? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Almost too good to be true from the media's perspective: the antagonists were tourists from the Lone Star State. Except for one thing, they were African-American and not central casting rednecks. The hostess’s crime: asking for proof of vaccination before seating them. The attackers, however, say she hurled a racist epithet and was aggressive toward them. The owner of the eatery—Carmine’s on the Upper West Side—made it abundantly clear: They could have been accommodated in outdoor seating without a fuss. But these are times we live in—people are extra nutty, more narrow-minded, and prone to violence at the drop of a hat.

Despite three million inhabitants still unvaccinated in New York City—an overcrowded, increasingly dirty pressure cooker—it’s worth noting that COVID-19 positivity rates here are the lowest in the state. That said: Enforcing proof of vaccination in business establishments will no doubt inspire more incidents like the Texas Tourist Trio fistfight in the heart of old Manhattan.

Anyway, I’ve got no problem displaying my vaccination card when required, just as I have no issue with presenting my ID when I deposit $50 cash in my own bank account, or visit a patient in a hospital, or purchase a bottle of NyQuil in the drugstore when I have a touch of the flu. Reality check: Nowadays, every American adult needs a picture ID to access everything and anything.

Considering that the New York City 2021 budget was a record-breaker and the adopted budget for fiscal year 2022 establishes another one, I can’t understand why the mayor and company haven’t restored the cuts to the Department of Sanitation. Sidewalk litter baskets are overflowing with garbage all the time and all over town. And how about bringing back organic recycling as promised? The powers-that-be are too busy to see the mess, I guess. They are, primarily, woke and concerned more about offensive statues, intersectionality, and schools for smart kids with too many smart kids in them.

While on the subject of youth, I vividly remember as a kid this ubiquitous New York City ad campaign. It was during the filthy1970s and ran concurrently with Iron Eyes Cody canoeing around polluted waterways with tears running down his cheeks. Each one of the commercials concluded with this punchline: “Don’t dump on New York!” Well, today, the dumpers are back with a vengeance. Countless residents are discarding their disposable facemasks on the streets and sidewalks. I find this act especially appalling because you can just place the thing in your pocket and dump it in the trash at home. You could even do the next best thing and toss it into a public garbage can, which—in many instances—is not much better than throwing it on the ground. But at least your heart would be in the right place.

Footnote: Microsoft Word editor has just added “Inclusiveness” to its recommendations. It seems that my use of the word “hostess” was not a “gender-neutral term.” “Host” was recommended. Also, my use of the term “rednecks” was language that “may imply cultural bias.” So, this is where we are: at a crossroads for creative sorts, who must now navigate waters more precarious than what Iron Eyes Cody encountered. Happily, the software permitted me to ignore the recommendations—but for how long?

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Autumn in New York

(Originally published on 9/25/18)

When the Rite Aid drug store chain not only has its Halloween candy, decorations, and costumes taking up multiple aisles, but hints of Christmas decor around as well, it can mean only one thing: It's autumn in New York! Actually, two things: Christmas music will be playing on radio stations in approximately five weeks. What's not to love about fall? There's so much going on and so much to live for:

Nowadays it's called "branding." In this instance "bad branding."

The little house with the big name...

I was a "happy child" on a school bus when homeward bound, never—as I recall—the other way around.

Does New York still love Tropicana? Or is it Bai-Bai orange juice?

You know you are in a tony part of town when the public bathrooms have ceiling fans.

Recently, a taxi driver from out of town wanted to know the whereabouts of "The Statue." Since we were both in Battery Park City at the time, I pointed in the general direction of Liberty Island. With several antsy passengers in his vehicle, the cabbie desired more specific directions than that. He wondered, too, if there would be available parking when he got there. I didn't take pleasure in bursting his balloon, but I informed him that he had to take a boat. Sorry, no cars. The guy didn't believe me. Happily, he didn't ask me: "How do I get to Carnegie Hall?" Because, again, the man wouldn't have liked my answer: "Practice." Happy Motoring!

Flag flying over the Kingsbridge Station post office, where almost anything goes.

Flag flying over my former elementary school, St. John's, on Godwin Terrace in the Bronx. The building is currently being leased to the public school system, which no doubt pays a pretty penny for the privilege. From the Catholic Church perspective, however, every little bit helps in paying off its victims.

This is one of the boats that could have taken the cab driver's fare to Liberty Island. Hope he didn't make a wrong turn.

There is nothing quite like pizza, but I fear we are being inundated in these parts with options. So much so that many pizza makers will find out—sooner rather than later—that they just can't make enough dough to survive.

Watch out for trains...

 Danger...trains...

Man watching out for dangerous trains...

I wish I could say that the New York City subway system has gone to the dogs, but I can't just yet.

How many men does it take to change a light bulb in a flashing "Don't Walk" sign? Only one.

Stand clear!

"It is everything you dreamed of. It is nothing you expect."

Many times I have felt like a prisoner while riding on the subway. Who is Number One?

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Two Bios, One Obituary

(Originally published 9/2/19)

It being Labor Day, the unofficial end of yet another summer, I cannot help but hark back to those habitually awful first days of school. My earliest remembrance is—fittingly—the onset of my formal education: kindergarten at P.S. 7, which was a couple of blocks from where I called home. I hadn’t yet turned five in September of 1967, which made me ineligible to attend nearby St. John’s parochial grammar school. So, I didn’t get to experience the legendary Mrs. Fagan, who taught generations of kids and seemed both forever old and forever large. After this one brief shining moment of public schooling—in Mrs. Rothman’s kindergarten class—it was on to St. John’s and the first grade. 

I vaguely recall the first day of first grade and walking with my mother and my best friend, Johnny, and his mother, to the schoolyard on Godwin Terrace, which sat atop a rocky bluff overlooking the El and the perpetually passing Number 1 trains. A foreboding feeling was in the ether. While Catholic schools were changing for the better at that time—with the more sadistic nuns, brothers, and lay teachers slowly but surely falling out of favor—the fledgling days of school still amounted to the spin of a roulette wheel. One could get lucky, as I did, by getting Mrs. Victory for a teacher. She was a nice lady who drove a big car and lived on the next block from me. But in an adjoining classroom was another woman—with a Miss in front of her name and a reputation that wasn’t nearly as warm and fuzzy as Mrs. Victory’s—for the unlucky.

A year later in the second grade, Lady Luck shined on me once more when I got the especially kind Mrs. Kehayas as my teacher. But, sadly, some of my less fortunate peers were saddled with Sr. Lorraine, a paleo-throwback to the no-holds-barred bashing-and-trashing-of-kids era, which—peculiarly—is celebrated by a fair share of folks on social media. Sister Lorraine was Roseanne Barr with a bad habit and a pencil-thin but nevertheless visible mustache. My best friend, Johnny, once incurred her wrath and got body-slammed during First Holy Communion practice in the church. His transgression: keeping a chewed-up straw from “hot lunch” in his shirt pocket.

Fast forward now to the first days of high school—orientation—when Sister Elizabeth, a.k.a “Old Stone Face,” informed all assembled freshman: “Your days are numbered.” Our schedules were not Monday-through-Friday based, we learned, but One-through-Six instead. The intimidating Dean of Students refused to welcome us because, he said, we had done nothing as of yet to earn a welcome. At sophomore orientation a year later, he bellowed, rather theatrically as I recall, “Welcome to Cardinal Spellman!” (By the way, the photos included in this essay are a sampling of my high school ties, which were borrowed from my father's rather eclectic closet collection. In the hip 1970s, boys could sartorially express their individuality at CSHS. Now they wear a uniform.)

In my first day of freshman-year homeroom, a boy sat across from me who was right out of Central Casting. He was the stereotypical high school movie genius and nerd in appearance. Nicknamed “Poindexter” by galoots, he spoke in a high-pitched, squeaky tone. When he first perused his schedule, which had been passed out to all of us, Poindexter said aloud to no one in particular, “I have two bios.” I eventually deduced that he was referring to Biology class, which came attached—on one occasion in the six-day week—to an additional “lab” class.

This fourteen-year-old “genius” in my midst was genuinely smart. I remember him pensively sketching a complex, multi-dimensional cube at his desk as we awaited the sounding of the bell that alerted us that we had three minutes to get to our first class of the day. Detention, the dreaded “jug,” awaited the tardy. In the end, the kid with the two bios turned out to be a truly nice fellow. He parried his more oafish peers’ verbal thrusts with elan and grudgingly earned their respect.

And so today—in this vastly different day and age from when I attended P.S. 7, St. John’s, and Cardinal Spellman, too—I wondered whatever became of my former classmate? His name was very commonplace, but with a little Paul Drake and Jim Rockford ingenuity, I believed I could locate him. And I believe I did and that he's no longer among the living. I accept now that I am at an age with fewer and fewer guarantees of tomorrows.

So, now, permit me to resurrect one final first day—at Manhattan College—when I encountered for the very last time my high school classmate. We met outside of the school's Bursar’s Office and he said to me, “It was so much easier for us at Spellman, when everything was taken care of for us.” In other words, when our parents paid the tuition through the mail and that was that. And so there we were—suddenly and without fair warning or fanfare—young adults. Two bios and one obituary later, that’s life in a Petri dish. And Old Stone Face was right: Our days really are numbered.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Eighteen Pictures Is Worth 800 Words

While riding New York City subways and busses, masks are required for the vaccinated and unvaccinated alike. I’m okay with that and so are—from my observations at least—most riders. In fact, in my subway excursions yesterday—from the Bronx to Manhattan and back—I counted a mere handful of folks without a mask. One unmasked passenger—a young woman—was confronted by a masked older woman and dead ringer for an aunt of mine. The latter wanted to know where the former’s mask was. The unmasked accused said that she was vaccinated. “That’s meaningless,” replied the masked enforcer. “I work in a hospital!”

Meaningless? Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Personally, I’d be very leery of confronting unmasked riders in the New York City transit system. My view is that I’m vaccinated, masked, and not sitting on top of a fellow straphanger, which is protection enough for me. The mask patrol was fortunate that the unmasked person in question just said, “Okay…okay…okay” after the chiding and let it lay. The truth be told: Some people are itching for a fight—verbal and even physical. What follows are assorted snapshots and thoughts concerning this, that, and the other thing in these very strange and tense times.

After the remnants of Hurricane Ida struck with a vengeance Wednesday night, the unrelenting heat and humidity of days past vanished. While riding the rails this weekend, I felt cold in the subway cars. Wearing a mask in the underground recesses was certainly more tolerable under these conditions. 

I’m certainly looking forward to the post-de Blasio New York City. Sadly, though, the big oaf is contemplating running for governor next year. He just can’t enough of running, I guess.

A year ago, when COVID-19 first reared its ugly head and dealt a considerable blow to the city’s coffers, organic garbage recycling was suspended until June 2021. Hello…it’s September 2021, and I’m still tossing my chicken bones, carrot peels, and soiled paper towels in with the regular garbage.

From unprecedented rainfall and flooding to a picture postcard…

Tourists are certainly back. The Lady Liberty tour boats were packed to the rafters. Hope there were no mask scuffles on board.

It would be nice if Americans remembered what the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island signify. We seem to be willingly forfeiting our liberties in a headlong dash toward insanity. If kids going to college—of all places—are literally afraid to express an opinion that goes against the woke grain, that’s a slippery slope leading to a bad place.

Happily, there’s at least some pushback against the nuttiness in primary and secondary education, calling out crackpot educators who put a premium on political indoctrination over reading, writing, and arithmetic. In the end, liberty will prevail, he says, fingers crossed…

The New York City bird—the pigeon—is more relaxed now that many tourists have returned, not to mention the metropolis’s hipsters getting out and about again in greater numbers and leaving their Pret a Manger crumbs in their wakes.

It very definitely takes a village…

But sadly, the pandemic has taken a big hit on it.

Outdoor dining structures remain on the city’s byways in considerable numbers, which doesn’t please everyone. Cross streets are inundated with them, which makes driving in the typical traffic mess even messier. Oh, and did I mention there a fewer parking spaces in a city with limited parking spaces. And some of the edifices are bona fide eyesores as well.

An unfriendly call followed by a visit from Luca Brasi?

Impatiens in Battery Park City, a world unto itself built on landfill from the excavation of the Twin Towers. Once upon a time, I’d be standing in the Hudson River at this spot or, perhaps, on an old and rotting wooden pier. 

Yes, my Luv Gov is no more. His recent “farewell address” was painful to watch—and with no apologies. I suspect we haven’t heard the last of Andy Boy because old politicians never die or fade away.

Considering that the subway system was a total mess after the Ida soaking, my weekend excursion was problem free with absolutely no vestiges of the flooding of several days ago. 

Have Corona beer sales suffered during the Corona virus? Just wondering...

During his lengthy service at the James A. Farley post office—the city’s main post office on Eighth Avenue—my father exited at the 28th Street station on the Number 1 line. On Wednesday evening, this very spot resembled a prime white water rafting locale.

I presume this Department of Transportation sign is cautioning us to be aware of the increasingly ubiquitous bicyclists in the city. In my experience, it’s likewise good advice vis-à-vis high school principals.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)