Deathman, Do Not Follow Me

(Originally published 3/16/14)

In an eighth grade "Language Arts" course, my classmates and I were required to do a book report-oral presentation combo. We could select a book of our own choosing, but it had to be approved by our teacher, Ms. Hunt. We were permitted to pair up, too, and so my friend Manny and I opted to read a YA entitled Deathman, Do Not Follow Me by Jay Bennett. I don’t remember much about the book, except that I—as a thirteen-year-old—really liked it and a kid by the name of Danny Morgan was the main protagonist. He was daydreaming in history class at some point in the yarn and, if memory serves, Danny inadvertently got entangled with some shady sorts— art thieves, I think. 

Anyway, Manny and I made the equivalent of an abridged book-on-tape. We were trailblazers here. This would be the presentation part. Anything to avoid doing it live.  As fate would have it, we didn’t ever go public with the tape. The reason why escapes me, but it certainly redounded in our favor. For starters, nobody would have understood what was going on in the recording. And we flubbed our lines on occasion as well. In the role of narrator, Manny meant to say "art exhibition" but said "art expedition" instead.

What made me resurrect Deathman, Do Not Follow Me after all these years is a recent encounter I had with a passerby. I saw this man coming toward me who uncannily resembled someone I once knew—a fellow named Jerry, who has been dead for thirteen years. What hurtled through my mind as the distance that separated us narrowed—and he looked more and more, and not less and less, like Jerry—was: What if he said hello to me as if it was him? What if it was akin to the occasional meetings we experienced for so many years—we lived in the same neighborhood—where we would briefly chat about nothing especially important, like his desiring a move to Reno, Nevada, a "great walking town." After all, if he’s standing there as Jerry in the flesh and knows me by name, I couldn’t very well tell him that he’s deceased and that I attended both his wake and funeral mass. This potential scenario quite literally played in my brain in the several seconds leading up to us passing one another. He was a dead ringer for Jerry all right, but Jerry is still among the dead.

Had it been Jerry, what would I have done? Would I have turned around and gone home, presuming I had either lost my marbles or was still in bed dreaming? Or would have I continued running my errands, believing that maybe—just maybe—I’d entered the Twilight Zone—the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition. You know the place between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. Afterwards, yes, I kind of wished it really was old Jerry that I spied on the street. Upon further reflection, though, I'm grateful that it wasn't and that I wasn't cast in a "Nothing in the Dark" remake with yours truly in the Gladys Cooper role.  

The "Usually" Suspects

(Originally published 4/6/11)

Sometime in the early 1970s, the progressive educator arrived in St. John’s grammar school. Gone were the venerable old report cards with the familiar grades of A, B, C, D, and the big fat F. In their stead were pabulum progress reports with non-grades, if you will, ranging from the best, “Progressing very well” to the middling, “Is progressing” to the worst, “Needs to put more effort.” Of course, I’ve assigned value judgments to these three classifications, which were not intended by their creators.

These new progress reports of ours also included a mother lode of categories within such traditional courses as English (called Language Arts) and History (known as Social Studies). To this day, I am at a loss for words as to what this one Language Arts category embodied: “Uses word attack skills.” I don’t ever recall the term being explained to us, but then I suspect that my teacher, salty old Sister Camillus, hadn't a clue, either.

Evidently, this noble experiment of employing the carrot and stick, and oh-so-gently importuning us to try harder, failed miserably. The As, Bs, Cs, and Ds soon returned, but not before our report cards—or whatever the heck they became—were full of 1s, 2s, 3s, and 4s. If memory serves, 1 was the optimal grade (or non-grade) and 4 the bottom of the barrel. But once again, I’m employing value-charged adjectives here. I surmise the social experimenters reasoned we wouldn’t be as bowled over by a 4, or as boastful among our less fortunate friends with our straight 1s. We, however, took our “Needs to put more effort” check marks just as hard as Cs and Ds. And although mere children, we weren’t fooled for a second by the sleight-of-hand numbers game. Despite descriptions telling us otherwise, 1 signified an A to us; 2, a B; and so on and so forth.

I believe these social experiments absolutely jumped the shark in an area headlined Personal Development, which included "religion" and "social growth" under its umbrella. Here, even a tepid “Is progressing” was too loaded a term for the education engineers. The top mark one could achieve in this realm was “Usually”—a not only insipid grading word, in my opinion, but just plain wrong and a true injustice for an individual who always cooperated in work and play, accepted responsibility, etc. Among many lessons learned there, St. John's grammar school taught me the road to hell is paved with “Usuallys” and “Needs to put more efforts.”

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Mr. McMahon and Friends

Recently, I watched the six-part Netflix documentary Mr. McMahon. It was at once compelling and something of a slog. Add to the mix a cringeworthy element, a grossness, and— undeniably —there’s a story to tell here. My recollection of Vince McMahon, the documentary’s subject, was as a wrestling announcer in the 1970s, when—as kids—my older brother and I dutifully watched the sport on local TV station WOR, Channel 9.

McMahon excelled as a put-upon presence and straight-man foil for a colorful cast of bad guys: wrestlers and, in many instances, their bombastic managers. Witnessing the man get harangued by “Classy” Fred Blassie, Captain Lou Albano, and—my personal favorite—the Grand Wizard of Wrestling was a youthful thrill. Typically, the proteges of Blassie, Albano, and the Grand Wizard were “heels,” rotten to the core, and boo-worthy. Who can forget Nikolai Volkoff, the Wild Samoans, and Sergeant Slaughter?

Indeed, 1970s wrestling was engagingly benign. The good guys included a stellar cast: champion Bruno Sammartino, Haystacks Calhoun, and Chief Jay Strongbow, who—I just discovered—was an Italian American. But then, so was Iron Eyes Cody, who canoed through polluted waters throughout the 1970s, logging many miles and shedding many tears along the way.

I recall being surprised—twenty or so years later—to learn that Vince McMahon, the geek announcer from my boyhood, initially worked for his father, purchased the World Wide Wrestling Federation (WWWF) from him, and built—along with his wife—a mega-enterprise now known as World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE). Adding his two cents throughout the documentary, McMahon absolutely established the fact that he was a business wunderkind and all-around sleaze as well. Also, the guy has had one too many face-lifts and sounds like he smokes ten packs a day—or is it a whiskey voice? In his final appearance in the mini-series, the empresario almost-seemed AI generated sporting a new Clark Gable mustache and dyed jet-black hair. The weirdness just kept on coming.

What amazed me most about the documentary, I think, was modern-day wrestling’s cult following and uber-popularity. WrestleMania has been big—really big—through the years. But it’s still scripted entertainment with a mishmash of realism thrown in, albeit of a more adult variety now than I experienced when Jerry Ford and Jimmy Carter lived in the White House. The contrived feuds—and real ones—are just not my cup of tea, but countless others can’t get enough of the brew.

Mr. McMahon, the documentary title, is derivative of Mr. McMahon, the wrestler, a creation of Vince McMahon, who entered the ring in the late 1990s. All bulked up by then, he fought, among others, Donald Trump. The stakes: Loser gets his head shaved by the winner. Guess who won the match? Upon seeing clips of this nuttiness—par for the course in this milieu—it dawned on me that contemporary politics has devolved into an offshoot of the WWE: vulgar, no holds barred, with the blurring of fact versus fiction.

In this corner: Orange Crush, managed by Lindsey “Bats**t Crazy” Graham. And in that corner: Kamala, Queen of the Ciphers, managed by Chuck “the Schmuck” Schumer. Okay, now I understand. I get it. It’s not really real.

 

Mourning and Memories

(Originally published on 10/28/11)

While still mourning the loss of the only true holy ground I’ve known in this life—a very special and unique local diner—I couldn’t help but hark back to days past and the eatery's clientele who have left the neighborhood and, in many cases, this earthly plane as well.

In this culinary cathedral, my faithful dinner companions and I had nicknames for certain regulars—men and women whom we didn’t know by name but nonetheless needed to identify on occasion—and I suppose some of them had nicknames for us. And, if they did, more power to them! There was, for instance, the “Mean Old Man,” whom I saw collapse on a sidewalk not too far from the diner during a winter snowstorm. I don’t know what happened to him after that night, but I never saw him again in the diner, or walking the local streets. And whatever happened to those two old sisters who always dined together? At least I think they were sisters. The seasons changed but the pair never did. They were perpetually glum—winter, spring, summer, and fall. Thus, their richly earned “Glower Champions” moniker. When they suddenly vanished without so much as a goodbye, I surmised they had moved to Florida and warmer climes to run out the clock of their saturnine existence. Gone, yes, but not forgotten.

And then there was this fellow named Lenny. Here was an example of actually knowing the man’s real first name but running with a nickname instead. What always struck us about Lenny was that he never—ever—paid for his lunch or dinner. A little diner detective work on our parts concluded he had, perhaps, won a bet of some sort from the owner, who was not averse to gambling. This could at least explain the free meals. Apparently, though, there was nothing in the terms of the bet that compelled the diner owner to treat him civilly while he was collecting his winnings. And so, this middle-aged, hangdog bachelor named Lenny had to endure more than a little teasing. Asked about his love life at one point, Lenny, rather pathetically, said something to the effect that he was dating “several people,” which set himself up for a major slap down from the individual indebted to him, who roared, “You jerk-off!” And from that moment forward, Lenny was no longer Lenny to us, but “Jerk-off” forevermore. Eventually, Jerk-off, too, disappeared from the diner scene—perhaps when the terms of the bet were fulfilled—and was last seen in the area looking worse for wear. Jerk-off was obviously very ill and, it seemed, not long for this earth.

I remember, too, very old and very loud Mark, who had a most interesting indentation on his skull, which I christened a “skin-dentation." He very abruptly disappeared from sight and sound. The great greasy spoon in the sky? Probably. And then, of course, there was the ubiquitous Seymour, a taxi driver. He was diagnosed with lung cancer while at the top of his game on the diner stage. Trooper that he was, he continued to appear during his chemo treatments, looking—sadly—like his days were numbered, which they were.

Call it life...as seen through the lens of a favorite diner, where not everybody knows your name.

A Very First Time

(Originally published 10/9/11)

Although I don’t have a “bucket list” per se, I accomplished one item that—had I decided to make one—would have very definitely been on it. Courtesy of an annoying twist of circumstances yesterday morning, I found myself in the long mezzanine area of the Manhattan A train’s 14th Street subway station. Were it not for the Number 1 train’s seemingly infinite weekend track work—or, in this case, station makeovers, which compelled me to walk more than a mile to access the subway, instead of the usual few blocks—I wouldn’t have been there. Yes, I could have taken a free shuttle bus, or even a local bus, but since it was such a fine October morning, I opted for the leisurely stroll and, too, the exercise.

It was about 10:30 a.m. when I landed in this subterranean “mezzanine,” a word I typically associate with sports stadiums. While I’ve walked these meandering thoroughfares before and encountered various closed doors along the way, they were invariably marked as “employee only” entrances for transit workers. But, lo and behold, this go-round I detected an apparent civilian—a fellow rider—exiting one of those doors, which prompted me to more closely examine the placard attached to it. The sign indicated he had emerged from a public bathroom—a rare find down under—that would, in all likelihood, be locked tight during the overnight hours.

While I had to go thanks to my breakfast cup of Joe, I really could have held it in for a bit. But then, I thought, where would I go when my time came—the Barnes & Noble at Union Square? No, certainly not yesterday—a Saturday on a Columbus Day weekend with Wall Street protesters in the area undoubtedly heeding nature’s call there. So, I decided to take my chances with this subway bathroom. While I don’t recall ever frequenting one—since most of them are padlocked shut, with reputations that, even when open for business, suggest looking elsewhere—I decided to live dangerously and take the plunge.

Happily, I was all by my lonesome when I entered this realm of the unknown and accomplished what I set out to do. Still, I must admit, the subway bathroom milieu didn’t disappoint. It reeked pretty badly and looked appropriately grungy—but it wasn’t completely hellish. And while the urinal readily flushed, it didn’t flush away any of the urine stench wafting in the rarefied air, which evidently was ingrained in the floor and wall tiles. But at least now I can say: Been there and done that…another New York experience for this New Yorker in the books.

No Dogma in this Fight

On more than one occasion, my elderly aunt informed me that my grandfather—from the mountain town of Castelmezzano, Italy—held the church in utter contempt. So as to maintain its absolute hegemony in village affairs big and small, he felt the clergy intentionally and aggressively kept the populace blissfully ignorant of so many things. His posture was at odds with my very pious grandmother, who recited the rosary every single day of her adult life.

I always found it interesting that my aunt—a God-fearing, faithful churchgoer until the day she died—recounted tales of her father’s independence, and penchant to tell it like it is, with genuine pride. I suspect that my grandfather was really on to something. Okay, times have changed. I don't call home an impoverished enclave in the rocky Dolomiti Lucane during a world war and in the midst of a lethal pandemic. In the present-day Information Age, it’s decidedly more difficult to choreograph and enforce such blanket ignorance, but, in practical reality, the church would obviously prefer you didn’t think for yourself in matters of faith. It's the nature of the beast.

Recently, I encountered yet another news story of the Catholic Church’s hemorrhaging flock, and its miserable track record of connecting with younger people. This is a familiar tune that I’ve been hearing since my callow youth. And, for the record, I attended Catholic institutions from grammar school through college and have no qualms about the quality of the education I received, nor did I ever feel the heavy hand of religious indoctrination. But church doctrine, standing all by its lonesome, doesn’t exactly pass the smell test.

Cardinal Spellman High School in the Bronx, which I attended forty-four years ago, annually held what were called "Parish Days." On these set-aside afternoons, priests from the various parishes throughout the borough would meet with their teenage parishioners at the school. They were always advertised as freewheeling give-and-takes—a chance for us to pose questions to our parish priests and, hopefully, establish a rapport with them. Let's just say they rarely lived up to their billings. My Kingsbridge parish's monsignor assumed the job as ringleader one year and a student posed this question to the young priest who had tagged along with him: “How come you always stop kids from leaving Mass right after Holy Communion, but not the adults?” Visibly rattled, he replied, “I can’t answer that.” The monsignor quickly stepped in to rescue his floundering underling. “I can,” the always stern, smug, and generally unpleasant church elder said. The monsignor explained that it was a matter of maturity. We just weren’t yet old enough to make such an important decision. Fair enough, I guess.

Herein, though, lies the enlightening case in point. If a priest can't handle a softball question, I doubt very much he could tackle a tough one. Some years later in a different setting, another priest from the parish was asked, “Why does God permit so much suffering?” His response was not far removed from this: “He allows other people to suffer so you can appreciate how good you have it.” Come on, fellas, if you want more business, you’ve got to do better than that.

Attention Surplus Disorders

(Originally published 11/19/19)

While in the environs of Madison Square Garden and Penn Station this past weekend, I took particular note of the humongous, ever-changing electronic billboards all around me. For the next mile or so north through Times Square and the theater district, such prominent advertisements were everywhere. Many of them featured larger-than-life promotions for movies, television series, and plays. Images of actors and actresses lording over streets teeming with people—from all over the world in the case of New York City—were omnipresent.

I couldn’t help but wonder how these entertainers must feel upon seeing their glittering, over-sized names and likenesses on the big, big screens above bustling Manhattan streets. How could it not go to their heads? Perhaps this explains why so many Hollywood-types think their opinions matter more than others and that their you-know-whats don’t stink. It never ceases to amaze me how men and women worth multiple millions of dollars feel they can speak for the little guys and girls. If an individual has a net worth of, say, fifty million dollars, he or she is in quite a different league—a league of their own—from the person sweating the rent, electric bill, or college tuition.

That said, celebrities have the right to speak out just as everyone else does. I have a platform—this blog. They, though, typically, have more heady ones in which to pontificate. In 1989, I attended a Harry Belafonte concert at the Cape Cod Melody Tent. Harry, as usual, put on a great show, but at some point rambled on about the recently elected president, George Herbert Walker Bush, whom the uber-leftist performer found wanting. It was an awkward moment, as I recall, since the majority of the attendees were older, conservative white folks. My parents saw a show in the same venue with singer Steve Lawrence as the headliner. From the opposite side of the political spectrum as Harry, Steve nonetheless ventured into that same dicey area, which no doubt offended a portion of the audience. My father, in fact, got up from his seat to visit the bathroom during the spiel. Lawrence joked, “He must be a Democrat.” Wrong, Steve, that lifelong Republican was just answering nature’s call, a non-partisan act, which he did countless times in countless places. 

It's not your grandfather's advertisements anymore. Not by a long shot.

Alfred Hitchcock would have relished being on one. "Do they ever stop migrating?"

I WO ND ER as I WA ND ER. How much did Macy's pay McMann & Tate to come up with this Christmas advertising slogan? AN SW ER: Too much.

Hope this includes debit cards!

Okay, I came upon this no longer functional—dead as a doornail—bicycle still tethered to a post. A life metaphor? If not, a dead one.

The catbird seat with a bird's eye view of the Flower School.

This place didn't appear all that big inside and I, for one, never heard of them.

What next? Wonder, though, if the museum has a 2016 election exhibit?

I am digging the Guardian Angels' new outfits. Certainly beats the red berets and satin jackets.

I sincerely doubt that any of those aforementioned Hollywood big shots get their haircuts here.

This place might be more in their league.

Now, what is it with barber shops branching out these days? I've seen more than a few offering watch repair as an additional service. Is that sort of thing taught in today's barber schools?

This is one of the luckier benches in Manhattan. The longer you sit there, the better the chances that Lady Luck will shine on you.

Not as lucky, but a park bench for the loners among us.

A sobering thought for sure.

No bull, the Wall Street area and Battery Park can be very, very tacky.

Colorful, however...

As 2019 nears an end, one final salute to the 1969 World Champion New York Mets. It was a real game then.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)