tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58485112708921106542024-03-18T14:50:07.207-07:00The Write AngleMiscellaneous Musings on Myriad ThingsNicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.comBlogger659125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-44541565953687926122024-03-08T16:01:00.000-08:002024-03-10T19:59:11.618-07:00O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, Wherever Are Your Lower Branches?<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrz26Uzo1-de82kJfr_HxS8jHUNWHfs4WQUzNJ9j6czomyj_77GW8N33ZwxQSm1-gMeAoFEJGYArcL2kEQ3b-Wkt9gEdJ9EXvDoHwD9VF0cnPQ9hm09K2fvyQ-_ptj7BpNRV_5uosCmikMbbnkED2FsmgASwvsVwSWXAbyPNAOuVBwGnk2PMux9GeEAe_/s2654/Pine%20Tree%20Hacking%20NYC%20Tree%20Experts.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2567" data-original-width="2654" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrz26Uzo1-de82kJfr_HxS8jHUNWHfs4WQUzNJ9j6czomyj_77GW8N33ZwxQSm1-gMeAoFEJGYArcL2kEQ3b-Wkt9gEdJ9EXvDoHwD9VF0cnPQ9hm09K2fvyQ-_ptj7BpNRV_5uosCmikMbbnkED2FsmgASwvsVwSWXAbyPNAOuVBwGnk2PMux9GeEAe_/s320/Pine%20Tree%20Hacking%20NYC%20Tree%20Experts.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Submitted for your approval: More March Madness. For
starters, I’d like to give credit where credit is due. While the New York City
bureaucratic morass is typically a sluggish, chaotic mess, it’s also tree
friendly. Sidewalk trees protected by makeshift wooden fencing are familiar
sights at construction sites and such. <i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Tree guards</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> are required by
law.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In seeing<i> the forest for the trees</i>, though,
there is one area, I feel, where the city gets a less than stellar grade. New
York City trees are “trimmed” every several years, often by contracted
companies who dub themselves “tree experts.” Now, I’m not a tree expert by any stretch
of the imagination, but I know a <i>non-tree expert</i> when I see one. In my view,
the trimming brigades willy-nilly lop off tree branches. Long-standing trees
that are unlikely to sprout new growths and branches are hacked cycle after cycle,
with no regard for their age. A <i>grandfather clause</i> might help. Over
time, the trees assume an umbrella shape—with everything on top and nothing on
the bottom. And why, pray tell, would “tree experts” hack off the lower
branches of a perfectly shaped pine tree in parkland no less—and one that is
decorated each year with Christmas lights? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBzbOa9KTZrVqZxFo3iOrJPUrAmBBRL4r_YS75TbZvpFvjAFiboRBdHOrGa_Zw-ytAc6-27l6gqxu_LW5O5MAgb45VnGbZUXtdULP2AMK__DZxUFuvJY9ymGbFVGyMO4KuJ6chqC565E-GhRx0OAKBH_TvPZ_CzJ-izkGnDGAwRFqMuJ6soL8slirNJ6Q/s2903/Tree%20Experts%20NYC%20Park.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2632" data-original-width="2903" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBzbOa9KTZrVqZxFo3iOrJPUrAmBBRL4r_YS75TbZvpFvjAFiboRBdHOrGa_Zw-ytAc6-27l6gqxu_LW5O5MAgb45VnGbZUXtdULP2AMK__DZxUFuvJY9ymGbFVGyMO4KuJ6chqC565E-GhRx0OAKBH_TvPZ_CzJ-izkGnDGAwRFqMuJ6soL8slirNJ6Q/s320/Tree%20Experts%20NYC%20Park.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Permit me to <i>make like a tree and leave</i> this
subject—and pivot to the ubiquitous electric scooters, bikes, and mopheads on
the mean streets of 2024 New York City. Fueled by the pandemic and repast home deliveries,
their numbers have skyrocketed over the past few years. Many of the vehicles
are unlicensed and many of the drivers are undocumented—in other words, illegal
on both counts. Most of the drivers I encounter—all day and every day—do not obey
traffic laws. That is, they don’t stop at stop signs or red lights. They travel
well above the speed limits. They zig and they zag to pass, dangerously so
sometimes. In other words: They don’t care a whit about the common good or polite society. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxNL2RMkov9e6ZmIWrZkRwgaTsfKZwGNGVBaJk-IzVB57Xx9q2IlE5m8czG8m3unmFz1W1v5t9HO_vAzHGhl8chlE-sMyUZWccbEaH842lxjN1UGrU4f53mBhaQhaPI3Zj_w1dMVpkx6_knZXHgQqLxiSg2Z9TDsrEt2cVNibL-n8HHDTqx6nBnLUQ2dmw/s2896/Tree%20Experts%20NYC%20Job.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2717" data-original-width="2896" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxNL2RMkov9e6ZmIWrZkRwgaTsfKZwGNGVBaJk-IzVB57Xx9q2IlE5m8czG8m3unmFz1W1v5t9HO_vAzHGhl8chlE-sMyUZWccbEaH842lxjN1UGrU4f53mBhaQhaPI3Zj_w1dMVpkx6_knZXHgQqLxiSg2Z9TDsrEt2cVNibL-n8HHDTqx6nBnLUQ2dmw/s320/Tree%20Experts%20NYC%20Job.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Right outside my door this morning, I heard a small
bang and spied a delivery guy sprawled on the asphalt alongside his scooter.
My initial glimpse of him found him lying in the street near a thermal bag
carrying a Dunkin’ Donuts order to a party that was going to miss breakfast.
This poor fellow was immediately embroiled in an angry quarrel with the individuals
he believed were responsible for his fate: lying prostrate on asphalt next to
two spilled Mighty Macchiatos, a couple of Sausage, Egg, and Cheese Wake-Up
Wraps, and a dozen Munchkins. What I could make it out in their non-English
interplay was that the Scooter-Man went through a stop sign, made a wide turn
right, and hit a car slowing in the approach of said stop sign. While awaiting
an ambulance and the police—and blocking traffic both ways—the yelling back and
forth ensued. The drama lasted almost two hours. Any lessons learned here? Hopeful but doubtful.<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)</span></p>Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-67028406677729733422024-03-04T11:55:00.000-08:002024-03-04T11:55:18.477-08:00The Lord of the Ring<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvHclNEmNpbh9JQ8uWbxcUXktVmG0U2iZIrIHD1ki_OqAaKromQPXHQnhnDrUetwwvSZbAVY5KB3SzVOLU456iLEIQJClybvGpSWQa5uVxZ-prdfN_NfLt5ve20890CldC6vrZf30qCfKQGq6Q104yWbAt0YTxtJSYCFSrp8u8TyEio1QeZOx8QmbmfSK/s2840/Ash%20Tree%20Tibbett%20Avenue.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2664" data-original-width="2840" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvHclNEmNpbh9JQ8uWbxcUXktVmG0U2iZIrIHD1ki_OqAaKromQPXHQnhnDrUetwwvSZbAVY5KB3SzVOLU456iLEIQJClybvGpSWQa5uVxZ-prdfN_NfLt5ve20890CldC6vrZf30qCfKQGq6Q104yWbAt0YTxtJSYCFSrp8u8TyEio1QeZOx8QmbmfSK/s320/Ash%20Tree%20Tibbett%20Avenue.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Several days ago, on my way to the Garden Gourmet
Market, an SUV pulled up alongside me—an unwelcome act in these parts in 2024. A
man behind the wheel shouted out something that I could not immediately decipher.
Suffice it to say, he had a poor command of the English language—well, actually,
no command at all. Eventually, I got the gist of what this stranger was trying
to convey, <i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">or at least I thought I did</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">. He was getting low on “petrol”
and looking for the nearest gas station. By pointing the way with a few simple instructions
thrown in for good measure—in the universal language of road navigation—I
figured the guy would hastily make a beeline to this lifeline, a stone’s throw
away on busy Broadway.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVOXwfmS_nWLJuzia7doH52K9hMHTmczaZ1ySIWp5DWThvc_j3pwvHhoE2fGJY_0i__aF5GjczhM-MRZnFvbQXFKsWRNuRc7xt1K4tdt7Fqxqfq11YMpFCo7HvaPE6F2BZbybbPqfjF6UzlDkaDz5yfiC9WZhaai6ArVimTqtMeqq8ha_RsEoSNEuv-9iG/s1331/Beer%20Smoke%20Snack.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1331" data-original-width="1218" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVOXwfmS_nWLJuzia7doH52K9hMHTmczaZ1ySIWp5DWThvc_j3pwvHhoE2fGJY_0i__aF5GjczhM-MRZnFvbQXFKsWRNuRc7xt1K4tdt7Fqxqfq11YMpFCo7HvaPE6F2BZbybbPqfjF6UzlDkaDz5yfiC9WZhaai6ArVimTqtMeqq8ha_RsEoSNEuv-9iG/s320/Beer%20Smoke%20Snack.JPG" width="293" /></a></div>But, lo and behold, he didn’t. While the fellow claimed
to be low on “petrol”—yes—he further communicated to me that he had lost his
“Visa card.” He therefore required monetary assistance—i.e., <i>some bread</i>—and
was willing to give me the ring off his finger in exchange for some. For show
and tell, the chap aggressively dangled the ring outside the driver’s side
window. Now, I’m not employed with <i>New Yor</i>k magazine as a financial
advice columnist, so I was a little suspicious of the proposed deal. I reasoned
that this wayward soul wasn’t quite on the level. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzVDCmMdzhCgQMkv2p9O-Pz9VqpLi-jbc6r3LEM_oGOTf1XXZgOkAUDZV27_k5UyHdUevZzkN-HDAVG4U3iQlSH4fpUJkijaevKgk5acq0taPp-6TXa9RQFc34oKWA45BfScdP76rhqs-cHSwZtz_VARjtAzFa7PnWxOheCO6m91cUw5peDIvmLZNxfyh/s2667/Broadway%20W234th%20Street%20Bronx.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2442" data-original-width="2667" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzVDCmMdzhCgQMkv2p9O-Pz9VqpLi-jbc6r3LEM_oGOTf1XXZgOkAUDZV27_k5UyHdUevZzkN-HDAVG4U3iQlSH4fpUJkijaevKgk5acq0taPp-6TXa9RQFc34oKWA45BfScdP76rhqs-cHSwZtz_VARjtAzFa7PnWxOheCO6m91cUw5peDIvmLZNxfyh/s320/Broadway%20W234th%20Street%20Bronx.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>“Sorry, fella, I don’t have
any <i>dinero </i>for the petrol,” I called over to him. The ring man didn’t
appear too pleased at my response—let’s put it that way. He angrily
accelerated, driving off in search of a riper pigeon, I suspect—a Mourning
dove, perhaps, conversant in his native tongue.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I don’t know: Maybe the guy was on the level, and I
was being too cynical. Had I accepted the ring and booked an appearance on the <i>Antiques
Roadshow</i>, the thing could have been a historical artifact from the Ming
dynasty and worth $70,000 to $80,000. And this Bronx tale of mine would then be
the story a Good Samaritan, who unexpectedly and immeasurably benefited from trusting
his fellow man—a dude in distress—who merely wanted to <i>gas-up</i>, as my
father would say. Such is the price we skeptics sometimes pay.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas
Nigro)<o:p></o:p></span></p>Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-64560474955848368042024-02-05T05:00:00.000-08:002024-02-05T08:14:31.009-08:00No More Perfect Storms<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTiVCNpuDHKuFXia3Uch9FURMLlVj4H0zw4oO7UIjxW-g6lW8D6jCLyafI4ZfDPskbVsv8oQNxIi-J8RmpLWhqK_34qf6asA5fqOMM2ix6FQ4yMp9Evdw6tFN-UnQLfUK_AC_mTB8e8PN3/s1600/StuckOilTruck.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTiVCNpuDHKuFXia3Uch9FURMLlVj4H0zw4oO7UIjxW-g6lW8D6jCLyafI4ZfDPskbVsv8oQNxIi-J8RmpLWhqK_34qf6asA5fqOMM2ix6FQ4yMp9Evdw6tFN-UnQLfUK_AC_mTB8e8PN3/s320/StuckOilTruck.jpg" uea="true" width="320" /></a></div><div>(Originally published 2/11/13)</div><div><br /></div>
My hometown dodged the worst of this recent <em>epic</em> snowstorm. I’d estimate we received eight or nine inches in total, which is more than enough when you have to shovel it—but at least it wasn’t two or three feet. Once upon a time, believe it or not, I used to love snow and snowstorms—the bigger the better as a matter of fact. I was a kid then and wrongfully assumed this heartfelt love would last forever. After all, what wasn’t there to love about snow and its pristine blanket of white? I couldn't imagine a man or woman alive <i>not</i> appreciating the unique hush that big snows engendered—for one brief shining moment at least—when virtually everything and anything came to a standstill.<br />
<br />
Actually, a part of me still enjoys watching snow fall from the sky and gazing upon its sprawling, blanket of white aftermath. But it’s an increasingly smaller part of me. Nowadays, any uplifting snowfall moments are remarkably fleeting and cannot compete with the stark reality of shoveling it, driving in it, and—most importantly—walking in it (sometimes for multiple days after the fact).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6UjN7rAvhcVxH7fmGNJMMUgGecISj8aUquvz5HU7-ofmEHst_fO7aAuypAkwLy1qBDjC3p_imQ6dzKeAoaLlr8fPlJB6eUcbpe7JUorZbITUGivo6k5bXR8Xos6gnp6gLpTCoh1I0-ZO/s1600/Backyard.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6UjN7rAvhcVxH7fmGNJMMUgGecISj8aUquvz5HU7-ofmEHst_fO7aAuypAkwLy1qBDjC3p_imQ6dzKeAoaLlr8fPlJB6eUcbpe7JUorZbITUGivo6k5bXR8Xos6gnp6gLpTCoh1I0-ZO/s320/Backyard.jpg" uea="true" width="320" /></a></div>
As a school kid, a lot of snow meant a lot fun and frolic in the great outdoors—and, it should be noted, welcome snow days, too. The Monday, February 6, 1978 blizzard is, for me, my all-time favorite snowstorm. Snow actually began falling on Sunday night, the fifth, and continued through Tuesday morning, the seventh. The seventeen inches or so that fell in New York City amounted to three full days off from high school, a most welcome fringe benefit. So, this was the “Perfect Storm” in my book. As I recall, my high school re-opened its doors on Thursday of that week, but it was rather difficult getting there. Snow-cleanup technology and the New York City Department of Sanitation just didn’t deal with snow removal in the 1970s as well as they do today. Our “special buses” didn’t show up that day and we had to find alternate means of getting from the Northwest Bronx to Northeast Bronx.<br />
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Fast forward thirty-plus years and here I am—a middle-aged man, still breathing thankfully, and shoveling snow with a weighty prosthetic right leg. I can still pull it off, which is reassuring—but for how long? There’s a guy up the street from me—an overweight senior citizen who smokes like a fiend, and has difficulty walking even in sunny, warm climes—who was shoveling snow right alongside me a couple of days ago. Several snow-shoveling entrepreneurs offered to help both him and me, but we declined—<em>courteously</em>. I, for one, cannot afford these contemporary snow shovelers' rates. Nobody is shoveling snow for five and ten bucks anymore; it’s more like fifty dollars (or more) for an average job—and I don't blame them. Five dollars buys two slices of pizza around here. Why break your back, or contribute to your chances of having a coronary thrombosis, for two slices of pizza in an over-priced metropolis and rotten, inflationary national economy? <br />
<br />
I guess it isn’t just blizzards that aren’t what they used to be; <em>it’s the world</em>—both my personal world and the world at large. Perhaps dropping dead of a heart attack in a snowbank isn’t such a bad way to go. You know—in that beautiful blanket of white, virgin natural beauty, and clean, crisp, cold air. But not this year…some other time.<br />
<br />
(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-35460236391713103822024-01-26T12:17:00.000-08:002024-01-26T14:57:29.589-08:00Tis Bitter Cold and I Am Sick of January<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(Originally published 1/15/18)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
January has long been my least favorite month. It's thirty-one days, on the cold side, and sometimes snowy. It's also the month when the Christmas decorations come down and countless sorry-looking trees end up at the curbside. Returning to school after the New Year and Christmas vacation was, as I recall, psychologically grueling. It was a powerful one-two punch: the <i>party's over</i> locking arms with an extended stretch of nothingness. The school year's "mid-winter recess" or "winter vacation" wasn't until mid-February, and that always seemed like a long way away in early January. As a youth, the snow possibility was about the only thing that recommended this time of year. But now an adult long removed from even a second childhood, snowfall is the stake through the heart of January. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRy0SK5XSXDQrZ_twckZgc9gVZs-BvIDYiBwqFlU9iGIvCIwq3_Opd7h57UGCNnWBaaXo141eLHViAXe3K0ILZWKEgcK66XMQ0DREqSkoZiJ3dfwaGfItxsHRxEgMAr2ZSno1T1zP29gn/s1600/W232nd++Street+Blizzard+Conditions+January+4%252C+2018.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRy0SK5XSXDQrZ_twckZgc9gVZs-BvIDYiBwqFlU9iGIvCIwq3_Opd7h57UGCNnWBaaXo141eLHViAXe3K0ILZWKEgcK66XMQ0DREqSkoZiJ3dfwaGfItxsHRxEgMAr2ZSno1T1zP29gn/s320/W232nd++Street+Blizzard+Conditions+January+4%252C+2018.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Blizzard-like conditions still supply a great visual. But I make that statement on a <i>conditional</i> basis.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihYQrHiYMH54QMSrH-LSBE9lS_qhndlwTSdhlObB-f_Eqc8tmZdz26a1TdFEIAc1sx81SUsML9w7jQuquRwfJtzvZt5vehqimQIS4ol19r4d-GhrQjVPsLxlb15FXVrjVCualh5NxWqcN/s1600/Christmas+Aftermath+January+2018.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihYQrHiYMH54QMSrH-LSBE9lS_qhndlwTSdhlObB-f_Eqc8tmZdz26a1TdFEIAc1sx81SUsML9w7jQuquRwfJtzvZt5vehqimQIS4ol19r4d-GhrQjVPsLxlb15FXVrjVCualh5NxWqcN/s320/Christmas+Aftermath+January+2018.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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After their time has come and gone, Christmas decorations are sad sights indeed.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWleBFHeAQDWl83woSvdqHI_QivjE0itt50XbmGweVQeA28M19IAon736Zmh73JBJELr5rFK9Z7bXOYSHW0ReZEqbRYHrlKrs3nPCP66kNG3O6NmGu9_DGp5BpFRoGS4rW9cpSibWsLWH/s1600/Appointed+Rounds.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWleBFHeAQDWl83woSvdqHI_QivjE0itt50XbmGweVQeA28M19IAon736Zmh73JBJELr5rFK9Z7bXOYSHW0ReZEqbRYHrlKrs3nPCP66kNG3O6NmGu9_DGp5BpFRoGS4rW9cpSibWsLWH/s320/Appointed+Rounds.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of delivering Amazon Prime packages.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QZl28fN24W4iqE6xlOgdtOJRYx0OxG4A9Hp3XM4QV7yg6nzmARty-27VJm-RIFIAAfvGREiOZWp-a6N1pVLaY1SVEyQT6Fre5hT_mFeTPPLzEA46_y_8OtdFdcBlAQfRl6rkwlzEYDkD/s1600/Nor+Gloom+of+Night.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="800" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QZl28fN24W4iqE6xlOgdtOJRYx0OxG4A9Hp3XM4QV7yg6nzmARty-27VJm-RIFIAAfvGREiOZWp-a6N1pVLaY1SVEyQT6Fre5hT_mFeTPPLzEA46_y_8OtdFdcBlAQfRl6rkwlzEYDkD/s320/Nor+Gloom+of+Night.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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For more than a quarter of a century, my father worked at the mega-post office with the unofficial postal motto emblazoned on its facade. He, in fact, worked the four-to-midnight shift, coming home on the subway in the "gloom of night."</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmyKvxMigfdKwi8Wswx2Yzqps4eG93kKccTazLt5uqeYQh4NXf8WiR7hh8gTewyV2QHIuZObGmVaioqtcfGSpk9bpWtus83nHiAZiNX48vPIUSh4fGeiamMT4rS72NbiVDROLVdDQ6itv/s1600/Donald+Trump+Dog+Chew.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="553" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmyKvxMigfdKwi8Wswx2Yzqps4eG93kKccTazLt5uqeYQh4NXf8WiR7hh8gTewyV2QHIuZObGmVaioqtcfGSpk9bpWtus83nHiAZiNX48vPIUSh4fGeiamMT4rS72NbiVDROLVdDQ6itv/s320/Donald+Trump+Dog+Chew.JPG" width="221" /></a></div>
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I can't think of anyone more deserving of being a canine chew toy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal7IW1gNbIQlrEXVtEv5T-Zj3v32xXJXybdCAvMT5M6Pfv2qGn8u62g_-FMWoAulSaRA5nGZKSJ3DLJWxdkycicL2YFtAZiY0S4-Whzyzvsqk-SckxuYFCpswDeEvfOZV5AghdDz2Jecu/s1600/OK+Money+Change.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="755" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal7IW1gNbIQlrEXVtEv5T-Zj3v32xXJXybdCAvMT5M6Pfv2qGn8u62g_-FMWoAulSaRA5nGZKSJ3DLJWxdkycicL2YFtAZiY0S4-Whzyzvsqk-SckxuYFCpswDeEvfOZV5AghdDz2Jecu/s320/OK+Money+Change.JPG" width="302" /></a></div>
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If you don't demand the best and will settle for okay, this is the place for you...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihfqaRFslwuL4mOjSwRz5s2LxBeXs4v_hJ8h-CMfhi_oLqKkFZW-HE4Runwkn-m3sCPiY4_a3h0_5aWsukZqcy2IdPZZshk0yiEyLKVhuxnV7PoWorPB6xUBFhkfCoOWu3Pv0iAhPN9FaZ/s1600/Grilled+Chicken+House.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="697" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihfqaRFslwuL4mOjSwRz5s2LxBeXs4v_hJ8h-CMfhi_oLqKkFZW-HE4Runwkn-m3sCPiY4_a3h0_5aWsukZqcy2IdPZZshk0yiEyLKVhuxnV7PoWorPB6xUBFhkfCoOWu3Pv0iAhPN9FaZ/s320/Grilled+Chicken+House.JPG" width="278" /></a></div>
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On Manhattan's other Restaurant Row...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHr3_NjhGEC48Ud4y8ulXA7-3zfVvGISBwUHj2wtDD_-Gkox9KEUzugHCCUC05GkIhqx0U2z2jO9geBS-dZG_Yn-gmkYutfcPWOukuLStYsx1GEKREkbzFlwIWOv-PzCiiN9F7QH9HI_O/s1600/Garbage+Cans+Locked+for+New+Year%2527s+Eve.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHr3_NjhGEC48Ud4y8ulXA7-3zfVvGISBwUHj2wtDD_-Gkox9KEUzugHCCUC05GkIhqx0U2z2jO9geBS-dZG_Yn-gmkYutfcPWOukuLStYsx1GEKREkbzFlwIWOv-PzCiiN9F7QH9HI_O/s320/Garbage+Cans+Locked+for+New+Year%2527s+Eve.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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In the vicinity of Times Square on New Year's Day, the garbage cans were closed but the barbershops were open.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhjjUY5IROhBA9wgSYUWhuDsEunJciH5XojK9nVSWE2B2npJdHqM7DoBJ7q-MtYVVyGSaP5ndsx709S37mWRuFA2XdoGW19jHBlNfPjx_Uc8C_37KVu7s7EXk4GN_NnSDrOFDU70mj714/s1600/Pay+Phone+Trash+Can.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="709" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhjjUY5IROhBA9wgSYUWhuDsEunJciH5XojK9nVSWE2B2npJdHqM7DoBJ7q-MtYVVyGSaP5ndsx709S37mWRuFA2XdoGW19jHBlNfPjx_Uc8C_37KVu7s7EXk4GN_NnSDrOFDU70mj714/s320/Pay+Phone+Trash+Can.JPG" width="283" /></a></div>
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If you can't throw your trash in a can, a non-working, dinosaur telephone booth is the next best thing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIx9UzlfUOJBbQJVvnnxwWlydIMjZt123WAGK98I6CunP8KedTLCdL_XuVH1ERC-nb7fCUiGbHpjFBqkHNjBxsuKzfxJFqsihSRF-OZ4hrRwwCg3rFns3bKWzFWnIQIhYUImJOIeOCvhTV/s1600/Visit+Our+DVD.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="615" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIx9UzlfUOJBbQJVvnnxwWlydIMjZt123WAGK98I6CunP8KedTLCdL_XuVH1ERC-nb7fCUiGbHpjFBqkHNjBxsuKzfxJFqsihSRF-OZ4hrRwwCg3rFns3bKWzFWnIQIhYUImJOIeOCvhTV/s320/Visit+Our+DVD.JPG" width="246" /></a></div>
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If you've ever wanted to visit a DVD, take down that address.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVdU_As3PQ31W6yd_YStt4qYkT0NxO1aZRXDOc-fcazTmlX9fkzXn3IHrTbD0gFBR33_hvA2RQ93gZjTFXGRhlDBFDBylTeVnzPP2F8MODtXYtq67ZogE92LaWRm5cVdCAjkxS667qsFK/s1600/Aristocratic+Deli.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="800" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVdU_As3PQ31W6yd_YStt4qYkT0NxO1aZRXDOc-fcazTmlX9fkzXn3IHrTbD0gFBR33_hvA2RQ93gZjTFXGRhlDBFDBylTeVnzPP2F8MODtXYtq67ZogE92LaWRm5cVdCAjkxS667qsFK/s320/Aristocratic+Deli.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Price Harry's favorite place for a sandwich and a smoothie when he's in town.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdAAGdK79zswFqwPMONC7HHSZC1KprJyj7EZgCWtwxCrk5v5JjZROxIB3nVKsdWd5-BcLRfjccGu5MeiQHhjEo01SRrFSrzqJo3p3YUZTtSyd9KJz3qZ47uyOogqnMnyUfi_vWv7gT-OG/s1600/7-11+Special.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdAAGdK79zswFqwPMONC7HHSZC1KprJyj7EZgCWtwxCrk5v5JjZROxIB3nVKsdWd5-BcLRfjccGu5MeiQHhjEo01SRrFSrzqJo3p3YUZTtSyd9KJz3qZ47uyOogqnMnyUfi_vWv7gT-OG/s320/7-11+Special.JPG" width="192" /></a></div>
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Donald Trump has been wont to refer to 9-11 in speeches as "7-Eleven." This is perhaps why.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs69-1bvFwjuk3G6YAO1Bv1uhR6JC_T0X8NzLbDYJYpNM580oZFabTAqlj94Tnx5ptgDWYcvh36zC78kZ07_kithEDk3SjXlC99CCw72MkXsBaD1ZR79vSMc8U81L7SoyDVNttYtlsdxNe/s1600/Best+Pizza+in+New+York+Sign.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="800" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs69-1bvFwjuk3G6YAO1Bv1uhR6JC_T0X8NzLbDYJYpNM580oZFabTAqlj94Tnx5ptgDWYcvh36zC78kZ07_kithEDk3SjXlC99CCw72MkXsBaD1ZR79vSMc8U81L7SoyDVNttYtlsdxNe/s320/Best+Pizza+in+New+York+Sign.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Yesterday I ate lunch at a place with this sign on the wall.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN7DXkuKeGmD51Ur4jh3IzBk9F3qfQ_M4MeBAjYM3d5wLdd6xl3GJvuCAyFi2ot24KP6yOg4ykcJzFpExGlr-M3x3opZNklS8cJn4rmTzOW6TB2tSFUkd19gcqBV9Umy943WGVp-v3oiPm/s1600/Best+Pizza+in+New+York+Visual.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="800" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN7DXkuKeGmD51Ur4jh3IzBk9F3qfQ_M4MeBAjYM3d5wLdd6xl3GJvuCAyFi2ot24KP6yOg4ykcJzFpExGlr-M3x3opZNklS8cJn4rmTzOW6TB2tSFUkd19gcqBV9Umy943WGVp-v3oiPm/s320/Best+Pizza+in+New+York+Visual.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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And here it is...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUy45v8vTNkk8g8-4FrBncOIflIYYmjnYB-8dKP1doQUeQ6vrSMc1fAq2zV6tmthZ2nBFYps2hlt-XCEvSma17zeYMSM9tAM14hLqmiIEQmcrzMk8hbB_Sw7-qbr2HQ0bGz597hgUu2zb/s1600/Christmas+Trees+for+Recycling+New+York+City+2018.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="800" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUy45v8vTNkk8g8-4FrBncOIflIYYmjnYB-8dKP1doQUeQ6vrSMc1fAq2zV6tmthZ2nBFYps2hlt-XCEvSma17zeYMSM9tAM14hLqmiIEQmcrzMk8hbB_Sw7-qbr2HQ0bGz597hgUu2zb/s320/Christmas+Trees+for+Recycling+New+York+City+2018.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The January saga...a picture is worth a thousand words.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVz0s06F7gbxQAQ_4KbWaDgQj5lHfGCWgX9ZhTyHdjqiB7-gul2srto0DyqSHrznkr26wtn1wQ2xwRTvu2JWh3_9SRlyD9Dilpj0-w-FWIpDNfazf5l6wyLzTTxmaKp8T7iOYdpmE8htne/s1600/Cards+Gifts+Etc.+New+York+City+Shop.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="692" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVz0s06F7gbxQAQ_4KbWaDgQj5lHfGCWgX9ZhTyHdjqiB7-gul2srto0DyqSHrznkr26wtn1wQ2xwRTvu2JWh3_9SRlyD9Dilpj0-w-FWIpDNfazf5l6wyLzTTxmaKp8T7iOYdpmE8htne/s320/Cards+Gifts+Etc.+New+York+City+Shop.JPG" width="276" /></a></div>
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I wonder what the "souvenir" is?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWEzTBIZ4bN5LlxYzT3MQYNMGOK9Fdh7xckn2WhJ3c-JIHQgEsXB2b0QnY9u7u7vc7DD8fx0hN3WldAQgClHPy81ineObuhMIQYw-mUGUgf-9dpzA79xuc2DkClTGAR-LMTdpt1n6iJ-A/s1600/Shuttered+Women%2527s+Bathroom+Franklin+Street.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="705" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWEzTBIZ4bN5LlxYzT3MQYNMGOK9Fdh7xckn2WhJ3c-JIHQgEsXB2b0QnY9u7u7vc7DD8fx0hN3WldAQgClHPy81ineObuhMIQYw-mUGUgf-9dpzA79xuc2DkClTGAR-LMTdpt1n6iJ-A/s320/Shuttered+Women%2527s+Bathroom+Franklin+Street.JPG" width="282" /></a></div>
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An abandoned women's prison? No, a permanently locked subway bathroom.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9WF631DbNlo-wGIZFMXHkyjs5d1rCSBTajj5LPKHtflkSu-KfcUzpDvIH2gH_TlLKDSXQ1-w2EvrsyRak79JcWCORq6MxLznbxJS3rHglfGP_x6DSULnU8hQD_Xb6xmmQXX1T2SWEjrFg/s1600/Steam+Pipe+Tribecca.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9WF631DbNlo-wGIZFMXHkyjs5d1rCSBTajj5LPKHtflkSu-KfcUzpDvIH2gH_TlLKDSXQ1-w2EvrsyRak79JcWCORq6MxLznbxJS3rHglfGP_x6DSULnU8hQD_Xb6xmmQXX1T2SWEjrFg/s320/Steam+Pipe+Tribecca.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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As a kid I always associated New York City steam pipes with Christmastime and a good kind of cold. Times change.</div>
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(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)</div>
Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-28370377196258627812024-01-06T09:17:00.000-08:002024-01-06T14:46:42.029-08:00Poet for a Day...In May<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMSKSAU9pMKsmFoyfs-NTXIOIzF3VSFxSBAWK15LgYL_VJEE-ZemwcQKKoz8RffjxhUY_SynZ6bTog5wrPFQm1JX50PZxG0kdCCy72Hcca7AVNQrLxq6-c3QZP48DberKHJVGZ53I14wpy/s1600/Mimeograph.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="116" lua="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMSKSAU9pMKsmFoyfs-NTXIOIzF3VSFxSBAWK15LgYL_VJEE-ZemwcQKKoz8RffjxhUY_SynZ6bTog5wrPFQm1JX50PZxG0kdCCy72Hcca7AVNQrLxq6-c3QZP48DberKHJVGZ53I14wpy/s320/Mimeograph.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>(Originally published 5/1/13)</div><div><br /></div>
Thirty-two years ago in the waning days of my freshman year in college, I wrote a short poem entitled, “School’s Out.” What’s memorable to me about this piece is not that I got an “A,” but that I made the cut and landed on my esteemed English professor’s august mimeograph sheet. After each and every one of our poetry assignments were turned in, he would select what he considered the best works from his two freshman-year poetry classes. Previously, I had found myself on the mimeograph sheet—uncredited this time—with a poem the professor used as Exhibit A to point out glaring errors in execution or some such thing. And I actually liked that one better. <br />
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With the honor of being on the mimeograph sheet came—unfortunately from where I sat—a live reading. The poem’s author was asked to read his or her poem aloud in class, unrehearsed, and await a critique. I somehow pulled it off on this day <i>in May</i>. When my professor said, “Mr. Nigro, you read that very well,” I beamed internally in my guise as “Poet for a Day.”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Vl3bFojnqrApMvlfbMQWN_HwsDKOXKaKtcslFHpH028N5fKTzAMN3ubFY2PdhBfRdq2bOY2AR0RcPWg15DaDu75LXGT-PFMx125DRna1g_ywqGpDRKjsaMPP3npymWHr2TJYtKvFbogi/s1600/May+Day.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" lua="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Vl3bFojnqrApMvlfbMQWN_HwsDKOXKaKtcslFHpH028N5fKTzAMN3ubFY2PdhBfRdq2bOY2AR0RcPWg15DaDu75LXGT-PFMx125DRna1g_ywqGpDRKjsaMPP3npymWHr2TJYtKvFbogi/s320/May+Day.jpg" width="284" /></a></div>
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As I further thumbed through my college ephemera on a recent trip down Memory Lane, I was struck, foremost, by the general pedestrian quality of my writing—largely uninspiring and very unmemorable. And I got the sinking feeling I wasn’t always giving it my best shot. Although I look back fondly on my collegiate years at Manhattan College, I nonetheless wrote a poem about being happy when the school year ended. The punch line: “Three cheers for this day…<i>In</i> <i>May</i>.” On the other hand, I was not in the least bit fond of my high school days, but, I suspect, “Three cheers for this day…<i>In June</i>” would not have gotten me on that prestigious mimeograph sheet. A great honor, but no poetry anthology forthcoming.<br />
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(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-70044134726049017682024-01-06T05:00:00.000-08:002024-01-06T14:42:10.965-08:00Make Like a Tree and Leave<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2IrKARXlcvrAdtZrGABl7wcIyNtHylGt1iw5rKxh9R5d2ktQH6wvJ-DpOJJnfmm9UY4JRAPFsO0PHhLj_9L10R5XLfRCKRRsB_BfIdeDpqtE9AUZAOqXGwK2QIbDGYVZQxE2tXfiWIcdM/s1600/Go-Green-in-Death-with-the-Bio-Urn-2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" lua="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2IrKARXlcvrAdtZrGABl7wcIyNtHylGt1iw5rKxh9R5d2ktQH6wvJ-DpOJJnfmm9UY4JRAPFsO0PHhLj_9L10R5XLfRCKRRsB_BfIdeDpqtE9AUZAOqXGwK2QIbDGYVZQxE2tXfiWIcdM/s320/Go-Green-in-Death-with-the-Bio-Urn-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>(Originally published 5/4/13)</div><div><br /></div>
Barbara Walters once famously asked legendary actress Katharine Hepburn, “What kind of a tree are you?” She was subsequently mocked for posing such a juvenile question and its ridiculousness became the stuff of legend, even before things went viral. But now the rest of the story: Walters’ tree query was actually a follow-up to Hepburn saying how she was a tree or some such thing. And naturally, she was a very strong, very pretty oak tree. What else? <br />
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I thought about this blast from the past only because I stumbled upon an article about human beings and trees. Specifically, about how we can live on in our next incarnation as a tree or perennial plant of some sort. Yes, I can become a tree after I pass by having my cremated ashes placed in a biodegradable urn made of coconut shells. After adding the appropriate seed, compacted peat, and whatever other growing materials are required—<i>Voilia!</i>—I am a tree in the making as the nutrients of my ashes are absorbed into all of the above. <br />
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So, I can be eternal after all. Well, not quite. Said tree, first of all, has got to take root and grow. And if it does, the Tree Me will ultimately die at some point in the future. Pests might do me in, wild and woolly weather, or old age if I'm fortunate. It is nonetheless life after death—and a rather uplifting one at that—even if it is fleeting under the best of circumstances. <br />
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Now I can ponder Barbara Walters’ question for real and <i>make like a tree and leave</i>. This leafy green way to go—and the only avenue I know to live on for a little while at least—is certainly better than a boring tombstone, which hardly anyone will come to visit anyway. And I think I’d like to be—when all is said and done—a Weeping Willow, even if the species has little appeal to Walters. A tree grows in the Bronx. Who knows? Maybe someone will carve their initials in me.<br />
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<br />Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-91731277534588700722023-12-31T10:00:00.000-08:002023-12-31T14:56:51.633-08:00My Walkie-Talkie Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh84U6b5wv7VPKtWtwqVbyx5TbkmTnLFD1ZrQ0Qrfy9vXxVYxh5CZmmsxPrc-rh-oz3pXvUh0sIVawmGpvkUHKANBI8zT649B1sYW3x8LsxVDywimYkHx8NDYzvQL5j0a7X7xRmBcYoU2Z5/s1600/Walkie+Talkie+1970s.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh84U6b5wv7VPKtWtwqVbyx5TbkmTnLFD1ZrQ0Qrfy9vXxVYxh5CZmmsxPrc-rh-oz3pXvUh0sIVawmGpvkUHKANBI8zT649B1sYW3x8LsxVDywimYkHx8NDYzvQL5j0a7X7xRmBcYoU2Z5/s1600/Walkie+Talkie+1970s.jpg" /></a></div>
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(Originally published on December 15, 2013)<br />
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In my youth the anticipation of Christmastime and Christmas
itself was very exciting. So, the aftermath of the holiday and
returning to school was—it stands to reason—<i>extremely depressing</i>. Seeing decorations and lights lingering in
people’s windows—while knowing that Christmas wasn’t on the horizon but a memorable fait
accompli—was an awful feeling. But it was a microcosm of life, I've since learned, where all good things come to an end, attached—quite often—to an ugly payback of some sort.</div>
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Anyway, in January 1973, upon my melancholic return to St. John’s
grammar school in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge, religion teacher Sister Therese
queried each and every one of her students as to what his or her favorite
Christmas present was. Except for the fact that my answer was “walkie-talkies,”
I might not have remembered this banal Q&A. For Sister Therese repeated my words in a somewhat
befuddled tone. It was as if she was unfamiliar with them. “Walkeee…talkeees,” she
said or possibly asked with a question mark.</div>
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It was a simpler time when one wanted walkie-talkies for
Christmas. A neighbor of mine had a pair and we established contact
times, where he would initiate a Morse code—something that his more advanced walkie-talkies
were equipped with but not, sadly, mine. I recall my mother talking with his mother
on the walkie-talkies as if it was big thing—a grand technological moment akin to the very first phone call. Of course, they could have called one another on the
telephone—and gotten better reception—or walked down a flight of stairs and met
one another on our adjoining front stoops.</div>
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My “walkie-talkie” Christmas—1972—assumes an even a higher
importance to me because they were number one on my “Santa Claus” list that year. I was absolutely certain that ol’ Saint Nick would come through with them, but he
disappointed me <i>big time</i>. But forty years ago, I had a very generous godmother
who always bought me a Christmas gift—a real one, something that I coveted, and definitely not clothes—but I didn’t
typically see her to New Year’s Eve. Albeit a week later than expected, my godmother got me those walkie-talkies. Evidently, Santa Claus had arranged it with her. The pair was coolly trimmed in blue, quite hip looking, and individually packed in form-fitting Styrofoam compartments—worth the wait and then some! They had that wondrous transistor-radio plastic smell, too—something a 1970s kid appreciated. Suffice it to say, walkie-talkie fun ensued.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">For sure, there will be no commensurate
walkie-talkie gift this Christmas. It’s just not in the Yuletide cards anymore. There will be no Morse code chatter with a neighbor, either. Such is life as time marches on and on and on.</div>
Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-55929854728538677812023-12-24T05:00:00.000-08:002023-12-24T18:20:07.477-08:00Christmas Eve Traditions and Memories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCvc6kzwkNFXh7PFQUFuLttLmmCfhmcBWYe5nTDbHGcMOA8o1A8rOAS01LWiW2dxwwMRyo0TPRSHRi7KvYFNjQn_u6y8g0IPFSWPmxSgqw-231lFG612I_djKKS1IcTE4zWowwp1lHICl/s1600/GrandmaChristmasEve.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCvc6kzwkNFXh7PFQUFuLttLmmCfhmcBWYe5nTDbHGcMOA8o1A8rOAS01LWiW2dxwwMRyo0TPRSHRi7KvYFNjQn_u6y8g0IPFSWPmxSgqw-231lFG612I_djKKS1IcTE4zWowwp1lHICl/s320/GrandmaChristmasEve.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>(Originally published 12/22/12)</div><div><br /></div>
For a lot of people, Christmas comes attached to a healthy dose of melancholy intermingled with all the colorful lights, festive music, and hustle and bustle. As a boy I could never conceive of why one single person wouldn’t welcome Christmas with open arms and a happy heart. For me, its one-two punch of anticipation and excitement truly made Christmas “the most wonderful time of the year.” But now with my youthful exuberance pretty much spent, and so many key Christmas players no longer on the scene, the season just isn’t what it once was—and <em>I understand completely</em>.<br />
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Once upon a time Christmas Eve meant gathering with the cousins, exchanging gifts, and enjoying a traditional Italian dinner featuring Spaghetti Aglio e Olio—garlic and oil—and multiple fish dishes. I believe the official tradition calls for seven, but we never quite reached that number with fried eels, baccalà (salted cod) salad, boiled shrimp, and calamari (squid) in tomato sauce rounding out the menu. Honestly, I can’t say I ever relished this particular fishy mélange, but my grandmother had a knack for making just about everything as good as it could possibly be—<em>really</em>. Fish, in fact, were very hard to come by in my grandmother’s hometown of Castlemezzano in the rocky mountains of Southern Italy. Her village was pretty poor and accustomed to the humblest of fish fare, and the tradition crossed the ocean. There were no swordfish steaks, lobster tails, or sushi on our Christmas Eve tables. Actually, her spaghetti was more than enough for me on this one night a year. I would sample an eel or two, which were peculiarly edible, and a few benign shrimp as well—but that was the long and short of my seafood intake.<br />
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The image of my grandmother preparing Christmas Eve dinners, with a mother lode of cooking oil at her disposal, is seared in my memory. Interestingly, though, it isn't olive oil I recall but peanut oil—in big gallon tins. It seems that during World War II, olive oil was pretty hard to come by and—when available—too expensive, so my grandmother substituted with Planter’s peanut oil. It was comparatively cheap and, as it turned out, tasty enough to pass muster. She purchased it at the Arthur Avenue retail market in the Bronx’s "Little Italy." Times have changed. Peanut oil is now hard to come by and pretty expensive when you do find it. <br />
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The Christmas Eve tradition endures—I think we’ve even reached the magic number of seven fish—but the memories do too of genuinely exciting times from the past and the people who made them so. There is a definitely a downside in having exceptionally fond memories of what once was and is no more.<br />
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(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-35187893020291159512023-12-17T05:00:00.000-08:002023-12-17T12:43:03.627-08:00Man, They Were Out of Sight<div class="MsoNormal">(Originally published 12/6/19)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Man, they were out of sight</i>. They, of course, were
Dune Buggy Wheelies, by Remco, a popular toy manufacturer once upon a time. I was the
elated owner of one in 1970, when Richard Nixon was president. I distinctly recall playing with my favorite
Christmas present of that year on my grandmother’s dinette floor. If memory
serves, two D “flashlight” batteries were all one needed to get this modest
vehicle hopping, including performing rather extraordinary <i>wheelies</i>. The
remote control sprouted two wires, I believe, which were attached to the
Dune Buggy Wheelie. I could steer the thing and make it go either forward or backward. What more could a 1970 kid want?</div>
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As with many cherished Christmas gifts from my youth, I have
often wondered—looking back now all these years later—how long it physically
lasted and whether my interest in the Dune Buggy Wheelie waned before this
battery-operated toy’s inevitable death knell? Did the Dune Buggy Wheelie make it until
the following Christmas? Somehow, I doubt it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ7WNNTkARKJ-hOh29r54A0_bYGyWqbyYsrcgWPlU8GVrIPgETUNGSMszlb_DJJRj4NPjhZ9SWDZT8BzVnaNhlW_xrG73RPhjTbQdug_x_6ldjTMmnAfehike-CQG42BGe2JkHTLyj23aA/s1600/Mockingbird+The+Battery+11-30-19.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ7WNNTkARKJ-hOh29r54A0_bYGyWqbyYsrcgWPlU8GVrIPgETUNGSMszlb_DJJRj4NPjhZ9SWDZT8BzVnaNhlW_xrG73RPhjTbQdug_x_6ldjTMmnAfehike-CQG42BGe2JkHTLyj23aA/s320/Mockingbird+The+Battery+11-30-19.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Leave it to a Mockingbird in Manhattan to pose for a Christmas picture.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ3oM_LGRDDWaV1qnB88bxSFaP33DIxPitNqCgupw5QHJVWQq3PzUH1x1CukKsmmxAmyrtvJufw_q8uZzULmFKEDPXgEluFhTZOR0GptWJZT1YCE969dXN1kspSwGyAQcb1uo-trKSwtiq/s1600/Wall+Street+Christmas+11-30-19.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="790" data-original-width="800" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ3oM_LGRDDWaV1qnB88bxSFaP33DIxPitNqCgupw5QHJVWQq3PzUH1x1CukKsmmxAmyrtvJufw_q8uZzULmFKEDPXgEluFhTZOR0GptWJZT1YCE969dXN1kspSwGyAQcb1uo-trKSwtiq/s320/Wall+Street+Christmas+11-30-19.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Wall Street's got the Christmas spirit.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkCN-7EmBu8dHL-I_NgYO0OVHgLt8zjHCn_4dzMF2fvaB8VH18-c4CTkabgAyQEjgyMowN_6DRuOyJBqsyYTxiygTgPV_5LQ3pakqyKyDNkkd7YjuuLiVUvZ54HnT3X8niEWtKW3nUK0S/s1600/Best+Way+to+See+New+York+Bicycle.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkCN-7EmBu8dHL-I_NgYO0OVHgLt8zjHCn_4dzMF2fvaB8VH18-c4CTkabgAyQEjgyMowN_6DRuOyJBqsyYTxiygTgPV_5LQ3pakqyKyDNkkd7YjuuLiVUvZ54HnT3X8niEWtKW3nUK0S/s320/Best+Way+to+See+New+York+Bicycle.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I must disagree. The best way to see New York is on foot.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBxSx47KznZLMPrHAmX2uCwy_A53icJzzYdzg0AqOTMv4mAELZMEn_k2ZVoWpWdi2jRGRrTjIlcCmocJOWQEM40p4jbqt6eqpHAbSx-8aO0rzm7K7FLBHa_t501EHeOSI95cSQgUu3yqXB/s1600/South+Street+Seagull+Shadow.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="756" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBxSx47KznZLMPrHAmX2uCwy_A53icJzzYdzg0AqOTMv4mAELZMEn_k2ZVoWpWdi2jRGRrTjIlcCmocJOWQEM40p4jbqt6eqpHAbSx-8aO0rzm7K7FLBHa_t501EHeOSI95cSQgUu3yqXB/s320/South+Street+Seagull+Shadow.JPG" width="302" /></a></div>
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Or, by air, if you have the wings for it. Riding a bicycle on the mean city streets is not for the faint-hearted.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQrveuzDsJECyTu_snePHvwMql2jTqjhyzA7D1Mw4xLpVxGCHf7AyTx1j6NOs0uLIFycJseFlWUwaoDXK1VyvHy9KdwxSdX83TCTcA43zqtaaToc-w08OD7AIL01ra8KXGTD3gNI2bNPE/s1600/New+York+Stock+Exchange+Tree+Getting+Decorated+11-30-19.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="726" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQrveuzDsJECyTu_snePHvwMql2jTqjhyzA7D1Mw4xLpVxGCHf7AyTx1j6NOs0uLIFycJseFlWUwaoDXK1VyvHy9KdwxSdX83TCTcA43zqtaaToc-w08OD7AIL01ra8KXGTD3gNI2bNPE/s320/New+York+Stock+Exchange+Tree+Getting+Decorated+11-30-19.JPG" width="290" /></a></div>
When the Abominable Snowman isn't available...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozIV7kgteeqKWIP0CCxuKrizcM3-Dbwy9X6M4s4nv20HDegFCbW1gw7rOLifoIFp3VlC-SGyAGe86MDwzoTCDBzG2nY3YYcOoTnv1kBr4DNw6B8KuMch5cGRVC-HCqP4o0B6rP_RCy0Qn/s1600/New+York+Stock+Exchange+Tree+11-30-19.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="726" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozIV7kgteeqKWIP0CCxuKrizcM3-Dbwy9X6M4s4nv20HDegFCbW1gw7rOLifoIFp3VlC-SGyAGe86MDwzoTCDBzG2nY3YYcOoTnv1kBr4DNw6B8KuMch5cGRVC-HCqP4o0B6rP_RCy0Qn/s320/New+York+Stock+Exchange+Tree+11-30-19.JPG" width="290" /></a></div>
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This is how you place a star atop a big Christmas tree. By the way, this is the New York Stock Exchange tree, which takes a back seat to the one at Rockefeller Center. Yesterday was the 96th annual lighting. It's actually a better decorated Christmas tree than the one in Rockefeller Center, which only has lights. </div>
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From what I've read, there are a whole lot of tourists in New York City at this time of year. More than ever before. I remember walking on the Brooklyn Bridge and getting chided by a bicyclist for being in the bike path. Last weekend the bridge walkway and bike path were overrun with Homo sapiens from all over the world. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1puj4Ql8QfGIr5iaxR198WIuUDv_AzCKibQ5LvOJuTmDHfix1iOsK6UBJAuzWbHkEu8-YinC_CzIODBVxn5sEgFAknXxwZBeqOzv_y20d8L3HnTlwaOwcyjuP0PXb1lMMGaF9H3YDXGdY/s1600/Brooklyn+Bridge+Circle+Line+11-30-19.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1puj4Ql8QfGIr5iaxR198WIuUDv_AzCKibQ5LvOJuTmDHfix1iOsK6UBJAuzWbHkEu8-YinC_CzIODBVxn5sEgFAknXxwZBeqOzv_y20d8L3HnTlwaOwcyjuP0PXb1lMMGaF9H3YDXGdY/s320/Brooklyn+Bridge+Circle+Line+11-30-19.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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No matter the time of year nowadays, the bridge is teeming with tourists and peddlers alike. I'm happy, at least, that the Circle Line has somehow endured the vicissitudes of time. Its nautical cousin, the Day Line, which ferried passengers to West Point and Bear Mountain, is only a memory.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_w4cBG6WRm7LC6lTVzeC6LhXHfmljomnrPdrdVuAk20_v4LORjlf5ZpMQ9YiC6Bl1IBSoL9MqaZ-Oo6a43u5f3khhjIeXo8CMeiMTxLoVFzzr0cmOe-NQ_sweFrsvyt1xZ0f0Ecnebqi/s1600/South+Street+Heliport+11-30-19.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="791" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_w4cBG6WRm7LC6lTVzeC6LhXHfmljomnrPdrdVuAk20_v4LORjlf5ZpMQ9YiC6Bl1IBSoL9MqaZ-Oo6a43u5f3khhjIeXo8CMeiMTxLoVFzzr0cmOe-NQ_sweFrsvyt1xZ0f0Ecnebqi/s320/South+Street+Heliport+11-30-19.JPG" width="316" /></a></div>
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A helicopter tour of Manhattan Island is, from my perspective, a viable alternative to taking an overly crowded boat to Liberty Island. Of course, it'll cost a tad more than $18.50 for the privilege.</div>
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Sit on it, Potsie, he said, and not a Millennial in earshot knew what he was talking about.</div>
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They certainly have changed the place and, at the end of the day, not always for the better.</div>
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New York City neighborhoods used to have real character with mom-and-pop businesses able to survive and thrive. The hot dog vendors, at least, are still around. But I suspect their cost of doing business is—not unlike the Dune Buggy Wheelie—<i>out of sight</i>.</div>
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Fifth Avenue isn't the same and neither is Ninth Avenue.</div>
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This is known as modern art. If you can make a roll of packing tape something other than a roll of packing tape, you've created a masterpiece worthy of a window on Ninth Avenue.</div>
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What a difference a "D" makes...</div>
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Christmas is coming...</div>
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The geese are getting fat. Well, actually no, they are not.<br />
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<i>Even stop lights, blink a bright red and green...Ring-a-ling...It's Christmastime in the city.</i></div>
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(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)</div>
Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-79165598305270081962023-12-11T12:00:00.000-08:002023-12-17T12:43:43.839-08:00The Charlie and Mama Christmas Miracle<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVAIrqHzHobmSJX1wVaC-Z8opCObPE3f7WjWAGGNmVCP7FKcTuq19hd_G1L8x8YQ5jbGralmDlXg25v0b3yD83a40IfYA-FTC99LtEjvpHf0444MiRkoufduC83hbUHTPViYPFq7szZ1S/s1600/Charlie.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623402883265187682" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVAIrqHzHobmSJX1wVaC-Z8opCObPE3f7WjWAGGNmVCP7FKcTuq19hd_G1L8x8YQ5jbGralmDlXg25v0b3yD83a40IfYA-FTC99LtEjvpHf0444MiRkoufduC83hbUHTPViYPFq7szZ1S/s200/Charlie.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 193px;" /></a>(Originally published 12/17/16)<br />
<br />Nineteen years ago, a possible miracle occurred in the Riverdale section of the Bronx. To set the stage, my favorite local eatery had sadly changed hands. After refurbishing the place, its new owner—a man named Nick—reopened its doors. Many of the old customers returned for this second act, including a remarkably cranky old couple. No, not a husband and wife, but a seventy-year-old man and his ninety-nine-year-old mother. My frequent dining companions and I nicknamed the pair “Charlie and Mama.”<br />
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Witnessing a dutiful son lovingly caring for his aging and ailing mother is often uplifting, but it definitely wasn’t in this case. In fact, it was downright deflating, even a bit creepy. You see, very, very old Mama was the embodiment of mean—looked it, sounded it, and acted it. She scolded her septuagenarian son as if her were a five year old. But this was all going down in 1997—<i>not the Roaring Twenties</i>. Son Charlie, however, merited very little sympathy and understanding because he was an incredibly fussy, inconsiderate, and annoying man. Mother and son were frequently spotted walking the streets arm-and-arm, with antiquated Mama looking like she was a light pat away from crumbling into the dust from whence she came.<br />
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Suffice it to say, the entrepreneurial-minded Nick didn’t acclimate very well to the diner milieu and its colorful cast of characters, which included bothersome eccentrics like old Mama and her insufferable son. Charlie regularly ordered a burger for his beloved mother sans the bun. Despite it saving him a hamburger roll, this request really got under Nick’s skin. But it was the three or four French fries that Charlie wanted for his mother that irked him to no end. When Charlie informed the diner's put-upon proprietor that old Mama couldn’t possibly eat a regular order of fries, he didn’t say it nicely and, too, expected the sparrow’s portion to be on the house.<br />
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Eventually, the mere sight of the approaching Charlie and Mama sent Nick into spasms of rage. They came to embody everything he hated about diner <em>irregulars</em>, if you will. Nick desperately wanted his place to be a bona fide restaurant and not a neighborhood greasy spoon. And Charlie and Mama with their bunless burgers and three or four French fries just didn’t fit into his grand plan. Then one day, Nick overheard Mama’s anything but dulcet century-old tones saying aloud, “He’s not going to make it.” His body furiously shook, but the man uttered not a word to them. Instead, he beamed hate—the genuine article—their way.<br />
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Come Christmastime, I spied a row of cards taped atop the refrigerator accommodating the Jell-O, rice pudding, and apple pie—from various food suppliers and even a handful of customers, I supposed—despite the fact that Nick was the epitome of ineptness, irascibility, and miserliness all rolled into one disagreeable package. The man had raised all the prices and reduced all of the portions in one fell swoop. The formerly considerable and otherworldly hamburgers of the previous ownership had become McDonald's-sized, flavorless, and much pricier.<br />
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While I wasn’t about to send Nick a Christmas card, I nevertheless thought it would be warm and fuzzy if he received one from his worst tormentors—Charlie and Mama. And so he did. The miracle—the Christmas miracle, actually—was that I was present when the postman delivered the card, when Nick opened it, and when he read it. I witnessed the expression on his face as he came upon the sender’s names: “Charlie and Mama.” Nick expressed uncharacteristic glee, immediately showing it to his staff. He just couldn’t believe he had received this holiday goodwill from such a sinister duo. I heard him repeat several times—to no one in particular—these two words: “Charlie and Mama.” And, I can honestly say, he had a big smile on his face the entire time.<br />
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I have long believed that my being privy to the fruits of this endeavor was divine intervention, or maybe it was because I often had breakfast there at around the time the postman knocked. Still, I’d rather believe that miracles do happen on occasion. And, as things turned out, old Mama was prescient concerning Nick’s fate. He didn’t make it.<br />
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(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)</div>
Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-42099241409602289302023-12-06T08:00:00.000-08:002023-12-06T14:50:04.168-08:00Christmas 1972: Starring Celery Rolaids, Jams Onion, and Apple McCarrot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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(Originally published 12/19/20)<br />
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Forty-eight years ago this very month, the fifth-grade class at St. John’s grammar school in the Bronx's Kingsbridge embarked on their annual field trip to Radio City Music Hall. What I remember is that we rode the subway into mid-town Manhattan—the Number 1 train—which we could see tirelessly coming and going outside our school’s east-facing windows. We saw not only the fabled Hall's "Christmas Spectacular"—at least that's what it's called now —but a full-length feature film as well. In this instance, the musical <em>1776</em>. Several years later, a history teacher at Cardinal Spellman High School, Sister Josepha, remarked that this particular flick—albeit highly entertaining— contained “much too much levity” to be considered a fair rendering of the founding of our nation. And the old gal might have been on to something! After all, the historical evidence is not exactly clear that Thomas Jefferson was incapable of writing the Declaration of Independence for a spell because he “burned” at being so far, far away—and for entirely too long—from the misses. We will never know for certain because he <em>burned</em> all of his correspondences with her.<br />
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Anyway, fast forward almost five decades. The times have certainly changed since that exciting school field trip all those years ago. On a positive note, the subways around these parts are more efficient and indeed more comfortable than they were in the 1970s. (Contemporary photos are included with this essay.) During that colorful snapshot in time, they were pretty filthy on both the outside and the inside. Passengers, too, often sat atop the subway car’s heating source, which left no room whatsoever under the seats for briefcases, bags, and assorted accoutrements of everyday living.<br />
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Nowadays, Radio City doesn’t feature movies at Christmastime. It’s a lot more expensive as well, but then so is everything else. I’d also hazard a guess that the available chaperone pool for school field trips was much broader in 1972 than it is in 2020. Most mothers didn’t work jobs outside of the home back then. One parent’s income often sufficed, which is rarely the case today. So, when my mother volunteered her services as a chaperone, I was afforded the <em>opportunity</em> to select three of my classmates to accompany me under her watchful eyes. Three pals and I amounted to one-tenth of what was a class of forty baby boomers. If my arithmetic is correct, we’re talking ten chaperones per class.<br />
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The problem, though, with asking a ten-year-old boy to select a trio of companions is that he might possibly have four or five friends, and somebody would feel left out. And that’s exactly what happened! Once upon a time, our little clique of friends played this rather clever naming game—for ten-year-old kids, I'd say—where we were individually bestowed a moniker based on a food, familiar commercial product, or some combination of the two. They were supposed to sound something like our given names.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO3IkFIfKyDiG-I2vR0OPjQGUIKsxFpxUFUMpDQ9BPbIAc9ycMGj_8Omw_umh_Pxrgd2pRbpyfqIyWktNxOPaE7ug-kiqbfTG6pIuhtWTkAnLK8TggjP5nkL-bpFTJKB0ym1NneOG8i1qc/s1600/Snow+Broadway+12-13-18.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO3IkFIfKyDiG-I2vR0OPjQGUIKsxFpxUFUMpDQ9BPbIAc9ycMGj_8Omw_umh_Pxrgd2pRbpyfqIyWktNxOPaE7ug-kiqbfTG6pIuhtWTkAnLK8TggjP5nkL-bpFTJKB0ym1NneOG8i1qc/s320/Snow+Broadway+12-13-18.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Foremost, I was Nicoban NyQuil. Nicoban was a trailblazing "quit-smoking" gum often advertised in the early 1970s. And, of course, who among us hasn’t swigged a dose or two of NyQuil at some point in time? The first two contemporaries I tapped for my Radio City Music Hall troupe were no-brainers: Celery Rolaids and Jams Onion. It was the third slot that put me on the spot because there were two strong contenders. And although I preferred one somewhat to the other, I suspected the odd man out would be wounded by my subsequent choice. And I was right—he was! When I selected Apple McCarrot to complete our foursome, Frankfurter McReynolds Wrap let me know in no uncertain terms how deeply offended he was by the slight. “I thought I was your friend," he said. Frankfurter McReynolds Wrap was my friend—and I felt really bad about it—but, then again, so was Apple McCarrot.<br />
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Nevertheless, I suspect Frankfurter ended up in another quartet that suited him just fine. Field trips to Radio City at an agog age at Christmastime transcended chaperones and insular little groups. When we returned to our regular classes the next school day, my "Language Arts" teacher, Sister Camillus, informed us what “obnoxious” meant. A catchy <i>1776 </i>musical number branded John Adams as “obnoxious and disliked” within the Continental Congress of 1776. Almost two hundred years later, Sister Camillus of St. John’s grammar school stood before us as a living and breathing example of obnoxiousness. Exhibit A, yes, that the ten-year-old me never quite appreciated.<br />
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(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-36524025935060502832023-12-06T05:00:00.000-08:002023-12-06T14:44:33.576-08:00Ghost of Christmas Future: The Next Generation<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqFy96IC0VtjgnIk8nKsIJ3qr3KlJQeU4frPqnRSHZ187sYcJ42NoVaQj38N-KtQCurmLSGFT0xB74ZOi9Dg9qFXkKLfBdSTuN-zv36zjLAeZgs_O4CwsqGa7j7sj69fN9BVWjYlWqTli/s1128/Ghost+of+Christmas+Future+The+Next+Generation.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1128" data-original-width="1013" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqFy96IC0VtjgnIk8nKsIJ3qr3KlJQeU4frPqnRSHZ187sYcJ42NoVaQj38N-KtQCurmLSGFT0xB74ZOi9Dg9qFXkKLfBdSTuN-zv36zjLAeZgs_O4CwsqGa7j7sj69fN9BVWjYlWqTli/s320/Ghost+of+Christmas+Future+The+Next+Generation.JPG" /></a></div><div>(Originally published 12/21/20)</div><div><br /></div>Once upon a time, in the weeks leading up to Christmas,
holiday specials on the small screen were must-see TV. Adults and children
alike dutifully noted the day, time, and channel that <i>Rudolph the Red-Nosed
Reindeer</i>, <i>A Charlie Brown Christmas</i>, and <i>Frosty the Snowman</i>
would air on network television. After all, it wasn’t Christmas until Burl
Ives—in his Rankin/Bass snowman incarnation—plowed through the powdery white,
banjo in hand, and crooned, “Holly, Jolly Christmas.” It likewise wasn’t
Christmas until Jimmy Durante, <i>schnozzola</i>—in vivid 1960s
animation—gravelly croaked, “Frosty the Snowman.” All these years later, the
lyrics linger: “Thumpity, thump, thump, thumpity, thump, thump. Look at Frosty
go. Over the hills of snow.”<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBKxbkDAGHyVk91YITS9I4DAY3bkXtrb_kqnklLJHFHgUV6sWMIxPYJ4arppUgaLtgFIJbM4kzjzyaNNnYZ67dPZTYTo7nrm0zrIVYMdTO6U6O9skArdHzkcdHL0rDhtdvIXYVRZktvQu/s2048/NYSE+Christmas+Tree+Flags+12-6-20.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBKxbkDAGHyVk91YITS9I4DAY3bkXtrb_kqnklLJHFHgUV6sWMIxPYJ4arppUgaLtgFIJbM4kzjzyaNNnYZ67dPZTYTo7nrm0zrIVYMdTO6U6O9skArdHzkcdHL0rDhtdvIXYVRZktvQu/s320/NYSE+Christmas+Tree+Flags+12-6-20.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I would be remiss here not to mention <i>How the Grinch
Stole Christmas </i>with the funny-looking but harmonious folks of Whoville,
who, by the way, knew the true meaning of the day. And worth mentioning, too,
is <i>The Little Drummer Boy </i>narrated by the somewhat forbidding “Miss
Greer Garson”: "Our Storyteller" to be precise. True, “Aaron hated all people,” but that accrued rancor completely dissipated when he laid eyes on the luminescent Christ Child. <i>Was the
luminescent thing recorded in the New Testament?</i> Anyway, Aaron witnessed
his little lamb, Baba, get hit by a reckless chariot driver. The African
king—among the diverse three kings of Orient that also included an Asian and an obese
Caucasian—informed the grieving boy that the lamb was near death and that he
could do nothing for Baba. “But you are a king,” Aaron said. “A mortal king
only…but there is a king among kings,” his majesty replied while gesturing to
the glowing infant in the manger. “But I do not understand,” Aaron responded.
“It is not necessary that you understand!” the king answered. <i>Understanding</i>
has its place.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgltepxx9Ild8MGYZqenFGUL5lmw2Q_8dNH0qN_bjz16UgebiXhZ2gWamAU09GgaThICSLwA3iYiink83ZEtUWq-LGHY2n721iBJ7boscXBsKLck9JHZiXsUGvl5hE03TEoMfxQFulh9j8W/s2048/NYC+Tree+Lady+Christmas+Trees+12-12-20.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgltepxx9Ild8MGYZqenFGUL5lmw2Q_8dNH0qN_bjz16UgebiXhZ2gWamAU09GgaThICSLwA3iYiink83ZEtUWq-LGHY2n721iBJ7boscXBsKLck9JHZiXsUGvl5hE03TEoMfxQFulh9j8W/s320/NYC+Tree+Lady+Christmas+Trees+12-12-20.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Flesh and blood folks like Bing Crosby, Perry Como, and Andy
Williams did annual Christmas shows as well and we awaited with bated breath
for them to sing their signature yuletide songs: “White Christmas,” “Ave
Maria,” and “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” respectively. Even Dean
Martin Christmas specials appeared for a spell. Nobody sung “Marshmallow World”
like old Dino at his campy best. Comedian Bob Hope’s holiday specials regularly
included—for some unknown reason—introducing the AP All-American college football
team with a procession of painfully unfunny jokes like: “Leslie is so wide.
When he plays he has to wear a number <i>and </i>a license plate.” The recurring spectacles reminded me of high school pep rallies and I could never quite
establish the Christmas connection. But Bob would ultimately sing “Silver
Bells” and all was forgiven.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEpvWJAsnwNh7e-EmEc56vMk7d8KEwgZipH1T9ZJv3BHqavaGSmbaA8WyslWiff3UhD1nJ6Qnu5UZMX1Sc0iBDCuDOCzheLI7zZQZlRkNetRGiLuPlwios_bjUMZLaLDBGukik0PVcoSb-/s2048/Christmas+in+New+York+2020+12-12-20.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEpvWJAsnwNh7e-EmEc56vMk7d8KEwgZipH1T9ZJv3BHqavaGSmbaA8WyslWiff3UhD1nJ6Qnu5UZMX1Sc0iBDCuDOCzheLI7zZQZlRkNetRGiLuPlwios_bjUMZLaLDBGukik0PVcoSb-/s320/Christmas+in+New+York+2020+12-12-20.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>There were also the variety-show flavors of the day back in
the 1970s. Groups and individuals who hosted shows include The Carpenters, The
Osmond Family, and Julie Andrews. While the music holds up well in them, the sketch
comedy is excruciating to watch. Guest stars on <i>The Carpenters: A
Christmas Portrait</i>, 1978, were Gene Kelly, Georgia Engel, Kristy McNichol,
and Jimmy McNichol. Only on a TV Christmas special in the 1970s could you see a sister and brother, Kristy and Jimmy, sing “Fum Fum Fum.” I would also say that
the busiest guest on holiday variety shows from that era was impersonator Rich
Little, who got to do Jack Benny as Ebenezer Scrooge on <i>The Perry Como
Christmas Show</i>, 1974. Harvey Korman performed a frenetic one-man Christmas
Carol on <i>The Carpenters at Christmas</i>, 1977, which also included Kristy
McNichol as a guest star. She must have been <i>pretty big </i>back then to appear in
two successive Carpenters’ Christmas specials. They were simpler times for
sure.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas
Nigro)</span></p>Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-91486179911039396112023-11-22T05:00:00.000-08:002023-11-22T18:55:33.017-08:00Random Thoughts at Thanksgiving Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7w0IO-bR3-mg7HJIfbEkHPar4Ok5cFnHJO-TXyRUONDjesRn-yqYCnAODqHB__M7KB2RZsFHnGMnRSBhzoibBkmjNK-THgOQ8t02G3K27HO1ka3Ul97Ks-L_wbfjR9lYrFd3lOLmTyxY/s1600/Thanksgiving+and+Schaefer+Beer.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="979" data-original-width="1257" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7w0IO-bR3-mg7HJIfbEkHPar4Ok5cFnHJO-TXyRUONDjesRn-yqYCnAODqHB__M7KB2RZsFHnGMnRSBhzoibBkmjNK-THgOQ8t02G3K27HO1ka3Ul97Ks-L_wbfjR9lYrFd3lOLmTyxY/s320/Thanksgiving+and+Schaefer+Beer.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">(Originally published 11/21/17)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">
It’s that time of year again when so many of us say, "I can’t
believe it’s Thanksgiving already!" Honestly, it did come quickly this
go-round—<i>incredibly so</i>. The mystery of time accelerating deepens with each passing year. It also calls to my mind this Adam West's <i>Batman </i>recitation to his trusty butler:
“How little do we know of time, Alfred—a one-syllable word…a noun…yesterday’s
laughter…tomorrow’s tears.” And, sadly, Adam West recently shuffled off this mortal coil at the ripe old age of eighty-eight. <i>How little do we know of time</i>—indeed.
For Adam West seemed eternally middle-aged—ever the man with the spot-on campy
timing. Nobody could have delivered the <i>How little do we know of time</i>
sermon like Adam West—<i>nobody</i>.</div>
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Speaking of time, I visited a local hospital’s emergency
room this past week—not as a patient in this instance, but as someone offering
moral support. Eleven years ago, I was in that same space as a patient. I can
candidly say that being on the outside looking in is worlds apart from being on
the inside looking out. Without my life on the line, I got to be more of an
observer of the frenetic atmosphere that goes with the territory. Foremost,
most of the people I encountered appeared to be there for non-life-threatening
matters. The worst cases were being tended to behind closed doors and curtains.
An intern doctor did approach a woman within earshot of me to pose a couple of
questions about her pressing medical concern. He asked, “Are you having trouble
peeing?” and “Do you have a burning sensation when you pee?” I thought about a
thing called medical privacy as I overheard the minutia—<i>too much information</i>—of
this woman’s health problem.</div>
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With the pee queries on my brain,
one thought led to another. First of all, I would have guessed a doctor would
use the word “urinate” in lieu of “pee,” but then he could have substituted
with “Number One.” And while on the subject of pee, urine, Number
One—whatever floats your boat—I can’t get it out of mind nowadays when I watch old
television westerns. Not a solitary soul ever has to take a pee or—heaven
forbid—do a “Number Two.” I’ve been into the early seasons of <i>Wagon Train </i>starring
Ward Bond and Robert Horton. Unlike <i>Bonanza</i>, this show was never in
reruns during my youth. And while there are some good episodes therein, the
uber-cleanliness strikes an off-putting chord with me. After
binge-watching the likes of <i>Deadwood </i>and <i>Hell on Wheels</i>—with their foulness on
full display—it’s hard not to notice when filth is in short supply where it
most assuredly would be. It’s hard not to notice, too, when people are shot—and
teetering on the brink between life and death in bed on a wagon train for a
week or more—without needing a change in pants.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBf4rcgvQieHgIsz3wk4lYyyvQoSJ6QGA5HFi4gCqJ3Am3YMjKmlNNhqSPwZwzDm_FebM2-ukevfpCzhJGFUNfJEhQ_dlfjirHZCnYsE0v5ZvLqBQTpEZtS0M50697Fmx3uBQvHC3Qo77/s1600/Christmas+Trees+for+Sale.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="800" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBf4rcgvQieHgIsz3wk4lYyyvQoSJ6QGA5HFi4gCqJ3Am3YMjKmlNNhqSPwZwzDm_FebM2-ukevfpCzhJGFUNfJEhQ_dlfjirHZCnYsE0v5ZvLqBQTpEZtS0M50697Fmx3uBQvHC3Qo77/s320/Christmas+Trees+for+Sale.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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If it’s an otherwise quality script, I can suspend my
disbelief for fifty minutes or so. Still, when I recently viewed an episode of <i>Wagon
Train </i>where Major Adams, Flint McCullough, and others were seated on the
ground and chained to a wall for a week in sub-freezing, snowy Sierra high
country—and fed only one measly square a day—I couldn’t help but notice that
not one of them looked worse for the wear. Their clothes were pressed and clean
and—remarkably—no one needed a shave.</div>
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Well, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. My local
Rite Aid drug store annually plays host to a Christmas tree seller. The gang
has set up shop and today had trees for sale for the first time. I think it’s the same bunch from
a year ago—shifty characters who wouldn’t quote a price until the tree was
fully opened. The bushier trees cost more. Yet the various tree stumps were height-colored. Upright sellers price their trees according to height—period and end of story.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)</span></div>
Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-6799288026918300132023-11-21T15:30:00.000-08:002023-11-21T15:30:55.131-08:00A Thanksgiving Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaT7Cs7fBnii4qTJ0h559DT-58VHQq9Tq7m_myVvzRr3iDYYlJqqolxBJmYUWYtDAZdvrjKjzjwbteeAA-GWk62oM3xTxePvtuJ01Kiqhq10R1z7h3QkQfJ0mtCzMNK6W02HCZkF75W28/s1600/Nathan's%2BCentral%2BAvenue%2BYonkers.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaT7Cs7fBnii4qTJ0h559DT-58VHQq9Tq7m_myVvzRr3iDYYlJqqolxBJmYUWYtDAZdvrjKjzjwbteeAA-GWk62oM3xTxePvtuJ01Kiqhq10R1z7h3QkQfJ0mtCzMNK6W02HCZkF75W28/s1600/Nathan's%2BCentral%2BAvenue%2BYonkers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Originally published 11/20/17)<br />
<br />
While duly employed in another line of work more than two
decades ago, my boss, Richie, spied a couple of our customers, Bud and
Sally, dining in a Nathan’s fast-food restaurant. At the time, he was cruising down the well-traveled Central Avenue in Yonkers and noticed them—courtesy of the
place’s paneled glass windows adjoining the busy thoroughfare—seated at a
table. Were it not for the fact that it was Thanksgiving night, this sighting
wouldn’t have been worth mentioning.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Often a cynic, Richie nonetheless found something poignant at the spectacle of this long-married couple eating at Nathan's on Thanksgiving. After all, Bud and Sally were pleasant enough people who
spent a fair amount of change shopping in our store week after week after week. Bud was
retired and considerably older than his wife. They had no children. That is, if you
didn’t count their menagerie of pets, which included through the years
everything from minks to ferrets to monkeys. And, yes, they had multiple cats
and dogs as well. Anyway, Richie thought it would be a nice gesture to invite Bud and Sally to the business’s forthcoming Christmas party, which he did. They happily accepted
and a grand time was had by all.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast forward twenty-five years and Bud and Sally are
still among the living. They are, however, experiencing financial woes.
Money troubles that Bud never envisioned possible when he called it quits
after a rather successful working career. Considering Bud and Sally’s sizable brood of animal friends through the years—and the amount of money
they spent on them for food, supplies, and medical care—we were all convinced
that old Bud had quite a tidy nest egg and would never, ever be sweating the bucks. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last winter, however, Bud turned up at Richie’s new place of
business. He requested a helping hand—i.e., a cash allowance to pay off a large and long-overdue
fuel bill. It was a brutal winter and Richie, who hadn’t seen Bud in years,
didn’t have the heart to say no. It was actually a rather distressing tale of woe that a
former professional and proud man—who was now closing in on ninety years of
age—would not have enough money all these years later to pay basic household
bills. Bud informed Richie that the economic meltdown of several years previous did
a real number on his retirement portfolio. It’s a cautionary tale, I fear, that all
too many of us may be facing in retirement someday—if we make it that far and
almost definitely when we are pushing ninety.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Looking back on it now, I suppose that Bud and
Sally’s past Nathan’s Thanksgiving repast was a happier, less stressful dining moment than the one they’ll be having this year. As a postscript to this story: That
sprawling, iconic Nathan’s restaurant was bulldozed a few years ago to make
room for yet another strip mall. There is a much smaller, decidedly pedestrian
Nathan’s in the mix of stores on the old spot, so Bud and Sally can
dine there this Thanksgiving if they so desire and if, of course, they can afford it.</div>
Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-77766421463483320112023-11-21T15:11:00.000-08:002023-11-21T17:36:36.060-08:0099 Cents and More!<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQsRWaG0tPnLFSqBpfxw_GBcHn2PmnL3hBq-mFd631_vZWurycndvus0OzBpEU_KXNdxEvr-0HENOKiFRyZQpBvXaCIMi464WGJXN0GCJ5Q6MWS2ZLTX8rABGLQtzDvUAgBEBXk-N_atrj0WP5RKAgPQz7LooEFE9gIu2WlgC-r-ShnWgt4y_K565biLL/s886/Kingsbridge%20Bronx%201970s.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="886" data-original-width="787" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQsRWaG0tPnLFSqBpfxw_GBcHn2PmnL3hBq-mFd631_vZWurycndvus0OzBpEU_KXNdxEvr-0HENOKiFRyZQpBvXaCIMi464WGJXN0GCJ5Q6MWS2ZLTX8rABGLQtzDvUAgBEBXk-N_atrj0WP5RKAgPQz7LooEFE9gIu2WlgC-r-ShnWgt4y_K565biLL/s320/Kingsbridge%20Bronx%201970s.jpg" width="284" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Recently, I encountered a message on a local business’
scrolling electronic sign. The shop is one among many comparable peddlers in the
neighborhood—a high-end “dollar store,” if you will. Anyway, passersby were multi-colorfully
informed that everything in the place—</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">cue the undulating</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">—was “.99 </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">and
more</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">!” Now, that covers a lot of ground, I thought, but nicely sums up the current
inflationary age in which we exhaustingly traverse. I know, the mainstream
media and its preferred talking heads are desperately trying to convince us
that what we see with our own two eyes is a mirage and everything—</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">really</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">—is
peachy keen. Economist Paul Krugman—if that’s what he is—has declared that “the
war on inflation is won, </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">at very little cost</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">.” That is, when you exclude
“food, energy, shelter, and used cars.” Mission accomplished then, and
something to be grateful for this Thanksgiving as you tally up the cost of the
turkey and all the trimmings.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JWzeAafqC-ZkKRS1rfdq8iavflJ9nsriAiWTQPvv7xsZlQF7eMm5ny_4Bq2DOdqwmagqcHFbpfSIPN3p82Y1RtBRWiMnq2hYO4ddavgyQdJCulRlHUb1Pe3tp_fVUMl-v-CxfUwVBQirF5AjJaXnGtgdDe6nMgWtuf6G2tcccdD5t6HBogKJLbffXB6g/s381/Thanksgiving%20Turkey%201960s.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="381" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JWzeAafqC-ZkKRS1rfdq8iavflJ9nsriAiWTQPvv7xsZlQF7eMm5ny_4Bq2DOdqwmagqcHFbpfSIPN3p82Y1RtBRWiMnq2hYO4ddavgyQdJCulRlHUb1Pe3tp_fVUMl-v-CxfUwVBQirF5AjJaXnGtgdDe6nMgWtuf6G2tcccdD5t6HBogKJLbffXB6g/s320/Thanksgiving%20Turkey%201960s.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I am likewise grateful for CNN consumer reporter
Nathaniel Meyersohn’s explanation of shoplifting run amok. He said, “The
concern over shoplifting taps into a larger narrative about how urban areas are
out of control.” And here I thought that things were, in fact, <i>out of
control</i>. I guess having to ring a buzzer five separate times to summon an
employee to unlock a cabinet to purchase Tylenol, laundry detergent, a quart of
milk, shampoo, and ear wax remover is just a twenty-first century experience
worth savoring. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWrkeaoySYIgtOgRbH1PVlk3KyXWysLqup_pDXHmQbzwmRTMz5BcUbR4nWHl2eeyARJnB7E6-RU6k-zYFEUk9wOvRA1jPUDXpFZdvMvhl_l0-OkjVVN1h-aDGchTifSJIubAgybjP4b5Q96LVNKie_oJxlvhyphenhyphenpnObDb5n1ZQbbCajTLzTGMpEnIGE6PBvx/s647/Thanksgiving%20Turkey%20Kingsbridge%20Bronx%201960s.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="573" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWrkeaoySYIgtOgRbH1PVlk3KyXWysLqup_pDXHmQbzwmRTMz5BcUbR4nWHl2eeyARJnB7E6-RU6k-zYFEUk9wOvRA1jPUDXpFZdvMvhl_l0-OkjVVN1h-aDGchTifSJIubAgybjP4b5Q96LVNKie_oJxlvhyphenhyphenpnObDb5n1ZQbbCajTLzTGMpEnIGE6PBvx/s320/Thanksgiving%20Turkey%20Kingsbridge%20Bronx%201960s.jpg" width="283" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">No question: These are curious, unsettling times. The
two major political parties seem hellbent on nominating for president the most unfit
and unpopular candidates imaginable in 2024, something akin to <i>several day-old
Thanksgiving leftovers</i>. Summoning the optimist in me—difficult as that is—I
remain hopeful that a year is an eternity in politics, especially when we are
talking about two old geezers battling an assortment of disqualifying obstacles,
including criminal trials, senility, and outright madness. Where there is life,
there is hope, I guess.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Taking a step back in time, to the immediate aftermath
of 9/11: I visited my local offset printing shop—remember those?—which was run
by a fellow named Ludwig. As per the norm, he greeted me. “How are you?” he
asked. I replied, “Okay, under the circumstances.” Ludwig answered, “I’m glad
you said that” and proceeded to vent—justifiably, in my opinion—about the usual
suspects’ <i>condemnations</i> of the horrific terrorist attacks against our
country. The “But Brigade,” as it were: “We, of course, condemn the attacks, <i>but</i>…”
Well, we’ve been kicked in the “but” again. What’s alarming, though, is all too
many people don’t even feel the need to say “but” anymore. In just twenty-two
years…<i>here we are</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMLiTGaRtW7hw9BqNPRR0oUgADUNgemg26fJ17ttHegcr6M04bCiy5_VmIJN_6K32OtTNATMlCzVFnhcYHB5VW8TXz5D6CCLJ3kCRX4Nwda1HX5tBmsLb-9zco8PjXkI-XOruJg1wJC5-Ktg2vesHUK13cwTGC3X26XfibbiyV_8OE925j68cdDNUzJEek/s833/Thanksgiving%20Turkey%20Presentation%201960s%20Bronx%20New%20York.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="833" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMLiTGaRtW7hw9BqNPRR0oUgADUNgemg26fJ17ttHegcr6M04bCiy5_VmIJN_6K32OtTNATMlCzVFnhcYHB5VW8TXz5D6CCLJ3kCRX4Nwda1HX5tBmsLb-9zco8PjXkI-XOruJg1wJC5-Ktg2vesHUK13cwTGC3X26XfibbiyV_8OE925j68cdDNUzJEek/s320/Thanksgiving%20Turkey%20Presentation%201960s%20Bronx%20New%20York.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The <i>mostly peaceful </i>protests and riots are back.
I love this past week’s Amtrack Northeast announcement: “Due to First
Amendment-related events, customers are encouraged to allow extra time to get
to Washington Union Station to board their train.” Perhaps the most disconcerting
images, for me, are of the indoctrinated, sanctimonious college
students—vacuous wind-up dolls—just going with the sewer flow and ripping down
posters of kidnaped children and elderly Holocaust survivors. And these are the
same young men and women who want their student debts cancelled!<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3pOA4_hXX1AIklAGZBb0Ll-w6qMp2dfxOcZfZxBWOvlokaj2F-8_fG8KuVWYlwWHGxt1f_wqhp6NtWGaq-6xcnTFRMtoiiva9h-tG-l6gWx70Q6DvD5nKfUF8EWzbeb5wjYmaYZ7Zjfvd-ytmN1J6UUqovw8pVdy3wRQmbLdnE6P7xZo6d7Pw2SxgA50x/s785/Cold%20Weather%20Con%20Edison%20Steam%20New%20York%20City.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="712" data-original-width="785" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3pOA4_hXX1AIklAGZBb0Ll-w6qMp2dfxOcZfZxBWOvlokaj2F-8_fG8KuVWYlwWHGxt1f_wqhp6NtWGaq-6xcnTFRMtoiiva9h-tG-l6gWx70Q6DvD5nKfUF8EWzbeb5wjYmaYZ7Zjfvd-ytmN1J6UUqovw8pVdy3wRQmbLdnE6P7xZo6d7Pw2SxgA50x/s320/Cold%20Weather%20Con%20Edison%20Steam%20New%20York%20City.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I see now that an advisory group has recommended to
New York State’s Education Department to make the Regents examinations—standardized
tests administered to high school students since 1876—optional. I recall taking
standalone Regents in English and American History during junior year. I also
had to achieve a three-year sequence in at least one of these disciplines: math,
science, or foreign language. I took Algebra as a freshman, Geometry as a
sophomore, and Trigonometry as a junior for my Regents sequence. Fast forward to
the present, with increasingly worrisome graduation rates, and the solution to
the problem is not—predictably—kicking the teaching up a notch but lowering the
bar instead—<i>again</i>. What could possibly go wrong? What has already gone
wrong and then some. Stay tuned.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)</span></p>Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-76468055188956674162023-11-13T06:00:00.000-08:002023-11-13T14:19:17.317-08:00A Christmas Perspective<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoQgHHqHGMOG1mpCNpmO2TRP-s2lLgeaW-IGc05RSOR8-ePN73ybyesAC3t0X20PObKbWA2Q_VIw8f8_CTK_k-AOMZyLEr9kGfK-BydCOjppw3WNz5IOHAQZI5Wpnm7owBtl69s1P2hFQ6/s1600/SantaCats.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551098197335513938" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoQgHHqHGMOG1mpCNpmO2TRP-s2lLgeaW-IGc05RSOR8-ePN73ybyesAC3t0X20PObKbWA2Q_VIw8f8_CTK_k-AOMZyLEr9kGfK-BydCOjppw3WNz5IOHAQZI5Wpnm7owBtl69s1P2hFQ6/s200/SantaCats.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 124px;" /></a>(Originally published 12/13/10)<div><br /><div>Long before the term "pet parent" entered the vernacular, I toiled as young man in a place called Pet Nosh. During the mid-1980s, there were no retail superstores exclusively devoted to pets and their care in the environs of New York City. In fact, this little store on Central Avenue in Yonkers was considered both big and utterly unique for its day. And it was. It was also a harbinger of much grander things to come.<br />
<br />
<div>
Some years ago, while crafting a book proposal for a pet-themed topic, I plucked out a particular anecdote from my life and times in the aforementioned belly of the beast. I recounted the tale of how Pet Nosh was the very first retailer to promote a visitation from ol' St. Nick, who would avail his busy lap top this go-round for God's four-legged and feathered creatures and not run-of-the mill, incredibly ordinary little girls and boys. I cited Pet Nosh as the pioneer of this marketing endeavor, which has since become redundant, playing out everywhere, including in the now countless mega-superstores, which actually have the chutzpah to charge for the privilege.<br />
<br />
A quarter of a century ago, Pet Nosh advertised the occasion as a way of saying thank you to its loyal patrons. All one had to do was show up on the scheduled night with a pet or multiple pets—and a picture with Santa was on the house. Granted, the first few years of this “Have Your Pet’s Picture Taken with Santa Claus” promo were quite raw by today's standards. For starters, there were no such things as digital cameras back then. An amateur photographer and a Polaroid instant camera provided the service, with unadorned snapshots handed over <em>on the spot</em> to mostly satisfied customers who gushed with gratitude. The experience was considered so unusual and even <em>cool </em>that a not-especially-sharp instant photograph—and nothing else—was something akin to gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And as a holiday conversation piece, it was priceless!</div>
<br />
<div>
When I put this claim down on paper—that Pet Nosh was the very first retailer to host such an event—my literary agent at the time asked: "Is this true? You know, you shouldn't say so if it's not." I replied: "The Pet Nosh brass conceived the idea. To their knowledge, they weren't plagiarizing anybody else—near or far." Of course, there was no Internet thirty years ago, so we couldn't be absolutely certain that a pet store in Boise, Idaho; Alhambra, California; or Bangor, Maine did not do something similar before Pet Nosh hosted the picture show.<br />
<br />
So, Santa Claus coming to Pet Nosh Town for the exclusive benefit of cats, dogs, birds, snakes, lizards, and turtles was either <em>the </em>trailblazer, or certainly among the trailblazing class, ushering in the Pet Parenting Age. It was at once exciting and strange. The very first time Pet Nosh advertised this holiday promotion, we hadn’t a clue what to expect vis-à-vis the turnout. We hadn't a clue how everything would unfold with two-legged and four-legged animals in every nook and cranny of the store. It's no stretch to say that we were more than a bit taken aback when a couple of hundred people with their pets in tow showed up and waited on very, very long lines that actually twisted around a corner into a residential neighborhood—and, on top everything else, in a freezing rainstorm just days before Christmas.<br />
<br />
(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)</div>
</div></div>Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-89150615154709749272023-11-10T06:00:00.002-08:002023-11-10T15:11:11.835-08:00Quote the Raving<div class="MsoNormal">(Originally published 11/18/18)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">
The sum total of my subway experience yesterday prompted me
to wonder. Wonder if we were in the midst of a Full Moon? Turns out, though,
that wasn’t the reason why the natives were especially restless in the Land
Down Under. The next Full Moon is later this week. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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For starters, I encountered a scary version of Dumb and
Dumber. Right out of Central Casting, the duo appeared to be escapees from <i>The
Sopranos</i> set. The alpha male, Dumb, was quite squat with a considerable paunch. His shirt just couldn’t seem to cover up all that skin. The guy also had an
elongated knife scar on his face and—at one point—took out a big wad of cash
and started counting it. He, too, was very proud of his brand-new construction
boots and asked Dumber his opinion of them. This all played out in a subway car
full of people. Dumb made Joe Pesci sound like William F. Buckley, Jr.</div>
<br />
In addition, multiple panhandlers materialized on my various train rides, which
is not unusual. A couple of them operated strictly by the book. They stated
their respective cases and ambled on through the car. But then there was a
pregnant woman asking for help and using her extended belly as a prop. <i>Sad to
think what kind of world that child is going to come into</i>. I can’t be certain
but I believe this is the same individual whom I’ve seen before and whose
panhandling approach is aggressive and literally in-your-face. Simply put, she speaks her piece one person at a time. For those who contribute to her
cause, the gal is lavish with praise. Prior to my one-on-one, a fellow
passenger was told that he had both great hair and was very handsome. Rather than wait
for what flattery was in store for me—<i>I don’t have great hair</i>—I handed
her a couple of dollars. What I got in return was a fist bump, which
considering the circumstances, I’d rather not have gotten. </div>
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No fist bumps were forthcoming with the last visitation. It was
not with someone looking for a monetary salve. This fellow was a bona fide raving lunatic. I think, too, I’ve
seen him before. He is an African-American man who—on this particular Saturday—took up the cause of the American Indian
for several train stops. “White man speaks with forked tongue,” he uttered on more than
one occasion during his vitriolic rant. Vis-à-vis the Native American experience, I would be inclined to
agree. But he was also speaking of violent retribution in the offing to said
white man. And fitting the bill of his enemy profile in a sparsely filled
subway car, I thought it wise for me to implement my Charles Manson Rule and <i>make
like a tree and leave</i>, which I did, before the raving escalated into something more.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAv4Tml_qUwytRDs7j3ZckMSike_mHNirCiENc09Riy4mQZt4vCdU4weo7l0M54WwOinN7vnfjk3yqs9mr3Y-OYy9DFRoQacn0XCTqWtOhHMylGzl2duid4wlqiGph6Xqp1m-zRKkf9uGd/s1600/Lunatic+Passenger+Head.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAv4Tml_qUwytRDs7j3ZckMSike_mHNirCiENc09Riy4mQZt4vCdU4weo7l0M54WwOinN7vnfjk3yqs9mr3Y-OYy9DFRoQacn0XCTqWtOhHMylGzl2duid4wlqiGph6Xqp1m-zRKkf9uGd/s320/Lunatic+Passenger+Head.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
As I awaited the next train, I snapped a shot—for posterity—of the back of the raving lunatic's wool hat-wearing head.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4fQXhEd-GgJFb3WWxRjJ2uW7_AntlXPNuJlVaxCvp1u03WuN1bQ2f76n_Aap5EbXl-4v8ZkvP0_ew76076JXbCH21MD4pQSQs7CcKQkYo7LK_0P3HItuCRfrusPuHSmwyqD1T7iMzwjR/s1600/Spiderman+Subway+Ad.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="800" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4fQXhEd-GgJFb3WWxRjJ2uW7_AntlXPNuJlVaxCvp1u03WuN1bQ2f76n_Aap5EbXl-4v8ZkvP0_ew76076JXbCH21MD4pQSQs7CcKQkYo7LK_0P3HItuCRfrusPuHSmwyqD1T7iMzwjR/s320/Spiderman+Subway+Ad.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I've been reading today about Bill Maher's remarks concerning the recently deceased Stan Lee and the comic book phenomena. Hey, the guy's a comedian and provocateur. That's what he does. Chill out...<i>social media</i>!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV7NF_pHjc0UopYsEtYtL7q2_yPjjbYOWCNlg63lgm1ewIIY1KeXpNG_XL-4v312IYazT2y6uF6zQ8lVxWYhr6IdK4GHS0k7OuH7uhBl318xYqSbC2rQOnTKKCXFrXGCF8JMDlKyIy7z8D/s1600/Chambers+Street+Number+1+Train+Ladder.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV7NF_pHjc0UopYsEtYtL7q2_yPjjbYOWCNlg63lgm1ewIIY1KeXpNG_XL-4v312IYazT2y6uF6zQ8lVxWYhr6IdK4GHS0k7OuH7uhBl318xYqSbC2rQOnTKKCXFrXGCF8JMDlKyIy7z8D/s320/Chambers+Street+Number+1+Train+Ladder.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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When I submitted my manuscript for <i>The Everything Collectibles Book </i>in 2001, I had lots of clever and some not-so-clever play-on-word headings in it. However, the Generation X developmental editor working with me didn't get any of them, with the sole exception of "Advertising: The Story of Us." <i>The Story of Us </i>was, by the way, a 1999 romantic-comedy starring Michelle Pfeiffer and Bruce Willis, a recent enough movie to still be on the Generation Xer's limited memory drive. Oh, to becoming up with such word plays again like : <i>I prefer the Ladder to the Farmer</i>.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTPeFVCfr8hUj2eIKkciIcs4_PDq1z8KDMZplZZVBHiTVHz7w0jMYkfy2CLastex-LMjR1LjrHEsbXPyK17nkoQRC0ysMOS562p0rAoKRqvVm7RvNK0PWrVdsEfKdLKZ1VUHJOxRcRjbC/s1600/Do+Hold+Each+Other+Subway+Door+Sticker.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="755" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTPeFVCfr8hUj2eIKkciIcs4_PDq1z8KDMZplZZVBHiTVHz7w0jMYkfy2CLastex-LMjR1LjrHEsbXPyK17nkoQRC0ysMOS562p0rAoKRqvVm7RvNK0PWrVdsEfKdLKZ1VUHJOxRcRjbC/s320/Do+Hold+Each+Other+Subway+Door+Sticker.JPG" width="302" /></a></div>
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<span face=""helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">"Do not lean on door" is no more. No
doubt the handiwork of the practical joker vandal.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj14iIg_EFayndS7-ghm_aHvxxKuP-UWpbiDdIa7gPZwasyZPs3JStxLG90Yk6J6V_4m5dQqU34HKzRI5mniHilBg6N6Q_REHVuQl6rfnvEBjyCus-OGATCVvbXBdWkqRbf3PqPmVFcZr5v/s1600/MetroCard+Machine.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj14iIg_EFayndS7-ghm_aHvxxKuP-UWpbiDdIa7gPZwasyZPs3JStxLG90Yk6J6V_4m5dQqU34HKzRI5mniHilBg6N6Q_REHVuQl6rfnvEBjyCus-OGATCVvbXBdWkqRbf3PqPmVFcZr5v/s320/MetroCard+Machine.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>If you see </i>came first. Then there was <i>something</i>—see. The uber-climax is next: <i>say something!</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqYVPQUGGF1AWD44u1Gm0KtmHugp3JP21zAbLgWPZvkFO6w7bh43eLrMbDLW7UWNUs5FtEzAc9higsgpu3WHtaACXr0Wxzf8fw3SIUgVmPeQcqi9AaiEIjDKh-kvSkJPMbW5XmcXDHDMr/s1600/Subway+Ad+Fiverr.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="766" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqYVPQUGGF1AWD44u1Gm0KtmHugp3JP21zAbLgWPZvkFO6w7bh43eLrMbDLW7UWNUs5FtEzAc9higsgpu3WHtaACXr0Wxzf8fw3SIUgVmPeQcqi9AaiEIjDKh-kvSkJPMbW5XmcXDHDMr/s320/Subway+Ad+Fiverr.JPG" width="306" /></a></div>
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Next building...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVT1nvMkvktz6w2bZhm9pQjTsUW97GUOH9eTlRitjoh18nO7hm-weTy_QHzfHJplWGUqQDf09_alDJbdeY5UYQzx5w0Wt1e_P6wYUo_e95sX4ma7QS-lvQi02MVrwuAs301kOyq87hfpa4/s1600/A+Night+to+Remember+11-15-18.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVT1nvMkvktz6w2bZhm9pQjTsUW97GUOH9eTlRitjoh18nO7hm-weTy_QHzfHJplWGUqQDf09_alDJbdeY5UYQzx5w0Wt1e_P6wYUo_e95sX4ma7QS-lvQi02MVrwuAs301kOyq87hfpa4/s320/A+Night+to+Remember+11-15-18.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Too much too soon...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKS2-NMfGzN09Htt_5vBPJbUU4nXiP2O6w2iYbii5cejbk60GpfP6-u-RCiBjTD0-TH95qYm9R6SAh5RSUKO1wCJjIzi0n2QD2bDt5w2QWeLARlGskfJvp58CoWa2BVIKIsXRq1-7CPHZ5/s1600/Hydrangea+Roses+of+Sharon+11-16-18.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKS2-NMfGzN09Htt_5vBPJbUU4nXiP2O6w2iYbii5cejbk60GpfP6-u-RCiBjTD0-TH95qYm9R6SAh5RSUKO1wCJjIzi0n2QD2bDt5w2QWeLARlGskfJvp58CoWa2BVIKIsXRq1-7CPHZ5/s320/Hydrangea+Roses+of+Sharon+11-16-18.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Really, it should never snow while the Hydrangea and Rose of Sharon are still green.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijjrc_u1nRE615UOLANPod2XVqnq7x7BmTq5hlOc4rjkWYfVmJKroH4lNPpVJtJhPWX1pJj3sMC_4qgE3YWnK8N8FmOgvXdX-kf0ytF6YTGPqu2QUyt1ESYGK1-M6VkluWnTnYjqKwt4N3/s1600/First+Snow+Remnants+Hudson+River.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="782" data-original-width="800" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijjrc_u1nRE615UOLANPod2XVqnq7x7BmTq5hlOc4rjkWYfVmJKroH4lNPpVJtJhPWX1pJj3sMC_4qgE3YWnK8N8FmOgvXdX-kf0ytF6YTGPqu2QUyt1ESYGK1-M6VkluWnTnYjqKwt4N3/s320/First+Snow+Remnants+Hudson+River.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Not a pretty sight in wintertime, but worse in autumn: New York City snow remnants.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3FF2l0cEHaV-XMcxFnT3nqMSFBmlbFrFLea4ye9BWf3rvuFfe0cX2C5qKuRtMiAkA1YEI0mw4OcPErO0RKYeEG8Kv_-ccDp69CoVCVI_xhNU1Vybg5bTiFGhWJ5uwCUiVMmZErsJJB6e/s1600/New+Yorkers+Totally+Get+Me+Grinch+Ad+Boat.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3FF2l0cEHaV-XMcxFnT3nqMSFBmlbFrFLea4ye9BWf3rvuFfe0cX2C5qKuRtMiAkA1YEI0mw4OcPErO0RKYeEG8Kv_-ccDp69CoVCVI_xhNU1Vybg5bTiFGhWJ5uwCUiVMmZErsJJB6e/s320/New+Yorkers+Totally+Get+Me+Grinch+Ad+Boat.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6P5TyqSfwMKlJyMBVVmNTWmxuICRYbjmKFQncID1-InrfhETxsdzEL1OK6xgh6-aSyM3pgCLuPf4AmUnrpWJRj6hoh9fpNciHczA4bFgOo9Hu2Iib-56i4e8C9Nw6fqi7Tvm9A5cSSpsL/s1600/Heineken+Beer+Ad+Boat+New+York+Harbor.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6P5TyqSfwMKlJyMBVVmNTWmxuICRYbjmKFQncID1-InrfhETxsdzEL1OK6xgh6-aSyM3pgCLuPf4AmUnrpWJRj6hoh9fpNciHczA4bFgOo9Hu2Iib-56i4e8C9Nw6fqi7Tvm9A5cSSpsL/s320/Heineken+Beer+Ad+Boat+New+York+Harbor.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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What does that really mean? Bring back the Grinch.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGtwo_JccHlvDZi4lGJBudnQFQQGB7WQRF1HWqLgUAW6Q79l1o-FbQ5kQzfsZztDLToX1hnWrXvBUYiSIDPqbw_UJuRImWXiREVQv8tREAq6bbHxXVPDGGBawWRGpqu5UpF2Nxznil-NG/s1600/Christmas+Tree+Racks+Rite+Aid+11-18-18.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="785" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGtwo_JccHlvDZi4lGJBudnQFQQGB7WQRF1HWqLgUAW6Q79l1o-FbQ5kQzfsZztDLToX1hnWrXvBUYiSIDPqbw_UJuRImWXiREVQv8tREAq6bbHxXVPDGGBawWRGpqu5UpF2Nxznil-NG/s320/Christmas+Tree+Racks+Rite+Aid+11-18-18.JPG" width="314" /></a></div>
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The construction of the Christmas tree racks <i>again </i>in front of the local Rite Aid drug store. Time is definitely accelerating...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiliCUbsDlpHV6krxPaQUH6DSgR7nci_lPVLB3nvAY2IfTcYYT_cAtib_PeJPDaqob_pm-5s_NATFwzxVmMin0sBMlJyr6G9r2ZlXYWrXvKIRMJ_vZcrxaZhC9WjbT6D96-IGTDq6LL3RxS/s1600/Double+Burger+Cambo+Street+Vendor.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiliCUbsDlpHV6krxPaQUH6DSgR7nci_lPVLB3nvAY2IfTcYYT_cAtib_PeJPDaqob_pm-5s_NATFwzxVmMin0sBMlJyr6G9r2ZlXYWrXvKIRMJ_vZcrxaZhC9WjbT6D96-IGTDq6LL3RxS/s320/Double+Burger+Cambo+Street+Vendor.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, what will it be? Pizza or the Double Burger <i>Cambo</i>?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcm-OEt8m8pSNJ0BVwmD8c6gauEI_fAUlrxI99eqrFlbN63jBN_z-5A9LAw0PZEahLpBXsezxbZq2ay38CxzVRZX6DgfVkA9FXBULyjYGxMOiqKw76fbFmsSve4Zicfcw3FY_XxGtujU6f/s1600/Concretes.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="617" data-original-width="800" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcm-OEt8m8pSNJ0BVwmD8c6gauEI_fAUlrxI99eqrFlbN63jBN_z-5A9LAw0PZEahLpBXsezxbZq2ay38CxzVRZX6DgfVkA9FXBULyjYGxMOiqKw76fbFmsSve4Zicfcw3FY_XxGtujU6f/s320/Concretes.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I'm familiar with hot dogs and burgers, but not <i>concretes</i>. Every day is a learning experience.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8NZgU2gV_acFSOqUfAClWCy27qbXyfm_Vk0V4M7Ebx8EsPzWn-qCd6zf92U2tQr2wQ0tt7ZGqn2UdbgA5_R9J22FGIRPveWivaz_gQyicB4I5tmp6JHkHEwrbIsC7cxFZbryOak-3_E98/s1600/Squirrel+Lady+Liberty.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="800" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8NZgU2gV_acFSOqUfAClWCy27qbXyfm_Vk0V4M7Ebx8EsPzWn-qCd6zf92U2tQr2wQ0tt7ZGqn2UdbgA5_R9J22FGIRPveWivaz_gQyicB4I5tmp6JHkHEwrbIsC7cxFZbryOak-3_E98/s320/Squirrel+Lady+Liberty.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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A little too much glare to make this an award-winning nature shot.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSz2fKfHIigDAxH6VOBBUx9T-HPpIB_3vwYoXCa58RCbM3Cumyo8v2yUQL1AeeLaXOOTNfV6C3_Q3kMjk20RwNOc578rgGDpd8kaoET_ZcOeHWpcz1LxKLGO1Jcx4wJ3WmUb6kOwMALIv6/s1600/Seagull+Battery+Park+City.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="800" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSz2fKfHIigDAxH6VOBBUx9T-HPpIB_3vwYoXCa58RCbM3Cumyo8v2yUQL1AeeLaXOOTNfV6C3_Q3kMjk20RwNOc578rgGDpd8kaoET_ZcOeHWpcz1LxKLGO1Jcx4wJ3WmUb6kOwMALIv6/s320/Seagull+Battery+Park+City.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Seagull on a lamppost in Battery Park City.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMtjovZYXvkVJppXSRvA0gcd5xdDF0MC8ncvibugEdiMA36Q70js1q7ZULCTh5Sh4D9zhcAZMkhlRhC5xn0VgjIxV4B5Dvthc0wXxnh6zKSFG_mU4C3Nuq8vN3f1m3cdmPwqAfrjmvaVWE/s1600/Charging+Phone+Subway+Station.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="784" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMtjovZYXvkVJppXSRvA0gcd5xdDF0MC8ncvibugEdiMA36Q70js1q7ZULCTh5Sh4D9zhcAZMkhlRhC5xn0VgjIxV4B5Dvthc0wXxnh6zKSFG_mU4C3Nuq8vN3f1m3cdmPwqAfrjmvaVWE/s320/Charging+Phone+Subway+Station.JPG" width="313" /></a></div>
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Was this a "If you see something, say something" moment. Probably not. Just a guy recharging his phone in a subway station.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOsb_QjkZ0C4R5I0yhuCh2vdVqQIMGyYiU349K9UBvEYcEUGCpoHRcnlNd63xsrC5hHfNElWXrfr-ajdgtgstNjZYTEnVob3z-7Ey1nYazOUGCcpbIOL4uqMf-sexPURTZBpTWEc5gl_U/s1600/Postal+Truck+Telephone+Tribeca.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="800" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOsb_QjkZ0C4R5I0yhuCh2vdVqQIMGyYiU349K9UBvEYcEUGCpoHRcnlNd63xsrC5hHfNElWXrfr-ajdgtgstNjZYTEnVob3z-7Ey1nYazOUGCcpbIOL4uqMf-sexPURTZBpTWEc5gl_U/s320/Postal+Truck+Telephone+Tribeca.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Once upon a time people used phone booths like this. Apparently, some Neanderthals still do. It clearly didn't snow as much in lower Manhattan as it did in my part of the Bronx. Mum's still the word!<br />
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(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)</div>
Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-36135116320147607182023-11-10T06:00:00.001-08:002023-11-11T19:31:49.073-08:00In My Face<div>(Originally published 10/6/19)</div><div><br /></div>I had the misfortune of boarding a train this morning at the Van Cortlandt Park terminal alongside a fellow passenger who loudly sang "My Way." Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of Frank Sinatra and his rendition of the song. But in an otherwise empty subway car at its point of origin, I'd rather not commence a trip with some guy who might be on <i>a trip</i>. Anyway, he eventually stopped singing and got on his phone, connecting with somebody he called "Mama." It wasn't his actual Mama because he referred at some point to the genuine article. Long story short: He wanted the faux-Mama to clean his turtle tank for him. Instructions included placing half a leaf of Romaine lettuce in it for the turtle's nocturnal needs. From what I gleaned from the conversation, the not-the-real-deal Mama didn't appear too smart. The subway singer explained over and over that all she had to do was cut a single lettuce piece in two and place it in the tank. And the turtle would take it from there.<br />
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Later, on the mean streets of New York, a young fellow seemingly materialized out of nowhere, got in my face, and shrieked, "Piece of shit!" Happily, for me, he wasn't playing the "Knockout Game." Perhaps he was listening to his preferred music, which wasn't "My Way" by the way, and just felt the urge. Maybe he's a reader of this blog. As if it never happened, both he and I moved on unbowed after the exchange. Yes, it pays to be ever vigilant in the big city. But even then...<br />
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Yesterday supplied the first real taste of autumn around here. The local Rite Aid drug store has even begun stocking its Christmas items, which will completely subsume the store after Halloween and probably a day or two before. Last year the very same retailer was preparing aisles for Valentine's Day on December 22nd.</div>
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From my persona experiences this weekend: Not so much loving therein.</div>
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"When it's least expected it, you're elected. You're the star today. Smile...you're on <i>Candid Camera</i>."</div>
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I sincerely hope they are better with hair than sign making.</div>
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"No phone, no lights, no motor car...not a single luxury." No, that's <i>Gilligan's Island</i>. This is Ellis Island.</div>
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Toiling in a street cart is not for the faint of heart. Nature, after all, does still call.</div>
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And the view is constantly changing.</div>
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Signs of the season: Con Edison steam pipes belching it up a notch.</div>
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Now, if only <i>things </i>were looking up...</div>
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I caption this picture: <i>Down the up staircase</i>.</div>
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Count your blessings instead of sheep. Done. Not too many of them.</div>
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Do you look at life as almost empty or barely full?</div>
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A new day has dawned. An overcast, breezy Sunday, which introduced me to the Sinatra impersonator and turtle parent.</div>
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Yes, I'd rather have been in the train's first car this morning with this bird than the one loudly singing "My Way" and talking on the phone about his turtle and its affinity for Romaine lettuce. It likes to sleep under a half a leaf of it and <i>only</i> a half a leaf of it.</div>
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Last year the biggest snowstorm of the season arrived in mid-November, before Thanksgiving, and it wasn't all that big at seven inches. However, the city brass was caught woefully unprepared and thereafter spread salt with abandon in anticipation of forecast snows, which didn't always materialize. I guess the sanitation department's not leaving anything to chance this year.</div>
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What treasures does this mysterious sidewalk trunk hold?</div>
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Homeward bound: Saw two little kids with their parents. They were both spellbound during the ride with their handheld devices. <i>Don't you know that you are children on the subway. A train that travels through dark tunnels and makes a lot of noise.</i> That's what interested me in my bygone youth. No devices required.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEie3AHLtux4k9AlfKcF5pKwfq-gCzoCjvsBtSiYHdJAgdQC59H7EFVMpY6fdYz_YwA_JfEbhEkGUbNuFIRP6AtFzhvRuMMDthUH6oNDVQRJEiu9yjZo9XkAdmbaEv1LPfM0eXpIEKr443/s1600/Subway+Passenger+Book+Reader+10-6-19.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="734" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEie3AHLtux4k9AlfKcF5pKwfq-gCzoCjvsBtSiYHdJAgdQC59H7EFVMpY6fdYz_YwA_JfEbhEkGUbNuFIRP6AtFzhvRuMMDthUH6oNDVQRJEiu9yjZo9XkAdmbaEv1LPfM0eXpIEKr443/s320/Subway+Passenger+Book+Reader+10-6-19.JPG" width="293" /></a></div>
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Read on, subway <i>customer</i>. Yes, that's how some train conductors refer to riders nowadays. <i>Passenger </i>will do just fine. And, too, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA) has completely cast asunder "Ladies and gentlemen" in announcements. Can't risk offending someone who is neither. To be continued...<br />
<br />
(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)</div>
</div>
Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-76492725632679894762023-11-09T16:22:00.001-08:002023-11-09T17:46:42.887-08:00Remembering Dr. Z...By the Way<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwWvHuZvYjCkN0U12D6lWQ4xYh1hbibQ8Wae2KGNrTbf71Jw7HKTsrkVAaDu_OdIr4VJSLju95YAHXYbaQrIJ02wx3tSC4jOM9Wh-03rIjPoHolsknRu-bBzBzNm2elne9u237N-y55sl/s1600/manhattancollege_rdax_434x325%5B1%5D.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484630031453788594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwWvHuZvYjCkN0U12D6lWQ4xYh1hbibQ8Wae2KGNrTbf71Jw7HKTsrkVAaDu_OdIr4VJSLju95YAHXYbaQrIJ02wx3tSC4jOM9Wh-03rIjPoHolsknRu-bBzBzNm2elne9u237N-y55sl/s200/manhattancollege_rdax_434x325%5B1%5D.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>(Originally published 6/19/10)<div><br /><div>The efficacy of Keynesian economics is being debated once again in both polite and impolite society. But rather than stake out a position on the demand side versus the supply side in this dismal science argument, I’d rather just wax nostalgic and recall a college professor of mine whom I'll call Dr. Z.<br />
<div>
<br />
Dr. Z was an adjunct professor substituting for an ailing instructor in a course called Intermediate Macroeconomics. The place: my alma mater, Manhattan College. The year: 1984. Dr. Z was a very tall, dome-headed Egyptian fellow, who not only wore thrift shop threads that didn’t quite fit his gawky frame—high waters and hobo shoes—every single day, but a sartorial selection at least thirty years past its prime.<br />
<br />
Despite my Dr. Z experience being brief, it was nonetheless quite memorable. This man rates as one of those classic college characters I will not soon forget—a professor remembered for his idiosyncrasies above all else, including teaching acumen. From the get-go, Dr. Z warned us that because “there was no ‘P’ as in Peter and ‘B’ as in ball” in his native tongue of Arabic, he was apt to “make a mish, mosh, moosh of the two…by the way” all along the way. And he didn’t disappoint on that score.<br />
<br />
In addition, the good doctor frequently finished his sentences with the throwaway “by the way” phrase. He couldn’t stop saying it during his lectures, which he took very, very seriously, by the way, often working himself into a frenzied, sweaty trance to explain that Keynes’s General Theory “contended that consumption was a stable function of disposable income.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Z also subscribed to the educative power of repetition. He peppered his lectures with “I repeat again” pronouncements and recapped word-for-word what had just been said. Dr. Z took attendance every class because, he revealed, he desperately needed the work and didn’t want to be fired. The man informed us that times were tough for him as a part-time professor, and that he called home somewhere in lower Manhattan “between the muggers and the hippies.” This former neighborhood of his has since been gentrified, by the way. And when the buzzer sounded each class’s death knell, the Z-man stopped in mid-sentence and profusely thanked the whole lot of us. “Thank you very, very much,” he would bellow at the top of his lungs <em>and really mean it</em>. No, Dr. Z: thank you…for the memories and teaching me about John Maynard Keynes, too. </div>
</div></div>Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-88203798448096453522023-10-31T10:50:00.000-07:002023-10-31T17:34:23.139-07:00First Prize Relinquished<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK29sH9gvtDevx2zn_ee1PZTDJ23JPFhKjnazo98mtDc4nGxVOORBCsWJFsMpZXCBDycQ1RFV6JddJ5HZL8lXKUy0oG23hL6h74q9n7oHTZ7BpYM5JU4wzE7A_O_0uMrV0V-rb9b5R78Ye/s1600/imagesCAT1JZJW.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK29sH9gvtDevx2zn_ee1PZTDJ23JPFhKjnazo98mtDc4nGxVOORBCsWJFsMpZXCBDycQ1RFV6JddJ5HZL8lXKUy0oG23hL6h74q9n7oHTZ7BpYM5JU4wzE7A_O_0uMrV0V-rb9b5R78Ye/s1600/imagesCAT1JZJW.jpg" /></a></div>
(Originally published 10/30/11)<br />
<br />
On the eve of Halloween, I can’t help but hark back to a special memory of the day. The day that I won first prize for the best costume in my fourth-grade class. I wore a clown mask, a red wool hat, and the heavy blue corduroy shirt that my father always wore when he painted the rooms of our apartment and assorted other things. It was a colorful outfit for sure, but the early-1970s were colorful times. I can’t see anyone wearing that heavy corduroy shirt today, but then I can’t see why anyone would have worn it back then, except as a painting shirt to absorb all that splatter, or as part of a Halloween costume.<br />
<br />
But here’s the interesting note about this Halloween costume contest in St. John’s grammar school in Kingsbridge. The boy who came in second place to me dressed up as a woman. He went the whole nine yards, too, with a fashionable dress, high heels, and a girdle—not some Woolworth-Woolco $2.47 mature woman costume. His name was Kieran and I'll concede that he really and truly merited first prize. <i>He proudly lifted his dress to show us his girdle.</i> But then, it was a democratic vote—at least that’s what we were all led to believe. In retrospect, considering the time and the school, perhaps there was some chicanery behind the scenes and the ballot box was tampered with in some way. However, I don't think so.<br />
<br />
Whatever the real truth is, I would like on this Halloween—some four decades later—to at long last award Kieran first prize, because he so richly deserved it, not only for the costume itself, but for his audacity to wear it in front of his peers. After all, how old were we then? Ten? My only other personal memory of Kieran involves a certain request of his. He asked me if I would be his straight man in an effort to cheer up a classmate of ours named Karen who, for some reason that I don't recall, was bereft and weeping uncontrollably.<br />
<br />
Anyway, Kieran, with me at his side—two fourth graders—said to Karen, “Nicholas is ridiculous,” emphasizing the syllabic rhyme. I remember, too, he employed various other rhymes and plays on words to cheer her up, which is laudatory in and of itself, but particularly so considering his young age. While I wouldn't call it a rousing success, I think Kieran’s ten-year-old therapy actually worked. But, if nothing else, it’s testament to his heart and soul, and I am proud to have been his Charlie McCarthy dummy for one brief shining moment a long time ago. I sincerely hope the fifty-something Kieran has put this incredible empathy of his to good use on a much grander scale. And, as for Karen, I hope the “Nicholas is ridiculous” moment made a difference—even if only a small one. Whatever…this Halloween first prize…transferred finally to Kieran is, I know, justice delayed...but at long last served.Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-40399671136119255582023-10-10T10:34:00.001-07:002023-10-18T14:43:25.304-07:00The Misadventures of Pizza Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhum2tY2M33Vv5PCxtciHknX3XedQqUkIyoYlWyU7XYzx0s15BBzzLrn1k2gdCMOlqC7Z-VTSRxCAE-FAsCCrh1yjO0jeEjWawJagEVUZIlyXviE8bOtra7wkbi9mWQU9ZoC1Rjyr9qWTtS/s1600/Pizza+Shop+Menu.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhum2tY2M33Vv5PCxtciHknX3XedQqUkIyoYlWyU7XYzx0s15BBzzLrn1k2gdCMOlqC7Z-VTSRxCAE-FAsCCrh1yjO0jeEjWawJagEVUZIlyXviE8bOtra7wkbi9mWQU9ZoC1Rjyr9qWTtS/s320/Pizza+Shop+Menu.JPG" width="196" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">(Originally published 3/7/16)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">
He was oozing optimism when he first opened his pizza place’s
doors. His little restaurant was poised and ready for what was certain to be a
mad dash of salivating clientele. The shop was staffed like a bustling
Midtown Manhattan pizzeria—its multiple employees festooned in matching red,
logo-emblazoned baseball caps and staff shirts. The adrenalized new owner, who had
succeeded an unsuccessful pizza peddler, who in turn had assumed the reins from
still another failed pizza guy, had—it seemed—all his bases covered. This latest
entrepreneurial endeavor was sure to prove—despite its cursed locale—that a third time's a charm.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Long a pizza devotee and forever a Bronx denizen, the
shortest distance from point A (home) to point B (a quality New York slice of
pizza) mattered to me. Therefore, I would throw myself at the mercy
of the new kid on the block and hope for the best. I was perfectly willing to tolerate any <i>and all</i>
growing pains, including extraordinarily green employees, who didn’t in the
slightest strive to be otherwise. So, I wasn’t bothered when the two slices, plus a
small fountain drink—the $5.00 lunch special—wasn’t afforded to me because I
declined the free drink. (I didn’t want to carry it home.) The clueless staff
actually charged me $5.50, the cost of two slices when not on special, <i>because
I didn’t accept the drink</i>! And then there was the improperly wrapped pizza
conundrum, where exceptionally oily slices saturated takeout bags beyond their
capacity to do the job. On more than one occasion during this establishment’s
fledgling days, my bag split open before I arrived home, splattering my clothes
with mozzarella, tomato sauce, and scorching hot, orangey grease. I was
nonetheless hopeful things would improve once <i>the gang that couldn’t shoot
straight</i> got the hang of it. I would thus ignore that countless pizza slices lost their tips when being plucked out of the oven and when being yanked out of the takeout bag. Call me naïve, but I was convinced the pizza man would soon appreciate that his pizza pies were usually too thin, often too crisp, and sometimes a deadly combination of both. I had been served pizza slices with burnt
bottoms before in my fast-food culinary travels, but never this degree of <i>burnt offerings</i>. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCSdaAB2qx2bhfb7vc3-tKA7JwBKwcqIUR7Hf7lARTc5UM6i74-_mfcKZYbpmwT4r1x-Qu_IZxz5OpYZ0PHbIQ3VeD7YYbD9dGjZa2WjOhDQOY75RK7dz9WL3QfLFftjspwdBqrqfTpHP/s1600/Breakfast+Menu.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCSdaAB2qx2bhfb7vc3-tKA7JwBKwcqIUR7Hf7lARTc5UM6i74-_mfcKZYbpmwT4r1x-Qu_IZxz5OpYZ0PHbIQ3VeD7YYbD9dGjZa2WjOhDQOY75RK7dz9WL3QfLFftjspwdBqrqfTpHP/s320/Breakfast+Menu.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This pizza shop in the Northwest Bronx began with both high
hopes and a full showcase of every conceivable specialty pizza. Quickly,
though, a conspicuous dearth of sales cut the pizza selections on display to a
haphazard, forlorn-looking medley of slices. A portent of things to come occurred when
the restaurant’s top pizza oven went on the fritz and was not repaired for
months. Truth be told, it was painful to behold the well-intentioned, formerly optimistic owner preparing his pizza pies in an oven that was practically on
the floor. God knows the man tried. He inundated the surrounding neighborhood with fliers
on several occasions. In fact, one of them heralded that the place would be open for
breakfast. But—go figure—<i>he never opened for breakfast</i>. It would have been the
opportunity of a lifetime—and a first—to sample “Mash Potato” on a roll to start my day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidYXpCIPgDvAvwMuyX7WUqBxvVxfBbPDlUvmqVGMVXRbS3FuMCZf2ssgo15DWfnDBfz-rtmpkX0RVUEq3ymUqbzuxi4ra4qdFxqbRJkejZJit55-V3U4Ort7HXybrxqYEN73wmVnh5ux1V/s1600/Slice+Pizza.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidYXpCIPgDvAvwMuyX7WUqBxvVxfBbPDlUvmqVGMVXRbS3FuMCZf2ssgo15DWfnDBfz-rtmpkX0RVUEq3ymUqbzuxi4ra4qdFxqbRJkejZJit55-V3U4Ort7HXybrxqYEN73wmVnh5ux1V/s320/Slice+Pizza.jpg" width="240" /></a>When all was said and done, the pizza served was
pretty good—above average, I'd say—even if the slice size and its mass fluctuated from
one day to the next. My last takeout purchase of a couple of slices—with
pepperoni on them—was practically weightless. It was as if I had bought them on
the moon. Unquestionably, there was a consistency issue. You could get the
freshest, tastiest slice one day and a soggy muddle the next. Refrigerated pizza
from the prior day is a definite no-no in this business. And pizza visuals
matter! The place’s showcase was too often unsightly—practically empty with just
a few petrified-looking options. Nevertheless, I genuinely liked the proprietor
and hoped and prayed he would eventually get his act together. He
never did. His almost two years of misadventures seemed like an eternity to me,
a loyal customer. I can only imagine what it seemed like to him. And if this pizza man tries his luck someplace else—which I believe is very possible—I sincerely hope his pizza slice tips
stay put. I also hope in the next go-round that if he advertises “open for
breakfast” he does, in fact, open for breakfast.<br />
<br />
(Photos 1 and 2 from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-62111318401186321632023-09-30T12:42:00.006-07:002023-10-02T19:25:53.743-07:00Rainy Day Schedule<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYkzXiAOodmOYUrgLrwV0rWDv0_ExLhMEC2kXo4z7xavKtyAMH8ctcrZn1Km2HLgvsfqKeA0gxbIm7m-Dv-LaUptibvnjU7nNkInqCOmh1t68B4XIC8e4y_gBKirZmdmHGHMxlr9MVW-khrKkkt20qwD4ukHxaBTkpoWbFgWt4XcK2kqArA4BCAME36yAm/s768/St.%20John's%20Middle%20School%20Kingsbridge.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYkzXiAOodmOYUrgLrwV0rWDv0_ExLhMEC2kXo4z7xavKtyAMH8ctcrZn1Km2HLgvsfqKeA0gxbIm7m-Dv-LaUptibvnjU7nNkInqCOmh1t68B4XIC8e4y_gBKirZmdmHGHMxlr9MVW-khrKkkt20qwD4ukHxaBTkpoWbFgWt4XcK2kqArA4BCAME36yAm/s320/St.%20John's%20Middle%20School%20Kingsbridge.jpg" width="292" /></a></p>When I attended seventh grade at St. John’s Middle
School in the Bronx, there was an unusual policy in effect. It was dubbed the “Rainy
Day Schedule.” Based on the fickle whims of Mother Nature, it was an odd duck
indeed. If our principal looked out her office window and spied raindrops
falling from the clouds, she would take to the school intercom and declare, “Today, we will be following the ‘Rainy Day Schedule,’” which cast asunder the hour
lunch break and augured an early dismissal, 1:30 p.m. instead of 2:30 p.m., as
I recall. Personally, I liked “Rainy Day Schedule” days. Getting out of school at
1:30 versus 2:30 was very appealing to this twelve-year-old boy, who lived just
a couple of blocks away.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Under sunny skies—on a more typical school day—I would venture
home for lunch and return to school for the afternoon session. But not every
kid did that. A fair sampling of my peers <i>enjoyed</i> “hot lunch,” as it was known, in the school’s cafeteria. The wafting aroma of a Chef Boyardee-esque
tomato sauce was quite commonplace around lunchtime, but not when the “Rainy
Day Schedule” was operational. Presumably, this policy saved some bucks on
meals <i>not served</i>. What other reason could there have been for it? Being at the
mercy of the weather must have truly inconvenienced some parents, who were now
responsible for their young’uns arriving home an hour earlier than usual and,
of course, serving them lunch. <i>And what about the lunch ladies?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlNPBkJkiIJowTCcua6_eaO5Am8Q1SkYjDzC7Uj_Lt7kFCSJPw4NrexnOtfHqfD5JD6ferN4PTTPJjp4iX6o4dx8325aepIJk9lJTQF_7Cxd_5bA7j9fNzcyaKGwacO0qdSLG3wjpSGFdYUX8L00qabJSI7lEiJ4zq2aP1g-BWFJ6-CTkoLbLuoDr-Iodz/s2048/St.%20John's%20Grammar%20School%20Letter%201975%20Bronx%20New%20York.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1335" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlNPBkJkiIJowTCcua6_eaO5Am8Q1SkYjDzC7Uj_Lt7kFCSJPw4NrexnOtfHqfD5JD6ferN4PTTPJjp4iX6o4dx8325aepIJk9lJTQF_7Cxd_5bA7j9fNzcyaKGwacO0qdSLG3wjpSGFdYUX8L00qabJSI7lEiJ4zq2aP1g-BWFJ6-CTkoLbLuoDr-Iodz/s320/St.%20John's%20Grammar%20School%20Letter%201975%20Bronx%20New%20York.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>If memory serves, Sister Estelle’s invoking of the “Rainy
Day Schedule” was more popular than not. It, though, often seemed arbitrary—a
close call, as it were—whether or not we’d dash out into the rain or drizzle an
hour before our standard dismissal time. Looking back on the whole affair, it likely
generated more problems than benefits. If saving on the Chef Boyardee-esque
tomato sauce bill was the wind beneath the wings of this policy, I don’t remember it
ever being explained one way or the other. And this was 1974-75, the heyday of Catholic schools in New
York City, when their cups runneth over with cash and student fannies in every desk
available. My classmates and I represented the tail end of the baby boom. Just a few
years later, in fact, St. John’s Middle School, which housed seventh and eighth
grades, shuttered its doors, and all eight grades fit into the grammar school
on Godwin Terrace, a hop, skip, and a jump away. Once upon a time, this
building served kindergarten through the sixth grade only. And several years
after that consolidation, the middle school was back in business, hosting the
whole shebang. The Archdiocese of New York leased the empty buildings—first the
middle school then the larger grammar school—to the New York City Board of
Education.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFdQSnx2nBDS5yI86sw3P5Os-qGq5yEd6JFtgPseVWWxQ0lekl3QwVlJJc61j5cV4qCzApzgV3ygV-3dW1hy7y-KzyjhvtB1bikRDkfEnDIu7CF6JEPpeVyy3MdTZJXLLY0aHWFfPzVyOZ9PoeO9c_xgbc7sfyg-b_e-VPhaVqewLVqlWokmrd_yLgBK8/s2048/St.%20John's%20Grammar%20School%20Bronx%20New%20York%201976%20Graduation.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1595" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFdQSnx2nBDS5yI86sw3P5Os-qGq5yEd6JFtgPseVWWxQ0lekl3QwVlJJc61j5cV4qCzApzgV3ygV-3dW1hy7y-KzyjhvtB1bikRDkfEnDIu7CF6JEPpeVyy3MdTZJXLLY0aHWFfPzVyOZ9PoeO9c_xgbc7sfyg-b_e-VPhaVqewLVqlWokmrd_yLgBK8/s320/St.%20John's%20Grammar%20School%20Bronx%20New%20York%201976%20Graduation.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>As fate would have it, the noble experiment that was
the “Rainy Day Schedule” vanished the following year, never to be seen or heard
from again. It was an experimental time for sure. Also in my seventh grade, A,
B, C, and D grades were jettisoned in favor of 1, 2, 3, and 4 grades. Our
education was thorough enough, however, that we weren’t fooled by this sleight
of hand. Getting a mess of 4s in lieu of Ds offered the recipient little solace.
Being a straight 1 student was still preferable. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">In tandem with the “Rainy Day Schedule,” the 1, 2, 3,
4 grading system was retired as well, a folly soon forgotten. The
eighth grade for me was weatherproof with the venerable A, B, and C
thing back in business. Blame it on the rain, if you want, but it was most assuredly a simpler time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas
Nigro)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-50293995316203600712023-09-12T16:46:00.000-07:002023-09-12T18:02:04.364-07:00If I Could Save a Time in a Bottle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQqDVfXdXearzin8Opu3KfGnCvoKXNaIA3j5nIDutiVuuXliAYjm_JVUcRrqN3eVDmYxPunLl22LgIyTAPdCDaUiZeq6KmHUwZQO4-HeUaqouRus0RW0PI1pzoezNY5GCmmeirbWx7toM/s1600/Yogi+Berra+Mets.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQqDVfXdXearzin8Opu3KfGnCvoKXNaIA3j5nIDutiVuuXliAYjm_JVUcRrqN3eVDmYxPunLl22LgIyTAPdCDaUiZeq6KmHUwZQO4-HeUaqouRus0RW0PI1pzoezNY5GCmmeirbWx7toM/s1600/Yogi+Berra+Mets.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">(Originally published 9/23/15)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">
Another icon has died: the
incomparable Yogi Berra. The man personified a time when professional
baseball—and professional sports in general—had both character and characters.
He also transcended the game in which he played and played so well. </div>
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Yogi will always be a Met in my eyes. He managed my all-time
favorite team, the 1973 New York Mets, who improbably came within a game of
winning the World Series against the heavily favored Oakland A’s. Previously,
they had beaten the heavily favored Cincinnati Reds—the “Big Red Machine”—in
the National League playoffs. The whole spectacle was especially remarkable
because the 1973 Mets were floundering pretty much all season long—beset with
all kinds of injuries—and closer to the basement than the penthouse when the
month of September began. In fact, <i>The New York Post </i>had run a
mid-summer poll, which posed the question to its readership, “Who should the
Mets fire for their underachieving: Manager Yogi Berra, General Manager Bob
Scheffing, or Board Chairman M. Donald Grant?” Scheffing and Grant got the
lion’s share of the votes—and deservedly so. Yogi was a beloved figure and
wasn’t to blame. After all, he went on to win the pennant. It’s a crying shame the pompous patrician Grant wasn’t sent packing then before he single-handedly destroyed a great franchise. (We shall never forget the Grant’s
Tomb years: 1977-1979.)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLipihlO5itM_o2nSEgAU8AKaQJlo9gcHdT_yVzHnZWv6-zhhqlx6ysI9QAQfAdH7ppSsFJOxjIW-JjipSkUG5C0DIehOubz282lpRO3Q0xDDKefpXdhyphenhyphenmkPPPZ7OceN5Dx4AdwaK8Yn5s/s1600/Yogi+Berra+Mets+Coach.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLipihlO5itM_o2nSEgAU8AKaQJlo9gcHdT_yVzHnZWv6-zhhqlx6ysI9QAQfAdH7ppSsFJOxjIW-JjipSkUG5C0DIehOubz282lpRO3Q0xDDKefpXdhyphenhyphenmkPPPZ7OceN5Dx4AdwaK8Yn5s/s1600/Yogi+Berra+Mets+Coach.jpg" /></a></div>
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There was nothing quite like being a kid and a fan back
then. In the real world—the adult world—there was President Nixon and Watergate
and, too, Vice President Agnew resigning during the post-season excitement. But
I was pushing eleven in September and October 1973 and not particularly interested in the goings-on in Washington, D.C. I didn’t care whether or not our president was a crook—let's put it that way. I was more interested in watching Mets’ games on the black-and-white television in our family living room and listening to just
as many on the radio—my personal radio. No, it wasn’t a transistor. It was a much bigger
deal than that with a dial. The radio could be either battery operated or plugged
into an electrical outlet. What more could a boy want? Actually, my godmother had
gotten me the radio as a First Holy Communion gift a couple of years
earlier—one of the fringe benefits of being raised a Catholic. Holy Sacraments
and that <i>very first time</i> often came attached to presents and sometimes even monetary rewards. Anyway,
the radio is what I wanted so I could listen to Mets’
games—period and end of story. I don’t remember using it for any other purpose but to tune in to the dulcet tones of word painters Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy, and Ralph Kiner—the Holy Trinity as far as I was concerned.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaNOc29_b1qeJcrF6bANtoJu49AfJtNmksFTN-7jA0SjwsiOE-b8TJmnjRdK0FvU6D9N-xaA0xa0w5-Iw7-_KaemAN7Wv5MjCUsyVJyDDgvlXAz6IwPEeCb3yGUN1PiRUz8bOWHzdn8PAC/s1600/Seaver+Berra+McGraw+Ya+Gotta+Believe+1973.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaNOc29_b1qeJcrF6bANtoJu49AfJtNmksFTN-7jA0SjwsiOE-b8TJmnjRdK0FvU6D9N-xaA0xa0w5-Iw7-_KaemAN7Wv5MjCUsyVJyDDgvlXAz6IwPEeCb3yGUN1PiRUz8bOWHzdn8PAC/s320/Seaver+Berra+McGraw+Ya+Gotta+Believe+1973.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was definitely <i>a time</i> worth saving in a bottle. I recall
Yogi’s rather humble description of managing. He said, “All you have to know is
when to take your pitchers out and how to keep your players happy.” The first
year of the Designated Hitter in the American League was in 1973, which more or
less torpedoed the only in-game strategy Yogi believed a Major League Baseball manager needed
to master. By the way, Tom Seaver completed eighteen games in 1973 (after a
career high of twenty-one in 1971). There were no pitch counts and other such
nonsense back then. Yogi Berra, manager; Tom Seaver, the ace of the pitching staff;
and the legendary Willie Mays on the very same roster in a pennant race and then in a World Series—<i>you gotta believe</i> nothing even remotely resembling that will
ever occur again. </div>
Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-33769382546358590372023-08-29T05:45:00.000-07:002023-08-29T09:33:02.930-07:00All Those Years Ago<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEical_Ie1NFqd_ciC-XghcsPk2Ncj-qEoauNQgVL2e-QFMS_oIW69AaUI9DAB_9BpoQZztOfuruiHAQzmjgJTT4qaJ8JwCd0WDz_pQlCd-ZfclW7UVawkPrzoslnzb68SH3kFWs7HoSLAvk/s1600/TicketStub.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEical_Ie1NFqd_ciC-XghcsPk2Ncj-qEoauNQgVL2e-QFMS_oIW69AaUI9DAB_9BpoQZztOfuruiHAQzmjgJTT4qaJ8JwCd0WDz_pQlCd-ZfclW7UVawkPrzoslnzb68SH3kFWs7HoSLAvk/s320/TicketStub.jpg" width="158" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyw37z-W6jOdpoLQCl_34DMjWO0xvxWHi5UiHNo1AU700-Mc_oNu6NtQTkyS8YUWie4atkNF3BdSs-wyYgxUWUHlrMJuDZ41ErqDdtoHa437rGGmjzYKdZvJjt0xeD2REV58lUAXViS1Wr/s1600/SteelPier.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyw37z-W6jOdpoLQCl_34DMjWO0xvxWHi5UiHNo1AU700-Mc_oNu6NtQTkyS8YUWie4atkNF3BdSs-wyYgxUWUHlrMJuDZ41ErqDdtoHa437rGGmjzYKdZvJjt0xeD2REV58lUAXViS1Wr/s320/SteelPier.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilmfx-Alc3zA3QhujSLu6Cb7AA3z7UTNgBR6yXbVqSE6a3LyN5aARcAzGgZtLqnLD_RwxJ0xIWv7R1ULQ7INFH66dZF7cm0N_exlMgmvg12XIip-dsMvicEKEsQFGwZeb81MLB5OKNOJXA/s1600/IndependenceHall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilmfx-Alc3zA3QhujSLu6Cb7AA3z7UTNgBR6yXbVqSE6a3LyN5aARcAzGgZtLqnLD_RwxJ0xIWv7R1ULQ7INFH66dZF7cm0N_exlMgmvg12XIip-dsMvicEKEsQFGwZeb81MLB5OKNOJXA/s320/IndependenceHall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>(Originally published 8/29/12)</div><div><br /></div>
On August 29, 1977, exactly thirty-five years ago, the world was a decidedly different place from my youthful perspective and, too, in practical reality. Simpler pleasures ruled the roost. This day in history saw three Bronx boys—Kingsbridge denizens aged twenty-six, seventeen, and fourteen (me)—embark on an adventuresome itinerary that kicked off just after sunrise. <br />
<br />
Our first stopover was the Brigantine Castle in the shore town of Brigantine, New Jersey. In the mid-1970s, the commercials for this haunted house attraction on the Atlantic’s edge inundated local New York City television station airwaves. It was something we just had to check out <em>and we did</em>. But the overall experience didn’t quite live up to the grand hype. It seems the castle's employee-performers were phoning it in that morning while springing out of shadowy niches, stabbing us with rubber knives, and flinging rubber rats into our paths. The Brigantine Castle was out of business several years later. It burned to the ground before a developer could demolish it. <em>Perhaps it really was haunted</em>.<br />
<br />
Our journey found us next in pre-casino Atlantic City, where we strolled the historic boardwalk. I don’t remember why, but the three of us expected Atlantic City to be a sparkling jewel on the ocean and not a dilapidated and seedy eyesore. Seaside Heights was eye candy by comparison. Nonetheless, it was nice to see that a Philadelphia Phillies' player named Greg "the Bull" Luzinski and a former one named Richie Ashburn were scheduled to appear at the legendary Steel Pier. We didn’t stick around long enough to uncover what they were going to do when they got there.<br />
<br />
Onward to Philadelphia and Independence Hall, where I at long last laid eyes on that crack in the Liberty Bell—up close and personal. Finally, with evening fast approaching, the icing on the day’s layer cake: a visit to Veterans Stadium and a Phillies versus Atlanta Braves baseball game. And yet another first for us—witnessing live a game played on artificial turf. Veterans Stadium was among the multi-sport, cookie-cutter, synthetic grass stadiums that were the rage in the 1970s. They’ve since become passé and most of them have been demolished, including Veterans Stadium. Fortunately, Greg Luzinski made it back in time from the Steel Pier and and was in the starting lineup. <br />
<br />
After a fourteen-inning game that took a little over four hours to complete, it was back to the Bronx in the wee hours on a sleepy high—a thrill-packed, 1970s-style adventure and one that cannot be replicated in the new millennium. Whereas both the Brigantine Castle and Veterans Stadium are gone with the sands of time, Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell endure. And the Bronx boys—now sixty-one, fifty-two, and forty-nine—humbly accept there will not likely be another thirty-five-year anniversary to commemorate.<br />
<br />
(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)<br />
<br />Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5848511270892110654.post-62673587430923629352023-08-19T13:31:00.003-07:002023-08-19T13:40:24.480-07:00Bummer Summer Ramblings<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2x5k_dv2esLiZcqhbVUzqobhejJJbWYwOpfI81xksulZCNcorsFg6PZaDEdU3fofjSuZGfxIaryGx4ONX6psLtlXA6GXMaeTsQpFBDvtBsAOR88RM6rlKzAVt4XME4EGAwlyTbZmisrVfTO-SxGiTVDA58hVfp0WFiMPCXbitkdA5xcquOtsAhKOFcxKE/s655/Good%20Humor%20Truck.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="655" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2x5k_dv2esLiZcqhbVUzqobhejJJbWYwOpfI81xksulZCNcorsFg6PZaDEdU3fofjSuZGfxIaryGx4ONX6psLtlXA6GXMaeTsQpFBDvtBsAOR88RM6rlKzAVt4XME4EGAwlyTbZmisrVfTO-SxGiTVDA58hVfp0WFiMPCXbitkdA5xcquOtsAhKOFcxKE/s320/Good%20Humor%20Truck.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Once upon a time, I loved summer, I really did. What,
after all, wasn’t to like? Oh, sure, it could get ghastly hot and humid in the Bronx.
And, too, I grew up on the top floor of a three-family house with seven
residents sharing one bathroom, no air conditioning, and intermittent brown
outs courtesy of our local utility Con Edison. That’s the way it was when I was
<i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">a young and callow fellow</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">. But, come on, summer was about a vacation by
the sea—the New Jersey shore or Long Island—baseball, the Good Humor man, and incessant
stoop chatter by young and old alike. School was also out, which counted for an awful lot. That fact alone
made sleeping with a wet washcloth peachy keen.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88PSB0FDNYigpu5E7V4yOFsmxfw0mmVPuVcwraiNdf2e2bO_kQWFktWSTYE-1I6FkW5w_XJxaBbe4ORRDeLWfwhd8wWoB2lQP7dw5CNhPi4yISvut2v5WjzMvth0UQrUQ-Rn8BOifBMKYQ1YU_kMEYtYH7v8-zcC5KU7O2QIk1jGpgOxVisYG68ATPD1U/s643/Lightning%20Bub.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="643" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88PSB0FDNYigpu5E7V4yOFsmxfw0mmVPuVcwraiNdf2e2bO_kQWFktWSTYE-1I6FkW5w_XJxaBbe4ORRDeLWfwhd8wWoB2lQP7dw5CNhPi4yISvut2v5WjzMvth0UQrUQ-Rn8BOifBMKYQ1YU_kMEYtYH7v8-zcC5KU7O2QIk1jGpgOxVisYG68ATPD1U/s320/Lightning%20Bub.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Those bygone summers are distant memories. Nowadays, I see
more pesky lantern flies than lightning bugs, which were ubiquitous
in my neighborhood when I was a boy. Most of their former habitats have been
built upon and their mating modus operandi has been simultaneously stymied by omnipresent
lighting sources from home security cameras, streetlamps, and automobiles galore. I fondly recall
sitting on the concrete grounds of the alleyway adjoining my home and enjoying
a Good Humor cola-flavored Italian ice with a little wooden spoon. The ice and
spoon cost twenty cents. It was, if memory serves, a solid ice ball, but I relished
the thing on those warm, quiet, dark summer nights replete with lightning bugs
and a reassuring calm. It didn’t matter to me that the spoon inevitably passed
through the paper cup multiple times during the ice shaving. The sticky
struggle to reach the bottom was well worth it. That’s where most of the cola
coalesced, infusing the finishing bites with an incredible summer taste
sensation. Of course, there were better brands of Italian ices around, like Marinos, but they, sadly, were not peddled by the Good Humor man.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCy4jqKR47EmqjNBt7YD1b0uFW3CViFO37Uz48u8hhksdpZ0wPXXLbHdNiqs1KQh8QH60fru9cDKw6Z-rRVFHt2x1fmfJ9HBd4C6buT4QcCVMpWB_u2QAqFMbJvLv7gdy8PixUx4fhNSCTRgR7ereOo8n1c5GvwM-8NJ-JEdddeuQiLG6bQRzo-a1zlEdI/s258/Lantern%20Fly.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="258" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCy4jqKR47EmqjNBt7YD1b0uFW3CViFO37Uz48u8hhksdpZ0wPXXLbHdNiqs1KQh8QH60fru9cDKw6Z-rRVFHt2x1fmfJ9HBd4C6buT4QcCVMpWB_u2QAqFMbJvLv7gdy8PixUx4fhNSCTRgR7ereOo8n1c5GvwM-8NJ-JEdddeuQiLG6bQRzo-a1zlEdI/s1600/Lantern%20Fly.jpg" width="258" /></a></i></div><i>Time waits for no Good Humor man</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">.
Oops, that sentence, I fear, violates many of today’s college and university
speech codes. Nevertheless, I’ll soldier on and, when needed, use the phrase, “Kill
two birds with one stone,” and not as Stanford University suggests, “Feeding
two birds with one scone.” Also flagged as a violent turn of phrase: “Bury the
hatchet.” But I digress, the streets of my youth are presently overrun with Grubhub
and other delivery drivers on fast scooters and electric bikes, revving cars
with tinted windows, and the occasional "dune buggies" that look like something
the Joker rode around in on the <i>Batman </i>TV series. No more
Good Humor trucks pass by—the fleet has long been retired. The ringing of the
bells heralding their arrival are no longer heard. Mister Softee, though, still haunts
the back streets with the familiar jingle playing ad nauseum and further disturbing the peace. I checked out the price of a Mister Softee milk shake:
six dollars for a rather small cup in my opinion. I remember when it was
served in a monster cup that had to contain at least a quart. The shakes cost around
sixty cents sometime in the mid-1970s, which the inflation calculator puts at some
four dollars in contemporary dollars, which doesn’t sound too out of whack,
except that the shakes are half the size.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pKNvQ0e1-wDkM3HAEOXT4TS0lANfW-5kToY_6ox5KLbkq0iOcGjJIemZWusBLdzvpx7zAA72kYYdnC2xssdPp2Fw9uBkLamwVVIcQKsxRCNskMKsHuJVTrCtXpyH85X8Cd--zm3Yk1VXKJLJ8l4YCB0kKDP5JIWgClssApWORQzCPMS_UGXhzV9mAfwK/s3199/Noise%20Pollution%20New%20York%20City.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2132" data-original-width="3199" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pKNvQ0e1-wDkM3HAEOXT4TS0lANfW-5kToY_6ox5KLbkq0iOcGjJIemZWusBLdzvpx7zAA72kYYdnC2xssdPp2Fw9uBkLamwVVIcQKsxRCNskMKsHuJVTrCtXpyH85X8Cd--zm3Yk1VXKJLJ8l4YCB0kKDP5JIWgClssApWORQzCPMS_UGXhzV9mAfwK/s320/Noise%20Pollution%20New%20York%20City.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Contrast that with the tuition of my high school years
(1976-80), which I recall as being around $800 for the year. Without fail, in the middle of
the summer, a packet arrived with all kinds of depressing back-to-school
information, including an apology from the principal for raising tuition by eight
or ten dollars. That price tag seemed steep back then and it was for my parents,
who sent multiple kids to Catholic grammar and high schools. Plugging in the
inflation calculator again: $800 equals $3800 in 2023 dollars. My alma mater’s
current tuition: $10,000. When I graduated college in 1984, my tuition for two
semesters totaled $5,000. Today that money could buy me about $15,000 worth of
goods and services. Manhattan College’s tuition for the coming year: approximately
$50,000. What gives? All I can say is “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the
time.” Also, <i>don’t take out the loan if you can’t repay the lender</i>. I
always thought that some of my college courses were a ridiculous waste of time,
especially when considering the enormity of the tuition bill. Today, with
higher education crazy expensive and increasingly Orwellian, that waste of
time and money assumes a whole new meaning. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj22R3cF6xYXU3DLeVlrWxipg50BF7SsIWLIvkKjuhoxsX_Ip3Qd1VPNbGlSPdzqXxiX6dfH6l57a-Lf5IEf9i3oWklh0-iii2iqRxbZu3B9KtJ2DDqfYMGahlMIYPk4osKYQdVqxZQ4etLLlI5zTcm6XDb2vJn3dPhTwVNP-DmATzdwqAc5Aum1pJfs2Gk/s720/Joker%20Mobile%20Batman%20TV.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj22R3cF6xYXU3DLeVlrWxipg50BF7SsIWLIvkKjuhoxsX_Ip3Qd1VPNbGlSPdzqXxiX6dfH6l57a-Lf5IEf9i3oWklh0-iii2iqRxbZu3B9KtJ2DDqfYMGahlMIYPk4osKYQdVqxZQ4etLLlI5zTcm6XDb2vJn3dPhTwVNP-DmATzdwqAc5Aum1pJfs2Gk/s320/Joker%20Mobile%20Batman%20TV.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>So, I look around at what has become an urban
dystopia. A passing Grubhub guy is doing a wheelie while on his scooter. <i>Hope he’s not
delivering a pizza</i>. All I can say is: This is now and that was then.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Nicholas Nigrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18324152357205743348noreply@blogger.com0