Gee Whiz...It's Halloween

(Originally published on 10/30/18)

These are definitely times that try men's souls—and women's souls, too. Happily, there are welcome and necessary distractions on the horizon. First there's Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and the—pièce de ré·sis·tance—Christmas. Wait a minute...wait a minute...wait a minute. Some people will be offended by other people's Halloween costumes. And Thanksgiving will be seen by a fair share of folks as celebrating historical misdeeds, not to mention gluttony and cruelty to turkeys. Then there's Christmas with its religious trappings in public places and cries of an outright "War on Christmas." If there is actually such a thing, it's a futile one. The candy canes, wrapping paper, and Whitman Samplers are already filling up the aisles of local stores. In a couple of days, Christmas music will be playing on the radio without pause for the next two months.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas at the Gee Whiz diner in Tribeca.

Look what the tide dragged in...or the sewers dragged out.

Moments after this photo was taken at Battery Park, I spied a rather somber chap paddling a canoe in the distance. He had a tear running down his cheek.

The Bronx is up but the Battery is down, the latter being where the "Best Hot Dog in New York" can be found.

In an episode of The Munsters entitled "Herman the Rookie," the legendary Leo Durocher gets whacked in the head by an airborne baseball. He queries his companion as to the location of the nearest ball field. When he learns that it's eight long blocks away, Durocher employs a bit of logic and deduces that's where the ball first took flight. He then sets out to find the obvious hitting prodigy—the wind beneath the wings of the errant ball—and sign him to a big league contract. And it turned out to be, by the way, none other than Herman Munster. Recently, I cast my eyes upon this impressive line of trophies in an apartment building's window and thought about Leo Durocher and his razor-sharp logical thinking. Who is the wunderkind therein, I asked? Sign that mystery kid up to something.

The quartet was a no-show.

It is said that a zebra can't change its stripes. But a New York City subway zebra board can when a station is closed for repairs. Well, at least the color of its stripes, which go from black to red.

What will they think of next? Traffic signs with drunk drivers in mind.

New York City is a diverse town. Sundry garbage as well...

While on the subject of refuse. Here's a shot of a tourist posing for a picture with a New York City garbage scow as the backdrop. 

Some squirrels have all the luck. This fortunate fellow calls home the environs of Battery Park with a bird's-eye view of Lady Liberty.

Whiskey, you're the devil.

Not really sure how effective this campaign is going to be.

If you look hard enough, you'll eventually find a pizza pie with your name on it.

The George Washington Bridge is always a better visual from afar.

Birds flying south for the winter? No, pigeons in flight to their nearby lair—the W238th Street subway station in the Bronx—where they regularly roost and shower the two-legged on the street below with feathers and excrement.

Daytime moon over a man called Q-Ball's building.

Say it ain't so: Ben and Willard are facing eviction.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Mount Airy Lodge Life Lesson

(Originally published 4/23/16)

As a boy growing up in the Bronx during the 1970s, there were more than a few television commercials that repeatedly played on local New York City stations—businesses chumming for customers in the sprawling demographic. Mount Airy Lodge in the Pocono Mountains—the “premier honeymoon hideaway” with its floor-to-ceiling mirrors, heart-shaped bathtubs, and every conceivable amenity—was among them. “All you have to bring is your love of everything,” the resort’s commercial jingle intoned. No mention was made to bring a credit card, too, which I suspect would have come in handy. Their ads always ended with the melodiously uplifting lyrics: “Beautiful Mount Airy Lodge.” Why would anyone want to honeymoon anyplace else? After seeing its various commercials—probably hundreds of times over the years—one couldn't help but feel that Mount Airy Lodge was somehow immortal and would be there for generations to come.

So, imagine my shock when I discovered the place had fallen into utter disrepair in the 1990s—a dilapidated eyesore that had little choice but to face the wrecking ball lock, stock, and barrel. Even beautiful Mount Airy Lodge had a finite lifespan. Nothing lasts forever, it seemed. (Having been completely demolished, the Mount Airy Casino Resort now sits on the same terra firma.)

My earliest recollections of ubiquitous television commercials involved the Palisades Amusement Park in Palisades, New Jersey, just across the Hudson River. Its jingle became embedded in my brain at a very young age: “Palisades from coast to coast, where a dime buys the most. Ride the coaster, get cool in the waves in the pool. You’ll have fun, so come on over. Palisades Amusement Park swings all day and after dark.” If memory serves, I visited one time and one time only on a rather bleak, rainy afternoon. Naturally, I anticipated enjoying the park on a sunny summer’s day in the future, when I was a little older and could ride their famous roller coaster and swim in the park’s saltwater pool. But despite what the eight-year-old me surmised after watching its commercial invitations on the television over and over and over, Palisades Amusement Park, too, was not immortal. It shut down its rides and attractions for all time in September 1971. A developer made the park’s owner an offer he couldn’t refuse, and the old park space is now a series of luxury apartment buildings with stellar views of the Manhattan skyline.

And worth mentioning here is the Haunted Mansion in Long Branch, New Jersey. Its commercials ran continuously during the warmer climes, and they always ended with the bloodcurdling invitation: “The Haunted Mansion in Long Branch…it’s waiting for you.” I, though, never did get to “wander through its myriad of secret passageways and winding labyrinths” because it burned to the ground in 1987. Again, further proof that nothing lasts forever. Fortunately, I visited its ethereal neighbor to the south, the Brigantine Castle, in Brigantine, New Jersey. It, too, ran oodles of commercials on New York City airwaves—and it, too, is no longer with us. So, gather ye rosebuds while ye may.

Finally, and perhaps the bitterest pill to swallow, was the closure of the Albert Merrill School in Manhattan. One commercial with spokesperson Jimmy Randolph ran for years on local TV. It featured a young woman, by happenstance, bumping into Jimmy Randolph, who was standing pensively on the busy streets of New York and staring off into space. She recognizes him immediately as the man who does the commercials for the Albert Merrill School. Coincidentally, she’s looking for the very place, which gives Jimmy the perfect excuse to walk her over there while simultaneously extolling this grand vocational school's countless virtues. It’s funny, but this was the only commercial I remember ever airing, yet the actress recognizes Jimmy Randolph from the commercials. A Seinfeld episode? Post-modern television for sure. But even the Albert Merrill School is a mere memory now, which I never would have thought possible when I was a teen. It, too, didn’t endure as a permanent fixture on the landscape to aid and abet students of all ages in this increasingly dog-eat-dog world of ours. Rest assured, everything here today will be gone tomorrow—one of these days.

The Sidewalk Phalanx and Other Annoyances

(Originally published on 12/11/19)

A few days ago on a relatively busy Manhattan street, I encountered the always-annoying sidewalk phalanx. It consisted, in this instance, of three women and a canine. One was walking the dog with a flexi-lead. Another pushed a baby stroller with a child presumably in it. As I was in the phalanx's rear, I cannot say for certain. The third woman on the right flank had no evident duty except to run interference with her companions.

Anyway, the foursome (plus a possible little one) gingerly ambled along, stopping suddenly when Fido veered off to his left for a smell break. We passersby in their rear were left with no choice but to awkwardly zigzag to and fro and endeavor to slither by the oblivious quartet. Of course, I don’t blame the dog for being a dog. It’s the two-legged, who repeated this stop-and-go over and over as they made their way ever-so-slowly up a long city block, whom I hold responsible.

Hear this: Ladies, you are not alone. You are not walking in the Quiet Trails State Nature Preserve in Cynthiana, Kentucky. You’re on Chambers Street, which isn’t all that far from the canyons of Wall Street. 

Speaking of being steamed...

Today in my local Rite Aid drug store, I watched a woman at the check-out counter not miss a beat in a seemingly trivial personal conversation on her smartphone. The aggravating icing on the cake was that she laid the phone down on the counter along with her purchases and I could see the person she was talking with from my position next in line.

And moments after that close encounter of a very annoying kind, I almost got run down by a stupid kid on a bike. Seems it never occurred to him that when turning a corner on a sidewalk that a fellow human being might in his path. That is, after all, what sidewalks are for: People walking on them.

I can certainly understand why New York City has these in some snippets of parks.

And now for something completely different: Christmas on Canal Street. One sale is bigger than the next. If you are shopping for junk in volume, this is the place to be.

No matter where I go, though, there are constant reminders of what slobs we the people are. In this particular case, somebody cut his or her lunch hour short. Must have been really bad news. Sadder still, this person used a pay phone.

All I want for Christmas is a little less garbage.

Question of the day: Would you rather have a piano prodigy in the family or a coffee-making one?

Non-oppressive and anti-imperialist books? Sounds like fun reading. I wonder what the shop's owner pays in rent. Perhaps he owns the building...

I've heard there is a shortage this year of a favored Christmas tree, the Fraser fir. Seems, though, that I hear about some such shortage every year.

A cynic might conclude that it's good for business and the bottom line.

Saw a news story that this Manhattan tree seller sells twenty-foot Fraser firs for $6,500. And worth every penny if one is Michael Bloomberg.

The King of Jing-a-Ling doesn't worry about such things.

Nor Frosty...

Fear not: He'll be back again someday!

Yes, we are closing in on 2020 and Big Brother is watching you and me...

Finally, I've heard all about people seeing Christ's visage in the strangest places, like on a piece of burnt toast or in a field of dead grass. Strange, but I recently saw my image on a subway tunnel pillar.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Never Again…Again

(Originally published 9/3/17)

It’s the unofficial end to another summer. And despite my passionate distaste for the season’s heat and humidity, there’s always something melancholy about its swan song. Like no other, summer's end underscores the passage of time and, yes, death itself. The fledgling days of fall have the uncanny knack of commingling sticky summer-like days with crisp autumn ones. Memories of returning to school during that annual weather tug-of-war remain intense and unpleasant. Despite not experiencing a new school year since 1984, that glum, nervous-stomach state of mind isn’t easily forgotten.

The beginning of Labor Day weekend 2017 found me in Battery Park along with thousands of tourists from all over the world. Willing to brave the long lines to board boats, which take them to Liberty Island, Ellis Island, and on tours of New York Harbor, they are a hearty bunch indeed. When I visited Lady Liberty some forty-five years ago, it was a simpler time for sure. There was no navigating through “airport-style security” before boarding the boat.

I also encountered tourists snapping pictures alongside a very big man on stilts or two dressed as the Statue of Liberty. The next best thing to the real thing, I guess. Was he or they licensed to do that? Doubtful. Whatever the case may have been, this Herman Munster-sized fellow received gratuities from the posing minions that, I’d calculate, tallied up to a nice piece of change. There was no shortage of customers. Actually, I thought the Statue of Liberty guy looked sort of scary and more like the Winter Warlock—but then the Statue of Liberty up-close is kind of frightening, too.

Aside from the hustle and bustle of the madding crowds, that part of Manhattan is overrun with men and women whose job it is to persuade visitors to call on the Statue of Liberty or take some bus or harbor tour. Based on commissions, the competition is at once cutthroat and intrusive. Two pitchmen almost came to blows over some territorial issue. This aggressive scenario is likewise on display in the environs of Times Square.

The Statue of Liberty isn’t the only statue in that area of the city. There are a lot of them around. I can’t help but look at these various monuments differently now. The New York Daily News recently featured a front-page headline: “Statues of Irritation.” An article therein chronicled the names of individuals whose statues are controversial, including the usual suspect, Christopher Columbus, but also some surprising figures. Progressive New York City Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia (1934-45) was on the list—and he has a high school and airport named after him—as was Ulysses S. Grant. “He’s got two statues in Brooklyn,” the piece noted, “and his tomb in Manhattan.” Who’s buried in Grant’s tomb? He who must not be named. Joseph Pulitzer also made the list. He’s not only got a statue in the city, but a prize named after him. In my travels, I passed by the Ape & Cat (At the Dance) statue in Battery Park. If the statue committee digs deeper, they’ll unearth some dirt on it.

The icing on the cake of yesterday’s escapade in these crazy times was my breaking a “never again” vow, one that I made several years ago. Vis-à-vis hot dog purchases from street vendors, the law of diminishing returns had been at play for years. The youthful me loved them; the adult me, not so much. In fact, they were becoming borderline inedible. I finally said: No mas. I would not purchase a hot dog or, worse still, a hot hot dog, christened a hot sausage, on the street. Yet, I ordered two hot sausages and a twenty-four-ounce bottle of lukewarm water to wash them down. I sat in earshot of the Staten Island Ferry entrance and consumed this curious repast. One thing cannot be denied: They were spicy hot all right. But never again…again.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Never Borrow Money Needlessly...but When You Need to Borrow

(Originally published 1/27/12)

Today’s search keywords that escorted Internet surfers to my blog included “boring adult classroom,” “a really strange family,” “a water bug,” “johnny hot dog,” “pic slices of pizza,” “bowling alley signs,” “alf,” and “old burger king uniform.” If nothing else, this proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that my blog is eclectic. If fact, the search keywords included one more entry: “listen to hfc never borrow money needlessly.” It was this particular grouping of words, which I realize has little meaning to the preponderance of folks on planet Earth, that struck me most of all.

In my past blogging, I have obviously mentioned the Household Finance Corporation (HFC) jingle, which frequently played on early-1970s New York Mets' radio broadcasts. I was so into the Mets as a boy that I earned the nickname “Mr. Met.” My loyalty to that baseball team from Queens stood out in a Bronx neighborhood awash in fans of that other New York club in that other league. But this essay is not about a cross-town sports team rivalry. It’s about HFC and a commercial that still resonates in my brain. I have, on occasion, found myself singing the catchy HFC jingle in the shower and in other places, too, forty years later.

I can’t exactly explain why, but the ad was a lovely marriage of words and music that would effortlessly segue into the broadcast booth. Radio listeners would then hear the din of the stadium crowd only for several seconds. To a little kid mesmerized by the game of baseball and, too, the voices of Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy, and Ralph Kiner who would soon chime him, it was a beautiful sound.

The HFC jingle was uniquely harmonious in a simpler age of lending for sure: “Never borrow money needlessly, but when you need to borrow, you get more than money from HFC—more than just money—Household Finance.” To think that somebody actually wrote these lyrics and somebody else, the musical score. But that was forty years ago. Who knows where these people are today? Still, if you have an individual singing your little jingle in the shower, or somebody googling “listen to hfc never borrow money needlessly" four decades later, I’d say you, as artists, have definitely left your marks and your lives have certainly not been in vain.

Go to the Park or Make One

Walking along the picturesque pathway from Battery Park City to Battery Park proper—which up until the mid-1960s would have placed me in the Hudson River—I encountered ominous banners on partially painted blue lampposts. The blue paint climbed the posts to the estimated storm-surge level during a “100-year storm” in 2050. Thus, on a beautiful and dry August morning in 2022, I had something to mull over—our dire future with its myriad misfortunes—and a little arithmetic to do, too. Yes, I could still be breathing in 2050, but I’d be pretty ancient with my strolling around Battery Park days in the distant rearview mirror.

Further down the same pathway put me in a pleasant piece of parkland named after a devoted public servant and the son of former three-term New York City mayor Robert F. Wagner, Jr. As I recall, Robert F. Wagner, Jr.—the son with the same name—maintained a mournful but earnest countenance. He was—by all indications—a truly dedicated and scrupulously honest man, atypical among the pandering and posturing Gotham pols of his day. Signs posted on this neatly manicured, green sliver of earth imparted a different tale of woe. Robert F. Wagner, Jr. Park, with its popular, independently owned restaurant with views of Lady Liberty and—most appreciated—a well maintained public restroom would soon be closed for extensive renovations. To address the previous signs’ portentous possibilities, the work is expected to take two years.

I Googled Robert F. Wagner Jr. Park and learned more about the plans for the new and improved Robert F. Wagner Jr. Park. It would be raised ten feet, considerably altered with less green space, and emerge resilient. Well, that’s the plan anyway. I appreciate that—when the sea is angry—that sliver of Manhattan is especially vulnerable to flooding. You don’t have to be a marine biologist to come to that conclusion.

Still, anytime a government project is proposed, it should be looked upon with a critical eye. And the neighbors should be fully apprised about the goings-on. Just around the bend of Manhattan Island from Robert F. Wagner, Jr. Park, engineers are preparing for the future’s anticipated sea-level rises. Nevertheless, the question remains: Is this makeover a necessity at this moment in time or a boondoggle—its price tag is $221 million—feathering certain people’s nests at the expense of others? For starters, I would wager that it will take more than two years to complete this transformation scheduled to commence next month. And what about the restaurant and—lest we forget—the restrooms? There’s a contented squirrel population there, as well, along with dozens of mature trees, including maples and weeping willows. The park’s only a quarter of a century old. Too young to die? Or has its time—courtesy of climate change—come? Should Robert F. Wagner, Jr. Park get with the program? Is it a matter of adapt or die a watery death down the road? I can't say for sure, but were I a squirrel, I know what my answers to the above questions would be.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

How 'Bout a Hamburger

It’s been there for as long as I can remember: a billboard along the El at W240th Street. Without interruption for decades, the same two businesses advertised on it: nearby McDonald’s and the car wash alongside it. While both establishments endure to this day, they have—for whatever reasons—opted out of the billboard promotion. Right now, Smashburger is pointing people their way. It’s a sign of the times, I guess. The hipper burger joint pitching their hipper burger selections to the public at large, which seems to have acquired more sophisticated tastes than when I was a kid.

I haven’t patronized Smashburger, but I did peruse their menu on GrubHub. The prices seem reasonable enough, but every one of their burger selections comes loaded with unacceptable toppings—from my culinary perspective—and the place doesn’t afford you the option to remove any of them. McDonald’s, on the other hand, does remove what I want removed from their hamburgers: chopped onions and pickles. Strange as it may seem, ordering a plain hamburger from McDonald’s was—once upon a time—a showstopper. Staff would literally remove the onions and pickles from the hamburger and not do a particularly good job at that. Nowadays, remove means don’t put them on to begin with—a simple act of omission. Years ago, though, McDonald’s burgers were conceived with chopped onions and pickles on them—or so it seemed. Of course, removing any toppings from McDonald’s regular burgers leaves you with nothing burgers, invisible between the buns. But insignificant as they are, I must say that—in moderation—they are perversely appealing. Every now and then, I conclude: It’s worth the inevitable sour stomach to follow.

In a very confined radius in the old neighborhood—a hop, skip, and a jump from one another—is now a McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and Smashburger. Something for everyone’s tastes. Turn a corner and there’s a couple of hipster joints specializing in—what else—burgers and steaks. This very area was once home to multiple bars with clienteles that weren’t averse to mixing it up from time to time on the front sidewalks. One of the eateries—a steakhouse—just recently opened. I noticed it on GrubHub and checked out the menu. A filet mignon steak—eight ounces—is $37; the porterhouse steak, $57. Both come with a side, but if you want it to be macaroni and cheese, it’ll cost you an extra $2; truffle fries, an extra $5. If you started your meal with an appetizer, like the grilled octopus, at $23, this starts adding up to real money. But it’s a night on the town, with—remember—McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and Smashburger just around the corner for the next time.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)