Imperfect Together

While growing up in the Bronx, many neighborhood families vacationed on the Jersey Shore. It was relatively close, covered a lot of ground, and action-packed—lots of boardwalks and amusements. I was also witness to Interstate 80 at long last cutting a course through New Jersey to Teaneck, a hop, skip, and a jump from the George Washington Bridge. This welcome extension turned a three-hour trip to Bangor, Pennsylvania—home of my maternal grandparents—to a much more tolerable hour-and-a-half. The traffic snarls at the bridge were always pretty bad, but they are a whole lot worse now, even with the vaunted E-ZPass replacing human flesh toll takers and speeding up the money exchange. I haven’t soaked up the sun at the Jersey Shore in quite a while, since “New Jersey and You” were “Perfect Together.” Local television was inundated in the 1980s with commercials featuring then Governor Tom Kean extolling the many virtues of his state. Seems like only yesterday and a long time ago.

Sun, take a good look around. This is New Jersey.

I was taught that "fifty-five saves lives." Can't say what "sixty-five" does.

There are four municipalities in Essex County, New Jersey with Orange in their names. William III of Orange has quite a legacy.

When my maternal grandmother and a great-aunt first laid eyes on this building off Interstate 80 in New Jersey, they marveled at its beauty. It was originally a Holiday Inn in the 1970s.

It was an end-of-the-school-year tradition at St. John's grammar school in the Bronx. Seventh and eighth graders were treated to a bus field trip to Lake Hopatcong, New Jersey, home of Bertrand Island Amusement Park. The place had a great roller coaster. But sadly, its days were numbered when we Bronx youth frolicked there in the mid-1970s. After seventy-three years, the park closed in 1983 and is now—what else—a series of townhouses.

The sign on this building reads: "This is no ordinary home." Indeed it's not. If inhaling perpetual car and truck fumes at the George Washington Bridge toll plaza is your thing, check it out.

The views of the bridge, Hudson River, and Manhattan are no doubt impressive, just don't open a window.

Only fifteen dollars...

Always an atmospheric launching pad for those teetering on the edge, Port Authority of New York and New Jersey bureaucrats have put an end to all of that.

The City on the Edge of Forever...

Imagine what the traffic would be like nowadays without E-ZPass...

Just up the river from the George Washington Bridge is the Tappan Zee Bridge. Recently, its original structure was completely replaced and—yes—renamed the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge. Leave it to the politicians to mess with history. The first bridge was named for a local Indian tribe: the Tappan.

Late in coming this year...

Once upon a time my family vacationed on the Jersey Shore. Glad these people weren't there.

The future New York City skyline: Jenga buildings?

The Love Boat at the Statue of Liberty.

"Let it flow...it floats back to you."

Faster than a speeding subway train...it's Super Starling.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

When No Place Is the Better Place

The news of baseball icon, restaurateur, and philanthropist Rusty Staub’s passing a couple of weeks ago landed another piercing blow and supplied a further nail in the coffin of my youth. Almost forty-six years ago to the date, I heard a very different kind of news. My favorite team, the New York Mets, had acquired Rusty from the Montreal Expos. I was nine years old at the time. To say that I was ecstatic at the prospect of Le Grande Orange, as he was affectionately known in Montreal, donning a Met uniform would be an understatement. For my youthful exuberance knew no bounds in what were—for me at least—vastly simpler times.

The announcement of the blockbuster trade was especially uplifting in the wake of revered manager Gil Hodges’ untimely passing. Hodges had long wanted Rusty on his team and had, just before his unexpected death, given the trade his blessing. Some years later, I learned that the Met organization was widely criticized for announcing the Rusty Staub acquisition on the morning of Hodges’ funeral. But I was a wide-eyed kid then interested in baseball, not adult inside-baseball.

In retrospect, death was much less pressing and a whole lot more fleeting to me as a fourth grader. I do, however, remember the news crawl, which reported the passing of Gil Hodges, appearing on the TV screen. It was Easter Sunday, April 2, 1972, and I was staggered. Just as a pizza place on nearby Riverdale Avenue called the New Concept served up a mean Sicilian slice, death was a pretty new concept to me at the time.

Rusty Staub had been a much-loved member of the expansion team Montreal Expos during their first three seasons in existence. The adoration wasn’t only for his hitting prowess, which was considerable, but for Rusty's community-oriented commingling with fans as well. The man learned to speak French and was a indefatigable, redheaded, roving ambassador for the new team on the block. When he came to New York, he fast became a fan favorite, too, and played four seasons with the Mets before he was unceremoniously traded off to the Detroit Tigers for a rotund, past-his-prime pitcher named Mickey Lolich and a prospect who turned out not to be one. It was widely believed that the deal was consummated because of Rusty’s vocal participation in the Major League Baseball labor movement and—yes—potential free agency, which was the new reality. His eventual market worth was more than supreme skinflint M. Donald Grant—who controlled the team’s purse strings—was willing to shell out. Happily, Rusty returned to finish out his career with the Mets. By then the odious Grant—who had single-handedly destroyed a thriving, proud franchise—was living out the remainder of his years in the patrician lifestyle for which he was accustomed.

At a brief and emotional press conference, former teammate and close friend, Keith Hernandez, said that Rusty was now “in a better place.” Having been in intensive care for the last two months of his life—and in a lot of pain—no place was the better place. I was—once more—in a hospital emergency room this past weekend. As a visitor and observer—not a patient—I saw more than a few people in a very bad way. One was a psychotic woman who, apparently, was homeless and not unknown to the staff. Asleep one moment and wide awake the next, she had a major meltdown when she couldn’t find her cigarette lighter. Passersby were cursed out as she fumbled for a cigarette. Security guards warily stood by. The woman sobbed, raved, and wandered away from her stretcher bed on multiple occasions. A nurse came looking for her at one point to take an X-ray, but she was nowhere to be found. The peripatetic patient eventually returned and performed an Act II and an Act III of all of the above. All the while, I heard a perpetual wail from somewhere across the ER that sounded an awful lot like a cat. The repeated “meow” sounds turned out to be a cry of “help” over and over and over. As the days wear on and events play out, I think more often of the day when a better place will be no place. Queue up the news crawl!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

That's the Signpost Up Ahead...

The next stop...

Bizarro World...

Last Wednesday's photo of the imposing George Washington Bridge.

Don't be afraid of The Fog...

The George Washington Bridge connecting Northern Manhattan with New Jersey, which never looked better.

Follow that garbage truck. It's astounding how much trash is picked up daily in New York City. How long will it be before the planet is buried in it?

Ode to men in fluorescent vests who are upgrading our infrastructure.

Have the Sannyasins spiked New York City's water supply?

Nursing home fare: as good as it gets!

First night of spring in the Bronx.

Garbage in...garbage out.

I remember bully boys mockingly calling certain contemporaries of theirs "pansies." Well, the above pansies are as tough as nails. 

 

My favorite diner's bathroom escape hatch.

Sound advice...

A clean toilet in a greasy spoon is like the cinnamon on the rice pudding...

Pretentious Manhattan...

Sign at the Stew Leonard's buffet ($7.99/lb.) goes a long way in explaining New York's obesity problem.

At Stew Leonard's and wondering whatever became of Tobey Maguire.

While ravenously attacking his non-organic BLT sandwich with sides of coleslaw and a pickle in a neighborhood greasy spoon, a friend of mine complained that Stew Leonard's doesn't carry enough organic products for his taste.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

What's Fare Isn't Always Fair and Random Observations

Once upon a time Easter meant a vacation for me. It commenced on Holy Thursday and included Good Friday and the entire week after Easter Sunday—seven whole schooldays in the springtime no less. Trust me when I say this was a gift of providential proportions.

Nowadays, the Easter vacation and, too, the largess of the Easter Bunny are distant memories. There are no more popcorn bunnies, chocolate crosses, and triple-packs of baseball cards in my Easter baskets. There are no more Easter baskets. There are no more Easter visits, too, to the maternal grandparents in Bangor, Pennsylvania and hams from Speer's Meat Market. Nothing in life lasts forever, including meat markets. An Easter footnote here: Approximately a half-century ago, I actually spotted the Easter Bunny in my grandparents' Miller Street backyard. As soon as I laid eyes on the creature, he, she, or it hopped away with resolute alacrity. The official location of the sighting: under the newly-budding black walnut tree. Of course, it could have been an alley cat.

Well, that was then and this is now as Holy Week and Passover approach. It was a pretty chilly day yesterday—still colder than normal—but tolerable at least. The sun shone brightly on the "March for Our Lives" demonstration in Manhattan. In fact, the subway was overflowing with attendees and their placards. My favorite read: "Thoughts & prayers won't protect me from bullets." True dat.

My subway adventure began at the Van Cortlandt Park terminal, where I made my way to the first car, which is typically the least crowded on the southbound journey—Bronx to Manhattan. The first car being the last car on the northbound trip is also more apt to have homeless folks vegetating therein, and often in the Land of Nod. This was indeed the case yesterday, but the train operator would have none of it. He informed a prostrate man that sitting erect was required if he wanted to ride the train. This was too much to ask and the man exited the car to find another one where he wouldn't be bothered and could rest in peace. Before pulling out, the train operator exited his cab and sprayed the area previously occupied by the homeless man with an air freshener. It was the train operator's domain and he wasn't about to let any lingering body odor waft his way. Truthfully, I didn't smell the homeless man, but I did smell the air freshener, which didn't smell so fresh in an enclosed subway car destined for the land down under.

My day ended on a sour not with a visit to a nursing home at dinnertime. Considering what these institutions charge per day, one would think the fare would be at least fair, which most of the time it isn't. I won't say that what was served last night looked like dog food, because canine eats have taken a considerable turn for the better in recent years. Seriously, I don't think too many pet parents would feed the nursing home's Philly cheese steak and soggy French fries to their beloved canine companions. A nursing home is just not where you want to end your days, or even rehabilitate in for days or weeks. How about mandatory private rooms? Put up half walls where the curtains separating patients are. It's nice that every patient has a television set, but with two sets on in the same room—in hard-of-hearing central—it's enough to drive one to madness and a nursing home.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The March Through Madness

It's been a wild-and-woolly month. With "the wearin' o' the green" now in the history books, it's time to think of things spring. Turning the clock back four decades, the fledgling weeks of this season were quite exciting. They saw the start of the baseball season, when hope always sprung eternal, even when your team sorely lacked pennant-winning timber. That would apply to my team—the New York Mets—in 1978, managed then by future Hall of Fame manager Joe Torre. The Mets' job was his first. And although it didn't show in the final standings, he did a pretty good job in my opinion with some pretty awful teams. 

Forty years ago, spring also signified the beginning of stickball season. I kept copious records at that time of our stickball endeavors, including the recording of temperature readings taken at game time from the big clock/thermometer on top of the Exxon station on W230th Street. Like so many things, both the Exxon station and its iconic clock/thermometer are mere memories now. And the John F. Kennedy High School—where we long ago played our crazy game—has morphed into a labyrinthine complex of learning institutions that would prohibit playing stickball on the grounds—that is, if anyone wanted to play the game anymore. 

A footnote here: I only recently learned that our stickball playing grounds at John F. Kennedy High School—several blocks from where I lived—were actually in Manhattan and not in the Bronx. Once separated from the Bronx by the wending Spuyten Duyvil Creek, the area in question is considered Manhattan terra firma. The creek was filled in during the early years of the twentieth century. The Marble Hill neighborhood is now attached to the Bronx and separated from the remainder of Manhattan by the Harlem River Ship Canal. So, to make a long story short, our hallowed stickball grounds were once upon a time covered by the waters of the Spuyten Duyvil Creek, which flowed into the nearby Hudson River. Manhattan land remains Manhattan land.

Well, that was then and this is now...

Just my opinion, but Mine Spa is better than Yours.

You know you're in a bad place when there's a ubiquitous pink water pitcher on the scene.

While the Exxon station and its giant clock/thermometer are long gone, the Chinese take-out joint in the old neighborhood endures. It's changed owners and names a few times, but it remains an institution of fine dining and MSG overload.

And it's received an "A" grade from the New York City Department of Health. After getting some flack from harassed and overly-fined businesses, the bureaucracy seems to have backed off a bit.

It seems that Chinese take-out establishments have a thing for both MSG and truth mirrors, which one cannot help but stare into and ponder one's fate while waiting for the shrimp and broccoli and vegetable egg foo young.

Wow, free WiFi and an elevator to boot...

New York City straphangers are slobs. Subway station nooks and crannies tell me as much.

Apparently, there's a magic marker graffiti vandal on the loose at 18th Street.

As soon as his stuff gets wiped clean, he's back and reminding us of Agent Orange and our march through madness.

At the same subway station is the mysterious MR321 room, or is it Mr. 321's private entrance to somewhere unknown?

A surprise for some lucky girl...

It depends upon what your definition of "Is" is...

For some reason, this reminded me of a Monty Python's Flying Circus skit. I'm riding the train with an empty bottle of fruit drink, a ham sandwich, and a James Patterson novel.

Alone in a crowd...

Visiting a nursing home yesterday, I got to see the Super Soup live and up-close. It's what the institution calls its soups. Since they invariably all look like dishwater, I was left to guess what the St. Patrick's Day soup of the day was. I spied a hint of green and concluded it was pea, but definitely not the thick as fog kind.

The Harlem River Ship Canal as seen from the Broadway Bridge. Our stickball playing grounds were somewhere between the two buildings and at the tail of the Metro-North train pulling into the Spuyten Duyvil station.

A malformed delight...

April showers bring May flowers...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)