Pay No Attention to That Man on the Debate Stage

Baby, it was actually cold outside today—below the seasonal norm for a change. I could feel the chill as I ambled through Van Cortlandt Park alongside dozens of squawking geese soaking up the ample sunlight. I pondered the state of the nation, the world, and the fact that single-use plastic bags won’t soon be available to me. To get a jump on what’s to come, I carried on my person—and in my pocket—a vinyl orange-colored “green bag,” a rare gift from the city mothers and fathers. I will say that I do feel a whole lot better on matters green since I learned that actor Joaquin Phoenix is re-purposing his custom-made tuxedo. 

In other news, an Upper West Side mom-and-pop hardware store shut its doors after 120 years in business. Its present owner cited a precipitous drop in sales as the reason. In these contemporary times of big-box retailers—Home Depot, Loew’s, et al.—and the sprawling Internet, the little guys on Main Street, Broadway, and Amsterdam Avenue really don’t stand a chance.

The venerable shop’s demise wasn’t, too, helped by the virtually snow-free winter to-date. Thus far, I have shoveled up an inch of the white stuff, if even that. In fact, this makes three consecutive years with below-normal amounts of snow and ice, which translates into a lot of lost shovel and ice-melter sales.

In past harsher winters, stores often couldn’t stock enough shovels and ice melter to meet the unceasing demand. I remember a particularly bad one in the mid-1990s when there was a widespread ice-melter and rock-salt shortage. Price gouging was commonplace on the limited supplies available.

So, what better thing to do on a chilly winter’s eve than tune into the theater of the absurd, also known as politics. I must admit that my previous youthful and lost fascination with the sport of politics has returned in 2020. I even subscribed to an online political magazine that once upon a time—a long time ago—received in the mail.

Politics is such an interesting, unpredictable, and unsavory spectacle at this unique and critical moment in American history. The man in the White House pardoned some swamp rats this week, including a former Illinois governor, “Blago,” whose main claim to fame is attempting to sell a U.S. senate seat to the highest bidder and, of course, his hair. I'd wager the Orange Man envies that head-healthy ‘do of his.

I actually watched the entire Democratic debate a couple of nights ago, which proved to be a simultaneously entertaining and painful experience for me. You see, I was wishing and hoping that New York’s former mayor, the ever-haughty Mike Bloomberg, would prove himself worthy of his considerable investment. He didn’t and then some!

During Bloomberg’s past mayoral campaigns, he didn’t impress many with his debating dexterity. But debating skills and governing ones are two different animals. That said, Mayor Mike’s performance in Tuesday’s debate was agonizingly bad. Watching him squirm and squirm some more, I was reminded of the Wizard of Oz, specifically the scene where the shadowy wizard gets unmasked. “Pay no attention to the man on the debate stage!” The wizard is on the commercials.

Why, pray tell, would Mike Bloomberg walk onto that stage so ill-prepared? He had to have known he would be the target of relentless incoming fire? And, Mayor Mike, please cease and desist with the pathetic, half-hearted apologies for your “Stop, Question, and Frisk” (SQF) policy, which you were defending whole-heartedly until you decided to run for president. Why not just say that it was a well-intentioned policy aimed at reducing crime, which it did, but ultimately got out of hand and was ended? And another thing: I don’t understand why you didn’t tout your generous philanthropy on matters like climate change and gun control, which are very important to voters in the party in which you are now a member. If you are keeping score, Bloomberg’s currently a Democrat. I’ve known him as an Independent, Republican, and Democrat on two non-consecutive occasions.

It’s unquestionably an intriguing spectacle to behold: Hectoring Bernie Sanders, the socialist septuagenarian, shouter par excellence is the front-runner of a party in which he doesn’t belong. And he had a heart attack several months ago! Old Bernie’s waging battle against a septuagenarian troika: the aforementioned Mayor Mike, old Joe Biden who is way past his prime, which wasn’t anything to write home about, and Elizabeth Warren, who has less Cherokee blood coursing through her veins than I have French (thanks Ancestry.com).

The torch should be passed to a new generation, I guess. As a civic-minded citizen, I tried to grease the skids in this regard when I sent “Steve Bullock for President” twenty-five dollars. All that got me was a never-ending series of e-mails asking for more. Now, with the Bloomberg off the rose again, I’m seriously contemplating chasing Amy and praying for a better return on my investment. In the meantime, it's dinnertime. To be continued…

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Once Burned

In what has to-date been a near-complete seasonal misfire, it was winter-like around here yesterday. And because we’ve had so few really cold days, it felt colder than it actually was. As I gazed out a subway car window into the chilly ether, I thought about Richard Kimble pondering his fate and seeing "only darkness." But then, he was on his way to death row. I was merely heading to Dyckman Street. 

There are, of course, meteorological reasons why it’s been an especially mild winter in the Northeast. It’s that famously fickle jet stream and not necessarily the by-product of human-induced climate change. Still, it’s pretty unsettling to learn that January 2020 was the warmest January—the world over—on record and 2019, the warmest year! There is a scientific consensus here. The debate, I suppose, is whether or not we should be seeing only darkness.

I’d like to think that there is some light at the end of the tunnel. But as I wander around, I see litter all over the place—much of it of the plastic variety. Exactly two weeks from today, single-use plastic bags are going the way of the Passenger Pigeon in New York State. Now, I am old enough to remember when plastic bags slowly but surely began replacing paper bags in supermarkets and other retailers. A lot of people were upset about that. I can still picture my mother hauling multiple paper bags full of groceries in her two hands—chock-full of glass and aluminum cans and bottles—from Bohack’s, a local supermarket just down the block. There were no handles on the bags with the big Bohack's “B” on them.

After a while, though, one and all acclimated to plastic and came to view such bags with affection. They were a great convenience and we soon couldn’t imagine life without them. Almost four decades later the bags are omnipresent. They are also in places they shouldn’t be—like the oceans and trees—with the closest thing there is to eternal life. We will eventually adapt to life without these ubiquitous plastic bags and be better for it. We lived without them before and we can do it again.

A now for another stroll down Memory Lane: I just read an article that compared the positively benign politics of the 1990s—when Bill Clinton was president and Newt Gingrich, Speaker of the House—with today’s Bizarro World. The 1990s were a decade when the federal government ran surpluses—imagine that! It was a less paranoid time, too—pre-9/11—before cameras were everywhere and a thing called social media existed. The latter being the most anti-social, noxious playground ever conceived, a guarantor of never-ending nuttiness and perpetual bile.

It’s funny to think that Bill Clinton is a veritable pariah in the contemporary Democratic party, a Me-Too Movement poster boy for bad behavior. What a difference a couple of decades make! What a difference several years make! Four years ago, I felt the burn, as it were. When I pulled the lever for Bernie, it was my primal scream moment. Don’t get me wrong. I like Bernie and agree with a lot of what he says, particularly when he rants about Big Pharma and such. But I can see clearly now: I didn’t appreciate the party establishment’s coronation of Queen Hillary four years ago. And Bernie served as the ideal protest candidate.

But then was then and this is now. I am four years older and so is Bernie. I, though, am not recovering from a heart attack and pushing eighty. At the end of the day, too, I really don’t want an avowed socialist as president leading a revolution that most people don’t want. Lo and behold, I find myself supporting another guy who is pushing eighty—a guy that I voted for three times for mayor but had become disenchanted with because of his Nanny State mentality. I even wrote a blog essay entitled “The Bloomberg Is Off the Rose” in 2010. Boy, I’ve been doing this for a long time.

It’s 2020 now, not 2010, or even 2016. Once burned, I’ve thrown in with the billionaire with the financial wherewithal to defeat the wild-eyed socialist, who, I fear, would more than likely lose to the dangerously dishonest, vulgar, ignorant incumbent. Now, that's a guy you don’t want to see unleashed and pushing eighty in a second term! Life has so many its twists and turns. I guess it all boils down to this: One never knows…do one.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Practice Makes Imperfect

There’s nothing quite like visiting a neighborhood family practice—a “land of doctors,” if you will—that accepts and encourages walk-in business. It’s not a fun place to be on the best of days. This morning the joint was jumping with people of all ages, sizes, and backgrounds. A cacophony of coughing resounded through the waiting room, but only one person—a non-cougher—wore a mask. Her name—I learned—was Angela. She asked a receptionist if anybody in the room had the coronavirus, because she was desperately afraid of contracting it. This prompted Jonathan—a Star Wars convention attendee-type—to mutter aloud, “How would they know?” Jonathan, you see, had no inner-monologue and, too, difficulty checking in at an electronic kiosk.

The icing on the fruit cake was the appearance of this couple—two for the price of one, as it were. I had seen them on the streets from time to time and always wondered about the nature of their relationship. Were they husband and wife or brother and sister? I could always say with absolute certainty that the pair wasn't playing with a full deck between them. 

The better half of the zany duo appeared to be well known at the practice—a clamorous Chatty Cathy and simpleton familiar to the staff. Her mate, with a comparable IQ, was definitely the more nefarious of the two. When I encountered them in the great outdoors, they invariably were bickering like wacky sketch characters from a Saturday Night Live skit. Suffice it to say that it’s best not to be confined—if at all possible—in a room with this peculiar twosome. What mostly troubles them, though, I don’t believe is contagious. As for the coronavirus, I just hope and pray Angela emerged unscathed.

Yes, everybody has a story. Sometimes even a breakfast sandwich has one.

A few days earlier I was in yet another medical waiting room. While it also had its share of characters, this one at least had a nice view.

Sometimes it's the little things that help get you through the day.

Watching the planes coming and going from LaGuardia Airport is a nice diversion for a couple of hours. But after that the law of diminishing returns sets in and the feeling is "Seen one plane, seen them all."

Happily, there's more to life than visiting doctors. This weekend I noticed the Best Deli & Grill erected a new sign, which you can see from outer space. Remember: the best never comes easy.

Dreary start to February of a rather uneventful winter thus far. I am not complaining.

No matter the time of year, it's imperative to know right from wrong, especially on the streets of New York.

And, too, that time waits for no man and no woman. It's hard to believe that this year will be the fortieth anniversary of my high school graduating class. I wasn't yet eighteen on graduation day, which was my entire lifetime. I've since lived another two rounds of eighteen and then some.

I take solace in the fact that life remains ever-mysterious with so much to more to learn and uncover.

Solace, too, in discovering good pizza.

I don't suspect bird brains ruminate on such matters of life and death.

So, let off some steam, I say, but do it in the privacy of your own home and not at a doctor's office—please.

When I was eighteen, I was loath to wait on line for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. A five-minute wait might have been tolerable to me back then. Now, I'm down to zero minutes, even if the waiters and waitresses sing and dance while serving hamburgers and BLTs. 

You know you accomplished something in life if somebody made Way for you in death.

I wonder how old they are?

No need to: Absurd has embraced us.

And so I've lived to see the death of the subway token and birth of the MetroCard. OMNY, contactless payment, has now arrived.

And I fear the beginning of the end of the MetroCard is upon us.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

One Brief Something Moment

Yesterday, I came upon a funeral procession along the back streets of the old neighborhood. The hearse with the deceased therein led the way of this final pass through the avenues that—once upon a time—constituted home sweet home. For some years, I found this post-funeral mass—pre-burial—tradition sort of on the morbid side, but I now appreciate all that it says about life and, of course, death. Really, you are here one day and gone the next. You live a life that abruptly comes to an end—a life of relative consequence, but one that will largely be forgotten as time passes. Time, by the way, that won’t include you.

When I was growing up, there was this woman who lived up the block. Her name was Bea, but we not surprisingly called her “Aunt Bee.” Well, when all was said and done, Aunt Bee was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She was a fighter, though, who desperately wanted to remain among the living for one reason and one reason only: to witness the verdict of the O.J. Simpson trial. You see, Aunt Bee was so wrapped up in the proceedings that it killed her to think that she might not be around for the denouement. Sadly, she didn’t outlast the trial. A more conventional one presided over by a less star-struck judge might have secured this dying person’s wish. But it just wasn’t to be for Aunt Bee.

“To Bee or not to Bee” said a lot—to me anyway. For Aunt Bee breathed her last while the O.J. Simpson affair meandered on and on and on. She experienced her one brief something moment of existence and it came up—in the end—a little too short. As a youth, I never entertained the notion that I wouldn’t be around at some point. Now, I do. In fact, I think about life after me often. How so much of what I’ve accumulated through the years—ephemera, in particular, that has meaning to me but few others—will be tossed away with little or no fanfare.

Recently, I observed a couple of sudden ends—on the outside looking in, as it were. I watched their relatives throw out the preponderance of evidence that they once lived. And I didn’t find fault with them. What else can be done? Now, if their dead relations were in league with George Washington or even Laura Ingalls Wilder, I might have had a problem with Operation Clean House, but they weren’t.

So, something for me to ponder in the post-Aunt Bee world: If I knew for certain that the grim reaper would pay a call on me tomorrow, how would I feel? What would I do? I can honestly say that the last thing on my mind would be a desperate will to live to see the conclusion of the Donald Trump impeachment trial in the senate! Getting such dire news would not have me pining to know if old Bernie is going to outdistance old Joe. Funny, but I could actually live without knowing, die without knowing, and be content—and, I believe, have something of a smile on my lifeless face during my last road trip and when, too, my accumulated lifetime of stuff is shredded and trashed. Yes, when my one brief something moment has come and gone.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Sixty Degrees of Separation

It came ever-so close to seventy degrees in New York City yesterday. A new temperature record for the date was established—at sixty-nine—surpassing the previous high of sixty-three. The latter record, by the way, occurred in 1975, which triggered a memory. Just like January 11, 2020, January 11, 1975 occurred on a Saturday. I remember that unusually warm winter day because it was—well—so unusual. It prompted my younger brother and I to throw caution to the wind and dash out into the great outdoors—spaldeen in hand—without seasonal outerwear. This impulsive act of ours inspired a scolding from the wise elders, who reminded us that it was still January and wintertime. The consensus was that—even if it felt like early May—we should still be bundled up in deference to Old Man Winter. Besides, playing games with the seasons was a sure-fire way to catch a cold.

Fast-forward forty-five years to another balmy January day. I’m sitting in a subway car gazing up and down a diverse group of straphangers. Some of them, I noticed, made absolutely no adjustments at all for the abnormally mild winter weather and were wearing hats, scarves, and gloves. On the other hand, a young guy with his girlfriend sported only a short-sleeve T-shirt, shorts, and no jacket. I, at least, had on a windbreaker, which came in especially handy yesterday.

The subway car itself also reflected the atypical weather, alternately feeling like it was air- conditioned then heated. Isn't that a recipe for catching a cold? But then again, it appeared that half the passengers in eyeshot were either coughing or blowing their noses—a catch-a-cold breeding ground if ever there was one! Fortunately, I already had a cold and was among the givers and not the takers.

So, it's 2020, not 1975. In 1975, this newly-opened McDonald's restaurant was a neighborhood novelty. No breakfast was served back then and Chicken McNuggets didn't yet grace the menu. Recently, through Grubhub, I ordered from the place several times. I hadn't eaten McDonald's food of any kind in ten years or more and was initially overwhelmed by the taste sensation. Wow...what have I been missing? But just as the 1975 novelty eventually wore off, so has the 2020 equivalent. 

The 1970s were considered a very grimy time in New York City. But that was then and this is now: household trash is still not allowed to be tossed into public waste baskets...

Sadly, it seems to me that we are slowly but surely regressing back to the Iron Eyes Cody era.

And that seriously steams me!

I encountered a meme on New Year's Day that noted how we are closer now to 2050 than 1990.

I wonder if we will all be wearing space-like attire and driving around in Jetson-style cars by then.

Probably not, but we will still be producing mounds of garbage.

In life you can either have a ball or not, it's your choice. Well, not always...

Time definitely passes...it really does. I recall when Dunkin' Donuts was "worth the trip." Now, all roads lead to one.

Free continental breakfast with each park?

If I've learned anything in life it's that you can't rush things.

Ninth Avenue in Manhattan, where vestiges of old 1975 dirty New York co-exist with...

The new unaffordable 2020 New York.

Your days are numbered.

There have been increasing numbers of seemingly random attacks in New York City of late, with individuals getting assaulted and knocked down for no particular reason. So, in 2020, being afraid of some people is probably a good idea.

And this is supposed to be a bargain? Not even in today's New York.

Long live the hot dog wagon, which transcends time.

And the convenience store with the beguiling window display.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

You Like It...It Likes You

“There’s nothing like Christmas in New York.” I hear people say that a lot at this time of year. Not having been too many other places at Christmas, I cannot say definitively whether or not that statement is true. Actually, I would venture to say that there’s nothing quite like Christmas in a lot of other places as well.

Until relatively recently, I had left “Christmas in New York” behind. For me, the holiday heyday in the big city was four and five decades ago. Shopping at Macy’s, the Christmas show and movie at Radio City Music Hall, and visiting Rockefeller Center were annual traditions. Fast forward to the not-too-distant past and I had literally gone twenty or so years without laying eyes on the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. It is, after all, only a forty-five minute train ride and fifteen-minute walk away.

To tell you the truth the tree looks pretty much the same as it did two score and seven years ago. There are, however, more people than ever before getting a bird’s-eye view of it. So many more, in fact, that snippets of crossover streets were closed this year by the powers-that-be. Now, this is good news for pedestrians and not so good news for drivers. Without such closures, I might very well have been trampled to death this past week.  

Honestly, I'd rather experience a sunset in New York harbor than call on Rockefeller Center or set foot in Macy's at Christmastime.

Let it flow...why not? It floats back to you...

Sun, take a good look around, this is your hometown.

I have recently been advocating that tourists visit the canyons of Wall Street during the month of December. Although not nearly as big as the one at Rockefeller Center, the tree there is considerable in size and sports both lights and ornaments. And, as you can see, there aren't swarms of people in the vicinity. This has got to count for something.

And you are a stone's throw away from the Brooklyn Bridge. 

On now to the masses of humanity at Bryant Park, a primer of much worse to come.

The Greek city-states of the seventh century were known to protect themselves with eight-men deep phalanxes. With all eyes on the Saks Fifth Avenue Christmas wall of lights was a phalanx of fifty-men and women deep. Penetrating this massive wall of Homo sapiens with their raised smartphones was not for the faint of heart. 

Fortunately, this section of 50th Street was closed to vehicular traffic. Otherwise, there would be no picture here.

I gave some consideration to having my palm read, but—one—the reader was on a bathroom break. And, two, I remember being taught not to put a plastic bag over my head. Lastly, I'm not a little person.

Glad to see the big banks, like Chase, in the holiday spirit and turning their logos into Christmas decorations.

Jolly Ol' Saint Nicholas says, "It depends on what the meaning of special is."

Extraordinary news uncovered on my Christmas visits downtown this week: The 168th station—for Number 1 train riders—has reopened after being closed for elevator replacement for the entire year. The Metropolitan Transit Authority miracle here is that it occurred a couple of weeks earlier than expected.

Proving once again that one never knows what's around the bend.

Respect others. Now that's a novel concept to heed in 2020.

Okay, it's Northern Manhattan and the George Washington Bridge. Once upon a time I spent Christmas Eve with a grandmother in the Bronx and Christmas Day with a grandmother in Bangor, Pennsylvania. Over the river—in this case the Hudson—and eventually through the woods of Northwestern, New Jersey while listening to AM/FM WPAT's "Spirit of Christmas" on the car radio. May I just say that there is nothing like Christmas in Bangor.

Wherever we traverse, discoveries await. I didn't have to traverse afar this week to uncover the Hudson River Stonehenge.

Granted, it's not quite as impressive as the prehistoric Stonehenge in England, but impressive enough for me.

Finally there: The Little Red Lighthouse—Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse—under the GWB. From a passing car, I spied it for decades. I can cross this off my bucket list. And fewer people around it than the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)