The Write Angle
Miscellaneous Musings on Myriad Things
Wednesday, October 30, 2024
Deathman, Do Not Follow Me
Tuesday, October 22, 2024
The "Usually" Suspects
(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
Sunday, October 20, 2024
Mr. McMahon and Friends
Recently, I watched the six-part Netflix documentary Mr. McMahon. It was at once compelling and something of a slog. Add to the mix a cringeworthy element, a grossness, and— undeniably —there’s a story to tell here. My recollection of Vince McMahon, the documentary’s subject, was as a wrestling announcer in the 1970s, when—as kids—my older brother and I dutifully watched the sport on local TV station WOR, Channel 9.
McMahon excelled as a put-upon presence and straight-man
foil for a colorful cast of bad guys: wrestlers and, in many instances,
their bombastic managers. Witnessing the man get harangued by “Classy” Fred
Blassie, Captain Lou Albano, and—my personal favorite—the Grand Wizard of
Wrestling was a youthful thrill. Typically, the proteges of Blassie, Albano, and
the Grand Wizard were “heels,” rotten to the core, and boo-worthy. Who
can forget Nikolai Volkoff, the Wild Samoans, and Sergeant Slaughter?
Indeed, 1970s wrestling was engagingly benign. The good guys included a stellar cast: champion Bruno Sammartino, Haystacks Calhoun, and Chief Jay Strongbow, who—I just discovered—was an Italian American. But then, so was Iron Eyes Cody, who canoed through polluted waters throughout the 1970s, logging many miles and shedding many tears along the way.
I recall being surprised—twenty or so years later—to
learn that Vince McMahon, the geek announcer from my boyhood, initially worked
for his father, purchased the World Wide Wrestling Federation (WWWF) from him,
and built—along with his wife—a mega-enterprise now known as World Wrestling
Entertainment (WWE). Adding his two cents throughout the documentary, McMahon absolutely
established the fact that he was a business wunderkind and all-around sleaze as
well. Also, the guy has had one too many face-lifts and sounds like he smokes
ten packs a day—or is it a whiskey voice? In his final appearance in the mini-series, the empresario
almost-seemed AI generated sporting a new Clark Gable mustache and dyed jet-black hair. The weirdness just kept on coming.
What amazed me most about the documentary, I think, was modern-day wrestling’s cult following and uber-popularity. WrestleMania has been big—really big—through the years. But it’s still scripted entertainment with a mishmash of realism thrown in, albeit of a more adult variety now than I experienced when Jerry Ford and Jimmy Carter lived in the White House. The contrived feuds—and real ones—are just not my cup of tea, but countless others can’t get enough of the brew.
Mr. McMahon,
the documentary title, is derivative of Mr. McMahon, the wrestler, a creation
of Vince McMahon, who entered the ring in the late 1990s. All bulked up by
then, he fought, among others, Donald Trump. The stakes: Loser
gets his head shaved by the winner. Guess who won the match? Upon seeing clips
of this nuttiness—par for the course in this milieu—it dawned on me that contemporary
politics has devolved into an offshoot of the WWE: vulgar, no holds barred, with
the blurring of fact versus fiction.
In this corner: Orange Crush, managed by Lindsey “Bats**t Crazy” Graham. And in that corner: Kamala, Queen of the Ciphers, managed by Chuck “the Schmuck” Schumer. Okay, now I understand. I get it. It’s not really real.
Tuesday, October 15, 2024
Mourning and Memories
In this culinary cathedral, my faithful dinner companions and I had nicknames for certain regulars—men and women whom we didn’t know by name but nonetheless needed to identify on occasion—and I suppose some of them had nicknames for us. And, if they did, more power to them! There was, for instance, the “Mean Old Man,” whom I saw collapse on a sidewalk not too far from the diner during a winter snowstorm. I don’t know what happened to him after that night, but I never saw him again in the diner, or walking the local streets. And whatever happened to those two old sisters who always dined together? At least I think they were sisters. The seasons changed but the pair never did. They were perpetually glum—winter, spring, summer, and fall. Thus, their richly earned “Glower Champions” moniker. When they suddenly vanished without so much as a goodbye, I surmised they had moved to Florida and warmer climes to run out the clock of their saturnine existence. Gone, yes, but not forgotten.
And then there was this fellow named Lenny. Here was an example of actually knowing the man’s real first name but running with a nickname instead. What always struck us about Lenny was that he never—ever—paid for his lunch or dinner. A little diner detective work on our parts concluded he had, perhaps, won a bet of some sort from the owner, who was not averse to gambling. This could at least explain the free meals. Apparently, though, there was nothing in the terms of the bet that compelled the diner owner to treat him civilly while he was collecting his winnings. And so, this middle-aged, hangdog bachelor named Lenny had to endure more than a little teasing. Asked about his love life at one point, Lenny, rather pathetically, said something to the effect that he was dating “several people,” which set himself up for a major slap down from the individual indebted to him, who roared, “You jerk-off!” And from that moment forward, Lenny was no longer Lenny to us, but “Jerk-off” forevermore. Eventually, Jerk-off, too, disappeared from the diner scene—perhaps when the terms of the bet were fulfilled—and was last seen in the area looking worse for wear. Jerk-off was obviously very ill and, it seemed, not long for this earth.
I remember, too, very old and very loud Mark, who had a most interesting indentation on his skull, which I christened a “skin-dentation." He very abruptly disappeared from sight and sound. The great greasy spoon in the sky? Probably. And then, of course, there was the ubiquitous Seymour, a taxi driver. He was diagnosed with lung cancer while at the top of his game on the diner stage. Trooper that he was, he continued to appear during his chemo treatments, looking—sadly—like his days were numbered, which they were.
Call it life...as seen through the lens of a favorite diner, where not everybody knows your name.
Monday, October 14, 2024
A Very First Time
It was about 10:30 a.m. when I landed in this subterranean “mezzanine,” a word I typically associate with sports stadiums. While I’ve walked these meandering thoroughfares before and encountered various closed doors along the way, they were invariably marked as “employee only” entrances for transit workers. But, lo and behold, this go-round I detected an apparent civilian—a fellow rider—exiting one of those doors, which prompted me to more closely examine the placard attached to it. The sign indicated he had emerged from a public bathroom—a rare find down under—that would, in all likelihood, be locked tight during the overnight hours.
While I had to go thanks to my breakfast cup of Joe, I really could have held it in for a bit. But then, I thought, where would I go when my time came—the Barnes & Noble at Union Square? No, certainly not yesterday—a Saturday on a Columbus Day weekend with Wall Street protesters in the area undoubtedly heeding nature’s call there. So, I decided to take my chances with this subway bathroom. While I don’t recall ever frequenting one—since most of them are padlocked shut, with reputations that, even when open for business, suggest looking elsewhere—I decided to live dangerously and take the plunge.
Happily, I was all by my lonesome when I entered this realm of the unknown and accomplished what I set out to do. Still, I must admit, the subway bathroom milieu didn’t disappoint. It reeked pretty badly and looked appropriately grungy—but it wasn’t completely hellish. And while the urinal readily flushed, it didn’t flush away any of the urine stench wafting in the rarefied air, which evidently was ingrained in the floor and wall tiles. But at least now I can say: Been there and done that…another New York experience for this New Yorker in the books.
Sunday, October 13, 2024
No Dogma in this Fight
Attention Surplus Disorders
Tuesday, September 17, 2024
The Man We Called Cream Donut
Monday, September 16, 2024
Ode to the Neighborhood Diner
I am fortunate to still have a snug and welcoming nook to go to when I feel a hankering for bacon, eggs over easy, and home fries for breakfast, or burgers and French fries for lunch. I rarely deviate from my usual when I get there because the usual is a big deal in the diner milieu. It's a comforting constant in a sea-changing world. But here's the real rub: It’s not really about the food, although I must admit that the truly bottomless cup of coffee—and a flavorful and aromatic one at that—is other-worldly.
This holy place that I speak of has been around for decades. The original two Greek giants still loom like Colossus over the dining space. And, yes, like a microcosm of life itself, the diner has had its ups and downs through the years. Its owners, too, have witnessed a mother lode of changes in the neighborhood and, naturally, their clientele as well. The men at grill's edge have watched countless customers grow old and battle all kinds of infirmities. They’ve seen tragedy befall a cross-section of their bread and butter without so much as fair warning. Not too long ago, the diner's alpha male said to me: “When I don’t see people for a while…I worry.” He didn’t see me for a while...and he worried. I fortuitously returned for another act. Others have not been so lucky. Indeed, a fair share of the restaurant’s regulars have quietly slipped away with the passage of time and gone to that Great Greasy Spoon in the Sky. You know the place with its lemon meringue clouds and celestial rivers of rice pudding and Jell-O....
But it's not only the diner’s never-ending story of ravenous patrons—looking for both food and ears to chew on—who are growing old. I had a full head of hair when I ordered my first hamburger there. Its proprietors, too, are not immune to the inexorable and remorseless sands of time. And when they exit center stage for good, this little diner in my hometown, with its old-style hospitality and unique urban ambiance, will sadly go with them. And we will never see their likes again....
Tuesday, August 27, 2024
The Stickball Boys of Summer...in Autumn
In this decidedly different age—simpler times, for sure—I included a “Saying of the Day” option on some of our primitively photocopied scorecards. "Sayings" ranged far and wide from a local pizza man named "George" to controversial and colorful Alabama Governor George Wallace. It seems that one member of our stickball entourage relished mimicking the latter’s distinctive southern drawl. A “Making of the President 1968” documentary, or some such program, aired on PBS at the time, because every single one of us knew where he was coming from when he impersonated Wallace shouting down an unkempt hippie heckler, imploring him to “Geeeeet a heeeeercut.” We were a unique and interesting brood of Bronx stickball players.
Courtesy of a pronounced rooftop clock and digital thermometer on the Exxon gas station just to the north of our playing field, both game-time temperatures—in Fahrenheit—and game durations were recorded for posterity as well. Let the record show that we played in temperatures ranging from forty-five to ninety-nine degrees. On one set of scorecards, I, for some reason, included “Hero” and “Goat” of the game blank spaces. Most of them were, in fact, left blank. Despite occasional unsolicited commentaries on the scorecards that were sometimes caustic and mocking, we generally opted not to underscore and offend individual games’ goats. While were a competitive lot, we had caring hearts, I suppose. And besides, we exchanged teammates from one game to the next. Sure, I scribbled at one point on a scorecard that “RC is a jerk,” and he responded in kind that I was meekly “sweating” under the pressure, but that was all in good fun.
Final season tallies found each and every one of us coming to the plate over one thousand times and pitching more than two hundred innings. Looking back, this heavy workload explains why I was often sore on Cardinal Spellman High School Monday mornings in springtime. There were no stickball spring training sessions for us. When winters turned into springs, we commenced to playing—up to the hilt and end of story.
Ah, but here we were all these years later, in the flesh, and having experienced lives after stickball—physical and emotional odysseys that have taken us a long, long way from the reassuring terra firma of a neighborhood high school with those crude home plate boxes on a graffiti-laden brick wall . Funny, but to a man, we recalled what was—very clearly as a matter a fact—but not so much the intricate details of the three decades that followed and that led us far afield of stickball in the Bronx. Why, exactly, I wanted to "assassinate" my longtime friend RC on a pleasant summer morning when Jimmy Carter was president, I've long since forgotten. I'd hazard a guess I really didn’t want to do that. And although stickball is now a relic of all our pasts—warm and fuzzy memories—we nonetheless continue to play ball with what we've got left in the autumn years.
(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
Zach’s 1250
Sunday, August 11, 2024
The Waning Agog Factor
Thirty-seven years ago on this day, I was at once in Boston and agog. The adult impresario of this Bronx to Beantown adventure was a neighbor and friend named Richie. My brother Joe and I—two teenagers absent as-yet-invented iPads or flip video cameras—accompanied him to what then seemed like a very faraway and even exotic destination.
While we were out of town the “Son of Sam” was captured. A Boston Globe headline in a sidewalk newspaper machine alerted us that the fiend was in police custody. We were pleasantly surprised when we dropped a dime in the slot and the machine’s front door pulled open, permitting each of us to grab a paper. Evidently, man and boys alike had never purchased one from an inanimate object. I guess we thought it would be dispensed like a bottle of soda or a candy bar. Still, we felt like we were a long way from home when we read the details about this serial killer, a man who had been in our midst during that especially hot summer and the summer before.
We had seen the Red Sox at Fenway Park the night before and also peed in a communal urinal there, which was yet another first for us. I sat beside a gangly grandfather and his grandson, I surmised, because the latter called the former “Pops.” Pops was pretty old and, when nature called, had more than a little difficulty navigating the ballpark’s steep steps and cramped aisles. He was a dead ringer for Our Gang's Old Cap. The Red Sox beat the Angels 11-10 that night in a back and forth slugfest. The Globe deemed it one of the most exciting games ever played. Richie, however, noted how “dilapidated” the environs were, and obviously liked the sound of the word, branding countless Boston edifices and nearby locales with the same unflattering moniker.
Dilapidated or not, the three of us were generally agog throughout the trip, blissfully going about the business of exploring foreign terrain before anything called e-mail or Twitter existed. Joe had a hand-me-down, fold-up camera with him that took blurry pictures. Richie wore a strap around his neck attached to an over-sized instant camera during our sightseeing. His photos developed a bit on the green side, including shots at Harvard University and of the Charles River. No flash meant no pictures could be taken of the Green Monster by night. On our way home, we naturally couldn’t pass up America’s most historical rock in Plymouth. This rather pedestrian boulder had at some point cracked in two and been cemented together—not a particularly compelling visual and even less so in shades of instant-picture green.
There were no digital cameras or iPhones in existence, so thus no capacity to post our pictures on Facebook, which wasn’t around either. We were merely content with being agog as we climbed the Bunker Hill Monument and toured Old Ironsides. The dilapidated surroundings all around us actually astounded us. We called home from pay phones. In the present age of instant gratification, with all too many people engrossed in their Blackberries or some such technological device—and walking the streets like oblivious automatons—I fear that the Agog Factor just ain't what it used to be…can’t be what it used to be…and that’s really kind of sad.
(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
Thursday, July 25, 2024
Who Took the Clown Pictures Down?
As a boy, I loved visiting this basement just up the street. It had a bar, too, on the premises, which was loaded with adult beverages and assorted bric-a-brac and memorabilia. The latter was of more interest to me. I recall the basement’s matriarch opening up a thirty-two-ounce aluminum can of Hi-C, pouring it into a sixty-four-ounce plastic pitcher, and filling the remainder up with tap water and a full tray of ice on top of that. I’d never before witnessed the watering down of a Hi-C drink, but it wasn’t half-bad. It was the power of the clown pictures, perhaps, that made everything in the basement look and taste good.
Indeed, nobody cared that the family cat slept on the dinner table and everywhere else for that matter. It was the basement after all. And the cat was yet another intriguing basement player. It was the only housecat without a name. The neighbors across the alleyway had a cat named “Sniffles.” Maybe “Cat” was actually the cat’s name. It remains a mystery to this day. Cat could often be spotted on a perch in the basement’s front window. One chilly afternoon an interior window in the basement was shut with Cat in between it and the exterior one. The family went on a frantic search throughout the neighborhood for Cat, when all the time he was resting comfortably on his favorite roost in the front window.
Like so many other things in life, the basement as I once knew it is no more. Cat is no longer roaming the place, nor are their clown pictures on its walls. The fashionable contact paper that was all the rage in the 1960s and 1970s, and that was supposed to resemble wood paneling, has, too, been stripped away. However, the memories linger.
There was a man named Lou who rented the basement resident’s garage. He used to thank basement son Richard—profusely as a matter of fact—for opening the garage for him when fate brought the two of them together. “Sank you, Reeechard!” he’d say both loudly and sincerely. He spoke with some sort of accent, which I enjoyed mimicking as a young teen. It was okay to do that kind of thing back then. In fact for a spell, I must have uttered, “Sank you, Reeechard!” a few hundred times. Then one day, I decided to put some words into Lou’s limited lexicon—ones I had never heard him utter.
“Reeechard, who took the clown pictures down?” I asked. And so, with Reechard’s blessing, we snapped a photograph of a clown picture being taken down—by the devil no less. But it was not in our youthful, living-in-the-moment brains to press the fast-forward button and contemplate that the clown pictures were not, in fact, eternal and would one day come down. Perhaps they’re hanging up in other people’s homes as I write these words. I'd like to think so. Maybe, though, they weren’t thought as worth saving and put out with the trash. Such is the duality of life and everything that we value.
(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
Sunday, July 14, 2024
Memories...and Unsolved Mysteries
As I saw it from my six- or seven-year-old eyes, the L’s house was located in an incredibly atmospheric sliver of geography. It lorded over a piece of real estate everybody knew back then as "Shanty Town," a neighborhood with rows of old houses and some shacks, too—relics from a hardscrabble past. Hoovervilles. Some of Shanty Town’s residents raised chickens in coops, and even farm animals, in their front and backyards. But I was also a guest in a home not too far from a busy railroad, the Harlem River Ship Canal, and the elevated subway tracks of the Number 1 train. There was an intoxicating ambiance surrounding the L’s humble abode, with sounds emanating from nearby trains and boats. But beyond these rather general memories of welcome sensory sensations, I can remember only one concrete detail surrounding this Marble Hill experience of mine.
Mrs. L, the lady of the house, spoke in a throaty, Betty Davis-esque voice from—I’ve since concluded—one too many Marlboro's and an unquenchable thirst for the grape. She was pleasant enough on the surface, but—from my little boy’s view of the world—there was something of the night about her. She was quite petite, always wore bright red lipstick, and looked by day a little too much like the Joker from Batman—as played by Cesar Romero—for me to fully warm to her. By night, it got somewhat worse, and she resembled a vampire, which I know is rather hip now, but it wasn’t back then.
Here now is my only definitive memory of being in that house more than forty years ago. Mrs. L very graciously gave the youngsters on the scene free run of the place. She asked only one thing of us—that we keep our distance from an automobile tire flatly resting atop the stairs in her two-story home. I admit to being fascinated by this car tire in a spot where car tires weren’t usually found.
Flash forward three decades and I recounted this peculiar memory, so etched in mind, to a friend of mine. He said, “That’s probably where she kept her stash.” While it does make some sense that a person might conceal his or her bottles of whiskey in a car tire—if secrecy is the name of the game—it seems rather illogical to do so in a tire sitting at the top of a staircase, where the logical question passersby would pose is: “What’s a car tire doing there?” But that's as good an explanation as any that I've heard before or since. Memories…and unsolved mysteries.
(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
Monday, July 8, 2024
This Old House
Sunday, July 7, 2024
With Mr. Denton on Doomsday
On more than one occasion, I have witnessed a passing car sporting the vanity license plate: DOOMSDAY. Ordinarily, it would have gone by unnoticed—just one among many vehicles traveling up and down the street where I live. But this automobile’s driver craved attention with his ear-splitting display of four-wheel barbarism. A ridiculously loud and revving engine with popping gunshot sounds doesn’t exactly complement one’s morning coffee and is no more pleasing at lunch or dinnertime. It’s off-putting morning, noon, and night, which, I suppose, is the point.
Doomsday it is. At least that’s the way it feels around here with the countless speed racers violating multiple New York City ordinances as they make their daily rounds. Then there are all those noisy electric scooters and their various epigones—many of them illegal and often operated by illegals—whizzing past stop signs and through red lights. Further adding to Doomsday is the $4.4 billion retail crime spree underway in the Big Apple. Every damn thing is locked up in stores because the thieves know they won’t ever be. There is this palpable sense of chaos and lawlessness run amok, which I’ve never experienced before—at this omnipresent level anyway. Local politicians appear uninterested in the problems or unwilling to address them in any meaningful way.
I have an idea. In the Batman TV series, starring the indomitable Adam West, I recall an episode where the Joker captured Batman and Robin in a large fish net. Why don’t the big retailers that are being robbed blind place big nets by their entrances and exits and snare the shoplifters on their way out? Then lift them up in the air and encourage the non-criminal patrons to taunt them and, if available, toss rotten fruit at them. When all is said and done, ship the offenders en masse to an undisclosed wilderness location equipped, of course, with survival kits donated by Wal-Mart, Target, and Home Depot. Sounds like a plan, no?
Moving on to our national dignity crisis—self-respect sacrificed
on the altar of ridiculousness and obeisance to unworthy people. As a youth, I
had a poster on my bedroom wall with this Native American proverb: “To give
dignity to man is above all else.” Sadly, a vastly different kind of tribal
mentality has descended on much of the populace, particularly those who are
addicted to social media and can’t get enough of bloviating talking heads,
sky-is-falling commentators, and loony conspiracists. The ones, too, who also
vote in primaries and supply us with the worst general-election candidates imaginable.
In fact, their names are legion—men and women who have cast dignity away to kiss Trump’s keister come hell or high water. Exhibit A:
Marco Rubio, Lindsey Graham, and Mike Lee. And on Side B: the minions who have
been telling us that old Joe Biden was sharp as a tack—better than ever in fact—when
are eyes, ears, and common sense told us otherwise. The best president since
FDR—come on, man! It’s retirement village time, they now say. It takes a
village, I guess.
Several months ago, the Los Angeles Times published an opinion column entitled, “Age Matters. Which Is Why Biden’s Age is his Superpower.” Around the same time, the New York Times ran the piece, “For Joe Biden, What Seems Like Age Might Instead Be Style.” You can’t make this stuff up. Did these authors actually believe what they were saying? If they did, they ought to find another line of work. Self-respect takes yet another back seat in 2024.
Meanwhile, Donald Trump repeatedly proves that he is meshuggeneh.
His tweets, or whatever they are now called, are creepy crazy and certifiably looney tunes.
I have little doubt the man, too, is suffering from cognitive decline, but it is
hard to decipher in an individual who is bona fide fruit loops. Permit
me now to turn my attention elsewhere—to an alternative to the two, manifestly
unfit for the presidency, geriatrics. A third-party candidate. This option has
had a worm devour part of his brain and—heaving a sigh of relief here—sampled barbecued
goat and not barbecued dog cooked on a spit in Patagonia. “So many skeletons in
my closet,” the man says. Now, I will concede, that’s quite an honest admission,
but hardly refreshingly so.
In closing, there’s an old Kamalan proverb worth mentioning: “It’s time for us to do what we have been doing. And that time is every day.” Yes, then, I will just sit back and recall the better and saner days when Michael Dukakis was the Democratic presidential nominee and selected Senator Lloyd Bentsen as his running mate—two reasonable adults from a more reasonable and dignified time. I remember voting for them with pride at having done my civic duty. I wish that time were every day, but it’s not. See all of the above.