January: Final Thoughts

Jerry Springer is still a television fixture. Once upon a time I got a kick out of the closing moments of his extraordinarily tasteless talk show. For it was then that the unctuous host delivered what were dubbed his “final thoughts.” Springer would oh-so-seriously opine about the lessons learned from the day’s show, as if he had delivered a public service by having guests brawling with one another, cursing each other out, and tossing chairs around the set. Lost on Springer and his “final thoughts” was any sense of irony. But then this was the same guy who got caught in a sting after paying a prostitute with a personal check.

I’d rather talk about the weather than Jerry Springer. Mercifully, January is near an end. Overall, it was very cold month with just a handful of temperate bones thrown our way. This past weekend was on the mild side with a pleasing Sunday morning fog. The homeless were omnipresent on the streets of Manhattan. It seems there are more of them than ever living in the great outdoors. One aggressive fellow stood on a corner asking for bucks. I handed him a dollar, which displeased him. “Aren’t you going to help me get ten dollars?” he asked. I replied, “I just did!” His retort came with a menacing stare: “That’s all you can spare?” Actually, his questions weren’t really questions. They were angry statements. There are many poor souls on the street who are mentally ill with addiction problems. Some of them, like this guy, are on the scary side of the street. I don't suspect it took him too long to amass his goal of ten dollars. Menace has its benefits.

With the first month of the year practically in the history books, the 2018 Lenten season looms on the horizon. I don’t know if there’s any significance to this, but Ash Wednesday falls on Valentine’s Day. For those unfamiliar with the former, it’s the day when Catholics and assorted Christians are reminded that they were dust and dust they will soon be again. It’s a dusty road we trod. And I suppose it’s never too early to teach kids this important fact of life. With that knowledge and, of course, an ashy cross on their foreheads, they can rest easy.

And now for something completely different: What’s with the excessive use of countdown clocks on cable news channels? Is it necessary to have a twenty-seven hour, thirty-six minute, and forty-five second—and ticking down, down, down—advance notice of the State of the Union speech? It’s pointless glitz, a distraction, but somehow befitting of the times in which we live.

Speaking of these times: There are an awful lot of thoughtless, inflammatory, offensive oafs in the wider world. And social media is their playground. While perusing a nostalgic picture site on Facebook recently, I came upon a comment to an innocuous photo that was aggressive, vulgar, and totally uncalled for. What else is new? My modus operandi in such situations is to check out the offending party. In this instance the oaf was a sixty-something man and great patriot, of course, with grandchildren—a bona fide power-of-example. This sort of behavior—adults who should know better—used to leave me dumbfounded. But I am no longer surprised that countless men and women now sit behind their Wizard of Oz curtains and fulminate on forums that in simpler times didn’t exist.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Tale of Two Weekends

Temperatures topped fifty degrees on both Saturday and Sunday. It’s the January thaw, I guess. Daytime highs barely reached twenty a week earlier. In both the cold times and not-so-cold times, I visited Battery Park. And what a difference a week made.

One week ago, tourists in the vicinity of the World Trade Center were hard to come by. I didn’t see any tour boats in the harbor either. Roaming around that blustery part of town with wind chills near zero is not for the faint of heart—take my word for it. I didn’t linger very long at water’s edge. Instead, I found myself a pizza shop to simultaneously satisfy my craving and rest my cold and weary bones. The place had a large sign in its interior: “The Best Pizza in New York.” Suffice it to say, it wasn’t the best pizza in town, but I’ve tasted worse—a whole lot worse. (See my previous blog for the photographic evidence.) My biggest problem with this pizza parlor was its two doors, which were left ajar. Seeing one’s breath at the lunch table doesn’t exactly enhance dining ambiance. Interestingly, a couple of Yelp reviewers of the place complained about its lack of air-conditioning and stifling dining room in the summertime.

Such are the sands of time. It will be hot as hell soon enough. I noticed last week a missing Nathan’s hot dog cart, which was not in its familiar spot on Vesey Street. I assumed it wouldn’t return until spring. But lo and behold, it was back in business this weekend. Yesterday, I couldn’t resist a couple of their “famous” frankfurters: crunchy, salty, and perversely tasty. However, I passed on their equally “famous” greasy crinkle French fries. That gastro ship has definitely sailed.

The New York City homeless population is also less visible on the streets on the bitterest of cold days. They are forced into shelters, I presume, because there is real estate that belongs to homeless men and women—specific spots where the same folks can almost always be found. The balmier weather brought everybody back. It’s a sad situation for sure.

In the arctic weather, subway cars and underground stations house more homeless than usual. Last week, I entered the last car of a Bronx-bound Number 1 train on my return trip home and found three passengers in it—all homeless. Two of the three appeared to be a couple and were animatedly raving to one another. I sensed a degree of menace in the land down under and, as I was in no particular rush to get home, I exited the train at the next stop. What do I find but a homeless man encamped right outside the door. I couldn’t therefore wait for the next train and its last car at that end of the station. So, I walked to other end. It was there that I discovered a shuttered women’s bathroom—a relic of a kinder and gentler past in the big city.

Speaking of the homeless, a man entered the subway yesterday looking, smelling, and behaving like he was on the destitute side of the ledger. But he didn’t ask for any money and was carrying a working smartphone. He strolled through the car and got off at the next stop. Shortly thereafter, another fellow got on, took a seat, and was alternatively laughing and ranting for several stops—the kind of guy that, were I alone, would force me to employ the Charles Manson Rule and make like a tree and leave. But I wasn’t alone. After a while the chap got up and sinisterly repeated over and over: “I don’t have a job. Can anybody give me some money?” He appeared angry and unfocused as he raced through the car and into the next one. Clearly, panhandling wasn’t his thing.

It’s a strange age we live in. I saw a homeless guy on the street with all his accoutrements, including a sign elaborating on his sorry state. He was talking on a cell phone when I passed by. And in the aforementioned frosty pizza shop, a teenager ate his pizza alongside of me. He was engrossed with his device the whole time. Likewise captivated by a device, a friend met him there. The pair somehow managed to eat, converse, and make plans for the day without ever looking up. I was impressed. One final note: The tour boats were back in the harbor this weekend. It's too bad Lady Liberty was off-limits.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

It’s Frickin’ Freezing in Here, Mr. Bigglesworth

It was in the vicinity of zero degrees this morning in New York City, a culmination of sorts to an extended medley of unpleasant weather. The forecast for tomorrow has the thermometer approaching the freezing mark for the first time in nearly two weeks. My youthful exuberance that once welcomed snow with open arms and tolerated bone-chilling temps is a thing of the past—the distant past. Touch football in the white stuff isn’t in this winter’s crystal ball anymore.

This week’s unholy alliance of frigid cold, strong winds, and some snow got me thinking about a movie—one, in fact, that I hadn’t thought about in quite a while—Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery starring Mike Myers. While sitting at my desk in recent days—in my drafty, very chilly, ground-floor apartment—I have exclaimed on more than one occasion: “It’s frickin’ freezing in here!” And, from my perspective at least, it was. Of course, that apropos phrase paid homage to the aforementioned movie and, specifically, the character of Dr. Evil. For he uttered those infamous words to his faithful feline companion, the hairless Mr. Bigglesworth.

Austin Powers debuted in 1997, a snapshot in time that bears little resemblance to the world we presently call home. And based on my personal Laugh-Out-Loud meter, it was the funniest feature film I had ever seen to date. I actually saw the movie on five different occasions in the theater, paying the piper every time. Fortunately, the price of admission wasn’t fourteen and fifteen dollars a pop like it is now in many local theaters. Still, I’d never done anything like that before and haven’t done anything like it since. Austin Powers struck a remarkable funny nerve for both its day and my day, too.

A sequel premiered two years later. My recollection of Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me is that it was at best okay, but a far cry from the original. In 2002, Austin Powers in Goldmember saw the light of day. Writhing in my seat, I remember promptly consigning this addition to the franchise to the Gone to Well Once Too Often file. Pretty much like the sequel before it, I don’t recall much about the plot particulars. But I can say with absolute certainty that I didn’t laugh a single time. That’s unforgettable! I even offered my opinion to a couple of entertainment reporters—or whomever they were—outside the theater. They were querying individual moviegoers as to what he or she thought of the latest Austin Powers flick. The mighty had fallen that afternoon—I thought—and fast and furiously at that.

A postscript to this cold tale is that I have never watched an Austin Powers movie since. I don’t own any of the three movies on DVD and have no desire to—and that includes the real McCoy original, which had me in the silly parlance of today: LMAO. In my opinion—you know it didn’t take much to spell out that phrase—the sequels became increasingly parodies of a parody, with Mike Myers losing the critical subtlety that made characters like Austin Powers and Dr. Evil funny. This happens frequently in movies, television, and in real life as well. Sometimes it’s best to be a one-hit wonder. Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery would be better off standing on its own. According to the IMDb, a rumor is floating around of a fourth movie in the works. Should it come to pass, I’ll take a pass. I know now that catching lightning in a bottle a second time—more than two decades later—just isn’t in the cards. And as I write these words, it’s still frickin’ freezing in here, but hope springs eternal. Now if I can only surf the Internet, peruse social media, and turn on the television without being “surrounded by frickin’ idiots,” I’d be a contented man. But I’m not holding my breath on that score.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)