June Swoon

I've written in the past about a man from the old neighborhood whom I aptly nicknamed "Mr. Fence." The moniker stuck and endured through the years. This date on the calendar calls to mind both the man and the legend. The summers of "Mr. Fence" were simpler ones as kids one and all—sans any electronic devices to occupy their time—frolicked with abandon in the great outdoors. This fact of life made Mr. Fence—a peculiar, sometimes scary, and very private individual—a perpetual fence mender and steadfast sentry. But that was then and this is now.

Apparently this is what happens when the Donner party makes a reservation. In fact, I googled said party and encountered the "People also ask" questions and answers, which included: "Who was eaten in the Donner party?"

For three of my four years in high school I had Mr. C. as a gym teacher  To commence each class, the man would put his students through a tired litany of four-count warm-up exercises. "One, two, three, four...one, two, three, four...one, two, three, four," he'd intone repeatedly. The exercises were over and done with when the last "four" was shouted as such: "FOUR!!!"

Playing the familiar Mr. Softee jingle—illegally appropriated—I was left to wonder how this mysterious and shady ice cream peddler could sleep at night.

Meanwhile, Jolly Joe—with the most god-awful jingle—peddles his fare in the bright light of day. 

A bona fide heat wave—with ample doses of oppressive humidity—is in the offing for the Fourth of July week.

The wacky world we now live in necessitates concrete barriers at busy New York City street corners with bicycle paths. Why? So deranged individuals don't purposely plow down bicyclists.

The best bargain in New York City: the Staten Island Ferry. The twenty-five minute trip from Manhattan to Staten Island—and vice versa—is free of charge and comes with incredible views. 

On seeing what I believed was a faux paddle steamer in New York Harbor, I thought of Robert Fulton who invented something else: the steamboat. Once upon a time that sort of thing was taught in school.

As New York City becomes more gentrified and businesses cater to hipsters, longstanding diner sides like canned corn niblets aren't always on the menu. For a vegetable side, a greasy spoon very familiar to me now offers only a sautéed or grilled medley that includes broccoli, cauliflower, eggplant, peppers, and zucchini. I'll take a traditional diner's bland and tasteless peas/carrots over that concoction.

At the Van Cortlandt Park terminal...I think not.

Straphanger philosopher or Mel Brooks fan?

"I dare you to knock this off" subway sleeper...

When the repeated subway station announcement—"A train is approaching the station. Please stand away from the platform"—assumes a higher meaning.

Target practice in the land down under?

If I had a hammer, I'd imagine George Costanza above me...

The next stop...the Twilight Zone...

"Who is Number One?"

The law of the New York City jungle permits dogs on the subway provided they are in carriers. Also, canine companions must not "annoy" fellow passengers. It's too bad this edict doesn't apply to the human animal, who is much more likely to annoy his or her fellow riders. On a recent journey of mine, a husband and wife entered my subway car with their four children. The kids promptly turned the setting into a playground while their parents—oblivious to the extremely annoying behavior—sat idly by as if they were in their own backyard.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Sex and the City

When I spied a city bus with a billboard on its front side—directly under the driver—for the Museum of Sex, it struck me as odd. When the very same advertisement appeared on bus after bus after bus, it struck me as odder still. You see, there was no further information to be gleaned from the ads about this mysterious museum. Where exactly it was located and what exactly could be found there was left to our imaginations. Of course, this is the Information Age we live in and the answers to those questions are readily accessible with a smartphone or computer. By the way, if you’re interested in discovering what all the fuss is about, the place—also known as MoSex—is located at 233 Fifth Avenue on the corner of East 27th Street.

I had in fact encountered subway promos for one and the same on recent train trips. But then came the Museum of Sex bus blitzkrieg—seemingly out of nowhere—with the billboards prominently positioned and seen by millions in what amounted to a traveling road show. I was naturally curious as to MoSex’s money source for this comprehensive advertising campaign. It had to cost the museum a pretty penny. Perhaps the establishment receives endowments from the rich and famous—endowed or otherwise—I don’t know.

Also, I couldn’t help but wonder how the billboards were playing with the populace at large and, too, Metropolitan Transport Authority (MTA) employees. After all, bus drivers were compelled to lord over three words and three words only: Museum of Sex. Lo and behold, local news stations reported on and answered my questions this morning. There was indeed a billboard controversy. Complaints about them were coming in fast and furious from the aforementioned bus drivers. Female drivers griped about harassing hoots and hollers from riders. Male drivers weren’t too happy, either, being in the crossfire. Putting that three-letter word on the front bumpers of buses on busy routes was destined to stir the pot of boorishness, which is quite a large melting one in New York City, and it didn’t disappoint.

The MTA actually took to heart what their employees had to say vis-à-vis the Museum of Sex billboards and promised to slowly but surely remove them. I can attest that the removal—in my neck of woods at least—has been immediate. They were on practically all the buses yesterday and not on any of them today.

An unrelated footnote here is that the MTA now has a policy of “gender neutral” announcements. No more “Ladies and Gentlemen” and that sort of exclusive thing. You are more likely to hear: “Hello, Everyone.” When I first heard that intro echoing in the subway bowels, it sounded rather awkward to me. But I didn’t know then that a new policy—not to offend someone who is neither a lady nor a gentleman—was in place. Had the MTA consulted with me beforehand, I would have recommended: “Ladies, Gentlemen, and the rest” rather than “Hello, Everyone.” It would have simultaneously accomplished its inclusive mission and paid homage to the first season opening credits of Gilligan’s Island.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Tail of One Park

It’s a U-shaped group of benches with a nicely shaped evergreen tree as its centerpiece—one that is decorated with lights at Christmastime by the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. The place is an island unto itself—set apart from the sprawling Van Cortlandt Park proper by the heavily trafficked W240th Street, or Van Cortlandt Park South, as it is known east of the El. This slice of earth is, nonetheless, parkland and has been officially dubbed “Van Cortlandt’s Tail.”

                       

The reason why I snap so many pictures of the El on Broadway, subway track workers festooned in neon yellow and orange, and assorted passing vehicles is simple. It’s the view from the Tail, my catbird’s seat to occasionally interesting, but mostly non-interesting daily occurrences and recurrences. It wasn’t a planned thing, but the Tail has become a frequent stopover for me—an ideal resting spot and refuel location during my errand and exercise runs. 

Granted, I’d rather be sitting on a bench gazing out at the Atlantic Ocean, the Hudson River, or even Lake Welsh. There was nothing quite like vacationing as a boy in Manasquan, New Jersey and watching the fishing vessels navigate the Manasquan Inlet. But, believe it or not, observing Number 1 subway trains entering and exiting their ports has a certain calming effect—on me at least. The earsplitting horn blowing and screeching and scratching metal against metal isn’t exactly music to my ears, but it’s oddly reassuring. Never fail: The Tail supplies its visitors with an unceasing show of urban repetition with a special surprise every so often. And why not?

Life is full of surprises. On the western border of the Tail is Broadway traffic, which adds further color to the place’s singular ambience. Passing fire trucks and ambulances with sirens sounding are regular sightings. It’s a “Rainy Night in Georgia” kind of thing, only with a not-so-distant “moanin’ of a train.” Simply put: It’s a pretty noisy spot. And with Van Cortlandt Park a popular attraction—especially in the warm climes—there are typically ice cream and hot dog trucks in the vicinity.

While repeatedly playing the most maddening jingle—one that concludes with a particularly annoying “Hello!”—Jolly Joe’s sells everything from frankfurters to smoothies to chewing gum. Meanwhile, Mister Softee—a storied favorite in these parts—is happily still peddling his product in vintage trucks from forty and fifty years ago. That’s the way it looks to me! Mister Softee’s jingle is renowned in the five boroughs. In fact, franchisees playing the thing too loud and for far too long have inspired a city ordinance. The jingle must go silent while trucks are idle. Funny, but I had a Mister Softee truck right outside my door this past week for twenty whole minutes. The jingle played non-stop on a loop the entire time. I don’t know what’s worse: leaf blowers in autumn or the Mister Softee jingle in summer—played over and over and over. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that the familiar jingle resonating through the ether attracted business that otherwise wouldn’t have known Mister Softee was on the scene. And—unbeknownst to many patrons—the jingle actually has accompanying lyrics beginning with “The creamiest, dreamiest soft ice cream, you get from Mister Softee.” Sights and sounds are all around.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Embraced by the Light

I was “embraced by the light” at 18th Street yesterday morning in a Manhattan subway station. Soon after, I made my up to street level and the bright light of day. In the hazy sun and unpleasant heat and humidity of creation, I spied a “smoke shop” that gave me pause. “It’s not your grandfather’s cigar store anymore,” I said to no one in particular. “Vaporizer, Beer, Lotto, Cigars” are a far cry from my memory of “Optimo” in the old neighborhood. A rather large “Optimo Cigars” sign hung outside the place, which is why we locals—not so originally—called it Optimo. Really, though, it was just another “candy store” that—like its competitors—sold cigars as well. Nevertheless, the name distinguished it from Bill’s Friendly Spot (formerly Paula’s) and Joe’s (later Shital’s). Joe, by the way, was a notorious cheapskate who gave sour balls back to kids instead of change. Needless to say, Shital’s had an unfortunate moniker for a candy store on Main Street—or, in this instance, W231st Street in the Bronx.

Further wandering brought me past the “Merci Market,” which prompted me to say—again to no one in particular—“Lamb of God, You take away the sins of the world—have mercy on us!” I don’t exactly know why, but during Sunday Mass we would repeat that refrain followed by the grand finale: “Grant us peace!” And once the prayer was put to music, it became lodged in my brain for all eternity. A footnote: The “Lamb of God” entreaty was always appreciated because it signaled the end was near—of the Mass that is.

Finally in my travels, I resurrected the “Man-Lady”—and not for the first time. This decidedly unique personage owned and operated a neighborhood bicycle shop, “The Wheel,” in the 1960s and 1970s. Bicycle riding was commonplace back then—almost every kid in the old neighborhood had a bike. Suffice it to say, the Man-Lady was kept busy. The Wheel both sold and rented bicycles. In need of a repair—it was also the go-to place. I recall purchasing bicycle-tire tube patches there for my Stingray with its all-that-glitters-isn’t-gold banana seat.

Want a mental picture of the Man-Lady? Visualize a much more foreboding and considerably darker Pat. I hope you haven’t forgotten It’s Pat. New York City’s increasingly bicycle-friendly bells and whistles are what made me bring back to life this singular individual from my youth. Scattered all across the urban milieu now are bike racks. Lock up your bicycle with confidence, people. New York City is one of the safest big cities in the world!

A little background here: Upon The Wheel’s closure sometime in the late 1970s, I’d say, bicycle-specific shops were fast going the way of the woolly mammoth. But they’ve made a remarkable comeback in this era of snarling traffic congestion. I have little doubt the Man-Lady would be delighted at this turn of events—or, should I say, return of events.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)