A Bit Too Far

In the guise of subway passenger, I am inclined to give panhandlers, performers, and panhandler-performer mind-melds a dollar or two. Without warning today, a self-described performer materialized with the contemporary equivalent of Ronco’s “Mr. Microphone” and an accompanying amplifier thing. His initial insertion into the dour underground world of a subway ride was somewhat unnerving. The man proceeded to make a very loud mock-conductor announcement with the help, of course, of his magical, mystical mic.

“Next stop on this train will be Rockaway Beach,” he bellowed. The not-so-funny fellow then cited the reason for this drastic change in schedule—we were Bronx-bound—as a “giraffe on the tracks.” Not surprisingly, I didn’t think the routine was laugh-out-loud riotous, but it was—if nothing else—unique. This man with the microphone informed all in earshot that his raison d'être was to put smiles on people’s faces. He pointed out one passenger who actually cracked a smile. And so I prepared to give the guy a couple of bucks before he performed his more far-reaching main act.

To make a long story short: He should have quit while he was ahead with the giraffe-on-the-train-tracks bit. His subsequent rap was rather vile. From my perspective, it wasn’t even remotely amusing and—by the looks of things—everybody else in the subway car concurred, including the person who had previously smirked. In fact, I was pleased to see that nobody—black or white—made a “contribution,” which was the performer’s word for his Go Fund Me endgame.

Both persons of color and persons of non-color did not appreciate this person of color’s overt racism and allusions to violence. I being in the colorless category reconsidered my contribution, which was pretty much a first for me. The not-ready-for-primetime artiste nonetheless parted with a gracious “thank you”—for what exactly, I don’t know—and importuned us to follow him on Instagram. No, thank you.

Prior to this unexpected and unwanted underground cabaret, the highlight of my trip was two German tourists poring over a subway map. The fly in the ointment here is that a young woman was seated right below it. A lesson that I’ve learned the hard way is to never sit beneath a subway map. Why? Because people on unfamiliar terrain will very literally get in your face while they are trying to figure out where they are and where they want to go. This particular husband-and-wife team was at it for multiple stops. I can only hope they found their way.

Finally, in New York City subway cars nowadays, advertising isn’t quite what is was when my father rode the train five days a week from the Bronx to Manhattan’s mega-post office in the shadows of Penn Station. He never saw a car festooned with one advertiser’s ads and one advertiser’s ads only. In the good old days it was a hodgepodge of this, that, and the other thing. But it’s not unusual in the here and now to see one company—or one product or service—being pitched in a series of advertisements throughout an entire subway car. It’s called branding, I think. The only problem is that I frequently have no idea what the ads are selling. Today, I spied a sleeping passenger directly across from me and was startled to see the ad above him. I wondered if there was some kind of subliminal advertising at work. Burrow’s? Sleeping? Repose? I am left only to wonder. Rest easy…

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Life After Yu

As the dog days of summer wind down and time accelerates as never before, I will continue to report on mostly unimportant events and non-events leading up to my death. That's a riff, by the way, on my favorite title ever for a memoir: newsman Howard K. Smith's Events Leading Up to My Death.

Anyway, sometimes unhappy news comes when you least expect it or need it. My mailman for the past ten years—Yu—is moving on to bigger and better things. Well, a different route at least in a more prestigious area of apartment buildings. It'll probably be easier on his bad knees. Yu has been climbing up a lot of stairs in a lot of private homes these past ten years. Still, when he told me the news, I felt stunned, like I was losing an old friend. A known-quantity, dedicated mailman is a prize to be cherished. So, is there life after Yu? Only time will tell. And now for some more events and non-events of no particular importance:

No, these aren't the swallows returning to Capistrano. They are Canada Geese on flight from the Van Cortlandt Park flats in the Bronx. After defecating all over the green fields there, they are headed for another bathroom run someplace else.

There's nothing quite like a little Rose of Sharon with a singular flower on it. One that sprouted up from seed in a most rugged piece of earth.

And He thus sayeth, "Let there be another Auto Zone..."

I have an old friend who now comes to a full stop at every Stop sign. It's not that he wants to at long last comply with the minutia of the law. He's in his eighties and relishes making younger drivers angry. But I've heard about enough road rage cases to appreciate that being an old geezer is not sufficient protection from a wayward punch, tossed deadly object, or even a gunshot.

A friend and I were once acquainted with this fellow nicknamed "Bug." He was actually an annoying little weasel. But in his memory we regularly take pictures of small objects and designate them "Bug" things. This is Bug's easy chair.

In three months this tree will be festooned with Christmas lights.

How did these two gloves get here? What's their back story?

"And when the country was falling apart, Betsy Ross got it all sewed up!"

It's the George Washington. What would George Washington say? 

I have a new hobby. I take pictures of people taking selfies.

Get the stick...

Bug's bicycles...

Spotted these two tourists not taking selfies. An unsolicited word of advice in these crazy times: Why walk around with a target on your chest when you don't have to?

If this was a three-hour tour, these five passengers better pray that the weather doesn't start getting rough...

Is there a better place to meditate than a New York City subway car? Probably.

"A Beach Vacation WITHOUT AIRPORT SECURITY" the subway ad reads. And it's only a Lyft—or subway—ride away! Ocean beachfront in the borough of Queens and I've never been there and probably never will be. That ship has sailed. 

Mystery lady checking her smartphone. Why am I thinking about Billy Ocean?

Today was a 3-H day: hazy, hot, and humid...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

You Have to Be Smart

It’s been almost four decades since my older brother and an older partner purchased a small retail shop in the borough of Queens. It was in the Little Neck neighborhood on the heavily traveled Northern Boulevard. Called Pet Nosh, it exclusively sold pet foods and pet accessories—nothing with a pulse. Mom-and-pop stores peddling solely pet products were pretty uncommon in the late-1970s.

The fledgling entrepreneurs learned about the business for sale from a man named Demetrius, who operated a store of his own in Brooklyn. At the outset, Demetrius offered up a pearl of wisdom to the new kids on the block. “You have to be smart!” he said. In fact, success depended on it. Vis-à-vis the industry at-large, Demetrius envisioned a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The older generations, on the other hand, sniffed at the notion of selling pet food for a living. They viewed the effort as a frivolous misadventure on a dead-end street. It just didn’t quite seem the stuff with which American dreams were made.

Anyway, that was then and this is now. Demetrius, by the way, was spot-on about the pet trade blossoming into an economic dynamo with which to be reckoned. He, though, missed out on his share of the riches. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps he didn’t take his own advice. Meanwhile, the older generations of the late-1970s have made acquaintance with the grim reaper and a page has been turned. The greenhorn businessmen of that simpler snapshot in time before the Internet and smartphones have now assumed the role of both wise and unwise elders. It’s the cycle of life.

While on the subject of cycles: In the early years of Pet Nosh, a commercial dog food called Cycle was a popular seller. If memory serves, the first sale for the excited new owners was a case of Cycle. There were four varieties: 1, 2, 3, and 4. Cycle 1 was for puppies; 2 for adult dogs; 3 for the overweight; and 4 for elderly canines. In the human equation the leap from two to four has been fast and furious.

So, what exactly made me think of Demetrius’s mantra—“You have to be smart!”—today? It initially came to mind when I read an article about the declining bee population and how man-made pollutants and pesticides having been relentlessly doing a number on them. From my catbird seat in the Bronx, I see remarkably fewer bees in my travels than I did in my youth. That’s the buzz. Personally, I think we need to bee smart in this instance and do what we can to save these vital insects. Unfortunately, we depend on politicians for matters of survival and being smart invariably takes a back seat to feathering their own nests and consolidating their hold on power.

Yet another be smart moment occurred this morning when a spied a shuttered business in the area. Actually, Demetrius’s counsel to young businessmen forty years ago assumes a higher meaning in the here and now. Exhibit A: a pizza place that opened its doors a couple of years ago. It took years to get the shop up and running. A colorful sign with the shop’s name and phone number first appeared. Then pizza ovens, a counter, and tables were set up. A “Coming Soon” sign eventually materialized, which was on the front door, as things turned out, for years! Then a “For Rent” sign replaced the “Coming Soon” sign. That lasted for several weeks before it, too, disappeared and—say what—the pizzeria opened. 

While the pizza was above average in my opinion, the place lasted only a year before somebody else took it over. The new owners changed both the name and the product. It was a deli-pizzeria combo now. But about halfway through its first year of operation, the pizza part was jettisoned. Apparently, though, the pizza flush wasn’t enough to save the place. Suffice it to say, a lot happened in a couple of short years. Two businesses in the same spot opened, closed, opened, and closed. Now more than ever in New York City, it’s difficult to survive in what is a dog-eat-dog business world with high rents, short leases, and oodles of competition. While it was true in 1979, it's truer still in 2018: You’ve got to be smart.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Talk Soup

It’s been a soupy summer thus far. And today is no exception. In appreciation of the present dog days, I will opine on this, that, and the other thing. For starters, I watched clips of the president ranting and raving at a pep rally yesterday. What came to mind—other than the incredibly obvious—was that more than a few people in attendance were offended when the Orange Man’s predecessor wore a tan suit at a press conference. He demeaned the presidency with this shocking sartorial selection, they—once upon a time—grumbled.

For some reason this same spectacle made me resurrect a waiter named Nestor and cat named Kyle. Nestor worked in a diner that I regularly patronized twenty-five years ago and Kyle was the place’s skulking mouser. On occasion the latter would wend his way up from the basement and saunter around the diner. Nestor warned my dinner companions and I to be leery of Kyle. “Cat not friend!” he said in his less-than-fluent English. Well, fast forward to the here and now and Nestor would be right in saying, “Russia not friend!”

A favorite short-order cook of mine in the very same establishment in which Nestor toiled was fond of saying—after his patented kitchen ramble of how so many things in society have gone awry—“It’s crazeeeee!” And indeed it is! The evidence is in and it’s overwhelming: We are unhinged—it would appear—and in a perpetual state of outrage. The unremitting frothing at the mouth knows no single political bent or particular demographic.

Facebook, for one, is a revealing laboratory. Nowadays, so many people are out to get scalps. “Shoot first and ask questions later” is their mantra. Mobs are lying in wait to annihilate those with whom they disagree politically. Nasty name-calling is the new norm. But mob outrage is hardly confined to partisan politics. Its wrath—to pick a couple of dissimilar instances—is cast upon adults who snare foul balls meant for little kids at the ballpark and, too, supercilious cheapskates who demean restaurant wait staff. With respect to the former, I’ve personally witnessed my fair share of Neanderthals at baseball games. Men and women who should have known better behaving like boors in usually futile attempts to procure orbs wrapped in cowhide. And while I found their behaviors annoying, even nauseating at times, I didn’t believe then or now that violence should come to them or their families. I didn’t believe then or now that their lives—and abilities to earn a living—should be disrupted in perpetuity. Apparently, that’s the posture of all-too–many angry Wizard of Oz-types on social media. Cloaked in the anonymity of their technological devices, it's disheartening to see them clamoring for the home addresses or pictures of those whom they believe deserve a taste of virtual justice. We're in a bad place right now...

Okay that’s enough of all that. It’s time to return to the more mundane—picayune annoyances and oddball observations. Recently, a woman across from me on the subway decided to paint her nails, taking most of the oxygen out of an already stuffy subway car. After exiting the train and the still lingering scent of nail polish, I spied Jolly Joe’s snack truck at Van Cortlandt Park. Free advice for Jolly Joe: If you can’t fit your name and the essence of who you are on one line, use a smaller font. The Scrabble board look is unbecoming of an ice cream man and makes a tacky first impression. Oh, and one last thing, I came upon a sneaker pawnshop in Manhattan. Yes, Virginia, the shop does purchase used sneakers, but probably not my Reeboks. I saw a pawned pair of sneakers selling for $850 on their website! These are strange times for sure.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)