For the Birds

This past weekend I briefly shared a subway car with two pigeons—one black and one white. I live in a diverse part of the country. The birds entered the car at the Van Cortlandt Park station at W242nd Street a few minutes before the southbound Number 1 train commenced its run into Manhattan. I’ve experienced such close encounters with nature before and always worried the birds might become trapped in the train on an unexpected and unwanted journey to places unknown. The nastiest part of such scenarios is that they would be passengers alongside ever-increasing numbers of unsympathetic Homo sapiens. Happily, this pair proved quite savvy and were aware of the drill. They briskly pecked away at invisible crumbs on the subway car floor and exited the train moments before the “all-aboard” buzzer sounded and the conductor exclaimed, “Stand clear of the closing doors!”

My cohabitation with these feathered world travelers inspired a series of flighty thoughts. It jarred my memory, too. Society has really gone to the birds, I concluded. For starters, I’ve noticed more and more uncooked rice on the sidewalks of local businesses frequented by pigeons. Apparently, these entrepreneurs have swallowed hook, line, and sinker the canard that consumption of the rice—after it expands in their stomachs—will cause the pigeons to explode. This, by the way, wouldn't exactly be a pretty sight on their respective properties.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not an admirer of large pigeon ensembles and people feeding them in the wrong places. For some individuals, a pigeon strike is considered a harbinger of good fortune. But for recipients of these plops from up above, it’s a major problem in the here and now. I gingerly navigate through the various pigeon fallout zones in my neck of the woods and hope for the best. So far, lady luck has left me unsullied.

On the flip side of the pigeon-hating retailers in my area is a shopkeeper who liberally tosses birdseed on the front sidewalk of his establishment, which naturally attracts multiple species of birds. Not cardinals, orioles, and hummingbirds, but sparrows, starlings, and pigeons. But it’s the pigeons that rule the roost in this venue. Passersby must regularly wade through a bona fide mess with flapping pigeons in a perpetual cycle of ascent and descent. I suspect the nearby beauty parlor, eatery, and cigar lounge don’t appreciate the feeding frenzies outside their doors.

When I was a youth, a notorious neighborhood bully was renowned for blowing up pigeons with firecrackers. Recently, I searched his name and came upon an arrest notice of this sadist from the past. It’s called karma. When I swerved to avoid a pigeon during driving lessons, my instructor told me in no uncertain terms not to do that again. I should make “pigeon soup” the next time. Fortunately, there wasn’t a next time.

One final pigeon story: It involves a great champion of progressive causes. When pigeons nested under his air conditioner, it disturbed his peace, tranquility, and routine. The chirping hatchlings eventually drove him to distraction. So, what does he do? No, he doesn’t call someone who could remove them humanely. Lock, stock, and barrel, the man with the bleeding liberal heart throws the nest down his building’s garbage chute. That’s the human species at work. It’s too often about us and only us. But you know what: There’s more than enough room for pigeons. We can co-exist.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Next Stop: Crazytown

“That’s the signpost up ahead. The next stop: Crazytown.” Considering how the political deck is currently stacked, this is my reflex response to a highway beautification sign on the Henry Hudson Parkway near the 79th Street exit. My friends, these are strange times and—by the looks of things—getting stranger.

On a vehicular voyage through the heart of Manhattan yesterday, I was repeatedly reminded of the time of year. Not quite autumn in New York means that primary day is just around the corner. In fact, it’s today. I cast my paper ballot and received a little round “I VOTED” sticker for performing my civic duty. Personally, I think the New York City Board of Elections could cut their cost of doing business by eliminating the stickers and nobody would bat an eye.

There were actually some contested races this year—increasingly rare occurrences in these parts—including Governor Andrew Cuomo facing an unusual opponent. Attacking him from the left has been Cynthia Nixon, actress, Sex and the City star, and lesbian. While I’m no fan of Cuomo, it was pretty obvious from the outset that Nixon didn’t have a clue. Her numbers—and just about everything else—didn’t add up.

There has also been a truly competitive state senate battle in my district with the sitting Democratic senator dubbed a “Trump Republican.” From his left flank, a progressive challenger with a familiar political name has a fighting chance—from what I’ve read—to pull off an upset. Meanwhile, Cuomo, scores of Democratic politicians, and virtually every local union have endorsed the so-called “Trump Republican.” As with the governor, I’ve got no love for the incumbent. But I nonetheless voted with—par for the course—minimal enthusiasm for the known over the unknown.

During the past couple of months, I discovered that my vote this year actually mattered to some people. I received a personalized handwritten postcard imploring me to vote for the insurgent “real Democrat” in the state senate race. Recorded phone calls from local pols have been ubiquitous. Volunteers have been going door-to-door and checking their lists for swayable resident Democrats. Still, big turnouts, or even a fair to middling ones, in primary elections are uncommon. And if my moment at the polls this morning is any barometer of the bigger picture, the final turnout won’t amount to a hill of beans. But some prognosticators are anticipating an insurrectionary swell that will topple a giant or two. Only time will tell.

While on the inane subject of politics, I noticed a couple of signs in an old apartment window near Central Park. The building might have been ancient, but I’m certain the rents reflect contemporary times. One of the signs featured an upside down American flag with the words “NOT MY PRESIDENT.” The other read: “IT’S Miller TIME.” What exactly is the correlation of these two statements, you ask? My guess is that it’s easier to exist in Crazytown while having the Miller Time of your life—or a suitable substitute. Oh...wait...that bottom sign reads: "IT'S Mueller TIME!" It is indeed. And don’t forget to vote early and often!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The IJ Network and My Marbles

From the perils of social media file: You wake in the morning, log on to Facebook, and visit one of the groups that you've joined. And, lo and behold, there it is: a crude, dismissive, quasi-literate comment to something so, so benign. Case in point from a group devoted to my boyhood hero, a Baseball Hall of Fame pitcher: In a colorful Facebook box, a guy recounted how fortunate he was to have had said pitcher’s “MIL” as a grammar school teacher a half century ago. Why? Because she let her students watch baseball games. MIL, by the way, stood for mother-in-law.

To make a long story short, this post didn’t sit too well with one individual who responded to it with: “Whoop de do. Who cares?” This pithy put-down, however, wasn’t enough for him. He added an acerbic aside, which claimed that people make up “ridiculous acronyms” to “feel superior.” Actually, he didn’t use the word “people” but something vulgar beginning with “ass” and ending with “hole.” He also misspelled “ridiculous.”

While on the subject of acronyms, I checked out this person’s profile and determined that he was, in my opinion, an“IJ"—an Idiot...Jerk—and part of the rather expansive IJ Network. What makes an IJ an IJ? First of all, it has nothing to do with income, occupation, or geography. Rather, it’s a mindset: aggressive, coarse, and arrogant. IJs are men and women who confuse boorishness with being clever. Above all else, they love to pontificate. Where they are concerned, there are never, ever two sides to a story. The marriage of the words, by the way, occurred forty years ago at a neighborhood swimming pool in the Bronx. Splashed with water, an angry youth exacted his revenge on the splasher by writing "Idiot...Jerk" in BIC pen on his locker.

It is because of the vast and growing IJ Network that I am typically loath to post on public groups. Recently, I had an inconsequential encounter with a fellow who obviously considered himself Joe New York. He thought what I posted would be of no interest to real New Yorkers, whom he deemed to speak for. The man employed all caps at one point and concluded his loutish comment with “lol.” When the IJ Network comes calling, I promptly take my marbles and go someplace else. Like here:

For those considering visiting America and wondering what culinary delights to sample...

One can't go wrong with tacos, burgers, and tossed salads washed down with refreshing Bud Lights. They are as American as apple pie.

I kind of thought so...but now I know for certain...the Golden Age is no more...

New York may be the "city that never sleeps," but its bathrooms often do.

A remnant of old New York...

For some reason I thought of the game show: Can You Top This?

Apparently, everyone who is anyone rides around on a Citibike nowadays.

While growing up, my favorite pizza guy, George, would make a dozen or more pizzas before he even opened his shop. Ordering a slice later in the day was sometimes a crapshoot.

The Karate Kid of Kingsbridge.

This restaurant briefly appeared on my GrubHub roster of culinary possibilities. Since I've had a run of good luck of late when ordering via this online facilitator, the last thing I wanted was a Fiasco.

For a moment there I thought this was a yellow school bus.

I'd like to toast a marshmallow in something like that...

Now this is American gourmet food...

All alone in the last subway car afforded me a catbird seat. With fellow passengers on the scene, taking such a picture might have prompted a see something, say something moment.

Some people have seen Him on burnt toast, in cloud formations, and in a window's condensation. I have seen Him riding a bicycle.

And He said, "Let there be light!"

If anyone deserves Labor Day off, it's Edy!

When veteran newsman David Brinkley was asked about the iconic closing of NBC's Huntley-Brinkley Report with co-anchor Chet Huntley—"Good night, Chet...Good night, David"—he said that the pair initially found the notion rather corny. But then Brinkley wryly added, "You had to end the show with something." So, why not? And the rest is history...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)