You Like It...It Likes You

“There’s nothing like Christmas in New York.” I hear people say that a lot at this time of year. Not having been too many other places at Christmas, I cannot say definitively whether or not that statement is true. Actually, I would venture to say that there’s nothing quite like Christmas in a lot of other places as well.

Until relatively recently, I had left “Christmas in New York” behind. For me, the holiday heyday in the big city was four and five decades ago. Shopping at Macy’s, the Christmas show and movie at Radio City Music Hall, and visiting Rockefeller Center were annual traditions. Fast forward to the not-too-distant past and I had literally gone twenty or so years without laying eyes on the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. It is, after all, only a forty-five minute train ride and fifteen-minute walk away.

To tell you the truth the tree looks pretty much the same as it did two score and seven years ago. There are, however, more people than ever before getting a bird’s-eye view of it. So many more, in fact, that snippets of crossover streets were closed this year by the powers-that-be. Now, this is good news for pedestrians and not so good news for drivers. Without such closures, I might very well have been trampled to death this past week.  

Honestly, I'd rather experience a sunset in New York harbor than call on Rockefeller Center or set foot in Macy's at Christmastime.

Let it flow...why not? It floats back to you...

Sun, take a good look around, this is your hometown.

I have recently been advocating that tourists visit the canyons of Wall Street during the month of December. Although not nearly as big as the one at Rockefeller Center, the tree there is considerable in size and sports both lights and ornaments. And, as you can see, there aren't swarms of people in the vicinity. This has got to count for something.

And you are a stone's throw away from the Brooklyn Bridge. 

On now to the masses of humanity at Bryant Park, a primer of much worse to come.

The Greek city-states of the seventh century were known to protect themselves with eight-men deep phalanxes. With all eyes on the Saks Fifth Avenue Christmas wall of lights was a phalanx of fifty-men and women deep. Penetrating this massive wall of Homo sapiens with their raised smartphones was not for the faint of heart. 

Fortunately, this section of 50th Street was closed to vehicular traffic. Otherwise, there would be no picture here.

I gave some consideration to having my palm read, but—one—the reader was on a bathroom break. And, two, I remember being taught not to put a plastic bag over my head. Lastly, I'm not a little person.

Glad to see the big banks, like Chase, in the holiday spirit and turning their logos into Christmas decorations.

Jolly Ol' Saint Nicholas says, "It depends on what the meaning of special is."

Extraordinary news uncovered on my Christmas visits downtown this week: The 168th station—for Number 1 train riders—has reopened after being closed for elevator replacement for the entire year. The Metropolitan Transit Authority miracle here is that it occurred a couple of weeks earlier than expected.

Proving once again that one never knows what's around the bend.

Respect others. Now that's a novel concept to heed in 2020.

Okay, it's Northern Manhattan and the George Washington Bridge. Once upon a time I spent Christmas Eve with a grandmother in the Bronx and Christmas Day with a grandmother in Bangor, Pennsylvania. Over the river—in this case the Hudson—and eventually through the woods of Northwestern, New Jersey while listening to AM/FM WPAT's "Spirit of Christmas" on the car radio. May I just say that there is nothing like Christmas in Bangor.

Wherever we traverse, discoveries await. I didn't have to traverse afar this week to uncover the Hudson River Stonehenge.

Granted, it's not quite as impressive as the prehistoric Stonehenge in England, but impressive enough for me.

Finally there: The Little Red Lighthouse—Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse—under the GWB. From a passing car, I spied it for decades. I can cross this off my bucket list. And fewer people around it than the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Menacing Mumblings, the Bickersons, and an Umbrella

It’s Christmas time in the city. Brand new adventures were in store for me this weekend, including the use of a subway bathroom at Chambers Street. An endeavor like that is typically fraught with mystery and genuine concern for what or who lies therein. First of all, it’s the exception to the rule. Most New York City subway stations have no public bathrooms. And the reason for this is made abundantly clear when you patronize the rare one open for business.

The places we will go when we have to go. Yes, I threw caution to the wind yesterday morning, gingerly elbowing the bathroom door open. A solitary urinal and stall greeted me. Happily, both were unoccupied. I noticed the former hadn’t been flushed in a while, but made a beeline to it anyway. I wondered if it could even flush. Fortunately, I identify with the male gender—Joe Biden says there are “at least three” of them—and was able to do what I had to do without coming into contact with anything bathroom related. I suffered a momentary lapse, though, when I instinctively flushed the urinal. Surprisingly, it worked. So, I did someone a small favor. I wanted to wash my hands but concluded such an act of proper hygiene in that sink would be counterproductive.

When exiting this bathroom from down under, I spied a large umbrella in the trash receptacle. Another man then entered. He looked somewhat threatening and had a lady companion—his better half—waiting outside. Not good. Seconds later, the fellow emerged from the bathroom with the umbrella in hand. He called out to me, “Sir, is this yours?” I said no in no uncertain terms.

A little while later I encountered the couple on the station platform, angrily bickering about this, that, and the other thing. The woman had the umbrella now. She eventually concluded it was not much of a find, I guess, and—in mid-bicker—tossed the thing onto the subway tracks. Her friend was not amused.

Later in my travels, a lunatic—menacingly mumbling without pause—entered the subway car that included me as a passenger. He didn’t ask anybody for anything, but his deranged presence made one and all increasingly uncomfortable. The man took off his sneakers at some point and sported extraordinarily clean white socks, which didn’t quite jibe with the rest of him. In due course, he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and began puffing away. At that moment, I knew I had rode with this guy before. Smokey the Bear’s modus operandi is to light up, deplete the oxygen in the subway car, and watch the inexorable exodus of passengers to another one. In my case, I just got off and waited for another train. 

Smoking in underground mass transit is more than I can stand nowadays. It was bad enough in above- ground mass transit during my high school days forty years ago. Against the law then and now.

I saw more than assorted loons on my weekend journeys. Saturday was relatively mild and very foggy.

That's Ellis Island out there. Lady Liberty remained totally shrouded by Mother Nature's pea soup.

As a youth, a local channel always played the public service announcement: "It's 10 p.m. Do you know where your children are?" Today, I suppose, the answer would be: More than likely staring into his or her device.

Sabrett may be "on a roll." But I sincerely doubt ol' George would think the country he helped found was on a roll. On a roll downhill...perhaps.

For prospective tourists and local aficionados of Christmas in New York, I recommend, again, visiting the Financial District.

Lots of nice decorations and lights in the canyons.

In my youth, we never ventured down to lower Manhattan at Christmas. It was all midtown then from Macy's to Rockefeller Center.

While there are plenty of tourists around the Wall Street area, the canyons are sufficiently serpentine and off-the-beaten trail to ensure there are no Rockefeller Center-like masses to contend with.

And a partridge in an artificial Christmas tree...

I saw many Millennials bedecked in Santa outfits on murky Saturday. Must have been a big party day. End of exams...Christmas vacation.

Saturday's last leg. Murkier than ever.

A new day dawned blustery, colder, and clear. I couldn't resist passing by Macy's on Sunday. I haven't stepped inside that place in some forty years. That ship has sailed. 

Upstairs, Downstairs. When I came upon this place near Penn Station, I thought of a local cheesecake factory, S&S, and how their products are available in local stores, including nearby bodegas. No need, therefore, to knock on the factory door. I wonder if the pills upstairs are available in the restaurant downstairs. No need, therefore, to climb a long flight of stairs.

My father toiled at the Farley Post Office for decades. I wonder if it has a public bathroom?

Still reading about a tree shortage this year. I got my little one from a local seller, who seems to have considerably less of an inventory this year.

Who knows what lurks in the hearts of men. The shadow knows. Sunday's last leg.

Finally, I can see why some pigeons like roosting in subway terminals. Enough scraps and non-stop action to keep things interesting. And they don't have to concern themselves with a bathroom.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Uncle Mickey and the House Without a Christmas Tree

(Originally published on 12/22/15)

In my pre-Christmas wanderings today, I came upon something unusual. It was lying out with a building’s trash. This peculiar sighting would have commonplace in the first couple of weeks of 2016, but not on December 22nd. I beheld a fair-sized, reasonably fresh-looking Christmas tree that appeared—prior to getting the heave-ho—to have been in a stand of some kind. I was left to wonder about that house without a Christmas tree and its backstory. It called to mind a TV movie from the early 1970s called The House Without a Christmas Tree. It starred Jason Robards and was rerun at Christmastime for years on CBS. But that tale ended on a happy note—the house without a Christmas tree at long last had one.

From houses with and without Christmas trees to “Uncle Mickey.” Well, actually, he’s not my uncle, which isn’t a bad thing. In fact, Uncle Mickey is anything but avuncular. A friend of mine and I cryptically refer to the man as such—and not to his face by the way—because of something that once hung on the wall of his place of business. Strangely enough, Uncle Mickey is better known around town as “Crazy Mickey,” a well-earned moniker based on years of bizarre and sometimes scary behavior. For convenience purposes, I have long patronized Mickey’s shop. Let’s just say the guy has a few anger management issues. On more than one occasion, I’ve seen him hurl his telephone against a wall. Mickey’s unpredictable, borderline violent brand of customer service regularly shocks and awes unsuspecting patrons. A nearby entrepreneur, who offers some of the same services as Mickey, told me that he frequently hears war stories from the frontlines. War stories, that is, from shell-shocked former Crazy Mickey customers. He posed the most obvious of questions that day—and still an unsolved mystery—“But how does he stay in business?”

Well, Uncle Mickey may have finally “Jumped the Shark” vis-à-vis me. In my presence this past week, he punched in anger—the genuine article—an inanimate object that he shouldn’t have punched, and then treated it rather roughly after that. By the end of our transaction, Uncle Mickey had calmed down sufficiently to mutter, “Happy Holiday!” This is his modus operandi. Suffice it to say, I didn’t feel his season’s greeting was all that heartfelt. “But how does he stay in business?” Yes…good question…because he is an equal opportunity Raging Bull, who rages against everybody and anybody for no apparent reason.

Why pray tell have I returned to the belly of the beast as often as I have? That’s another good question. Somebody once told me that I turn everybody into characters. Perhaps there’s some truth to that. Uncle Mickey, after all, is a character extraordinaire—and I, evidently, have a high tolerance for inappropriate behavior. Nevertheless, it’s one of my New Year’s Resolutions to bid a not-so-fond farewell to Uncle Mickey. I understand that I might be missing out on something big on the life stage—bigger than the trashing of the telephones—but I just don't want to chance it any longer. Being Uncle Mickey’s piñata—when he totally goes postal—is something to be avoided by all who know him.

We Need An Early Christmas

Recently, I read an online article that discussed the Christmas rush, if you will—how vestiges of the holiday seem to appear earlier and earlier every year, like Christmas music playing in stores all throughout November and people decorating their homes weeks before Thanksgiving. These things were pretty much unheard of when I was a kid. The author of the piece admitted to once complaining about the Christmas season commencing the day after Halloween. He has, however, thrown in the towel and gone with the flow. His reasoning makes sense to me. Bring Christmas on sooner rather than later because it’s a welcome diversion from the insanity that abounds on so many fronts in the wider world.

This morning, in fact, I encountered Christmas tree salesmen setting up shop in front of a local drug store. Believe it or not, I was actually concerned they wouldn’t turn up. Last year they were peddling trees before Thanksgiving, which was almost a week earlier than it is in 2019. Lo and behold, though, the boys are back and could be open for business as early as tomorrow.

The sellers could be the same guys from last year—I can’t be certain. Don’t know what it is about Christmas tree peddlers, but they kind of all look alike to me. First impressions are that the men in question are suitably slippery for the task at hand. Really, I have to give these folks credit, to call home for an entire, rather chilly month a plastic covered lean-to just off Broadway and only yards away from the El. I suppose the drug store is where they go when nature calls, but what about bathing? There are a couple of dive motels in the vicinity—by-the-hour, cash-only fleabags that have remarkably stood the test of time—which may have functional showers. I would, however, recommend showering with one’s shoes on and BYOT (Bring Your Own Towel).

Yes, Christmas, bring it on, because soon after it will be a new year, 2020, full of posturing and politicking. It never really ends nowadays. Former New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg just threw his expensive fedora into the ring. I voted for him three times, but tired of his Nanny State-mentality and meddling. Nevertheless, despite being quite up there in age and down there in height, I could stomach the likes of him as president. As far as billionaires go, he’s the pick of the litter.

To digress further: My father had a penchant for purposely mispronouncing people’s names, with a particular love for butchering politician’s. He called Bloomberg “Blum-berg” and Giuliani, “Ghoul-iani,” which is particularly fitting now. A ubiquitous New York pol from yesteryear, Herman Badillo, who pronounced his name “Ba-dee-yo,” was “Ba-dill-o,” which rhymes with pillow.

It’s a mad, mad, mad world we live in—annoyances flourish in places they never did before. Leaf blowers, for instance, are not only driving their fellow man and woman bananas, but doing a number on insects, too. Since so many species reproduce in clumps of earth and leaves that are now blown away with a perpetual ferocity, it makes perfect sense. Across the street from me is an apartment building with a super’s helper who parades around with his ear-splitting leaf blower every single morning, often before nine o’clock. Rather than pick them up, he blows the leaves into the street, which is against the law. And while generating this daily racket, the guy simultaneously talks on his phone. It’s nutty, but unfortunately the norm, and not good for man nor bug. So, I say once more: Bring on Christmas now!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Attention Surplus Disorders

While in the environs of Madison Square Garden and Penn Station this past weekend, I took particular note of the humongous, ever-changing electronic billboards all around me. For the next mile or so north through Times Square and the theater district, such prominent advertisements are everywhere. Many of them feature larger-than-life promotions for movies, television series, and plays. Images of actors and actresses lording over streets teeming with people—from all over the world in the case of New York City—are omnipresent.

I couldn’t help but wonder how these entertainers must feel upon seeing their glittering, over-sized names and likenesses on the big, big screens above Manhattan streets. How could it not go to their heads? Perhaps this explains why so many Hollywood-types think their opinions matter more than others and that their you-know-whats don’t stink. It never ceases to amaze me how men and women worth multiple millions of dollars feel they can speak for the little guys and girls. If an individual has a net worth of, say, fifty million dollars, he or she is in quite a different league—a league of their own—from the person sweating the rent, electric bill, or college tuition.

That said, celebrities have the right to speak out just as everyone else does. I have a platform—this blog. They, typically, have more heady ones in which to pontificate. In 1989, I attended a Harry Belafonte concert at the Cape Cod Melody Tent. Harry, as usual, put on a great show, but at some point rambled on about the recently elected president, George Herbert Walker Bush, whom the leftist performer found wanting. It was an awkward moment, as I recall, since the majority of the attendees were older, conservative white folks. My parents saw a show in the same venue with singer Steve Lawrence as the headliner. From the opposite side of the political spectrum as Harry, Steve nonetheless ventured into that same dicey area, which no doubt offended a portion of the audience. My father, in fact, got up from his seat to go to the bathroom during the spiel. Lawrence joked, “He must be a Democrat.” Wrong, Steve, that lifelong Republican was just answering nature’s call, a non-partisan act, which he did countless times in countless places. 

It's not your grandfather's advertisements anymore. Not by a long shot.

Alfred Hitchcock would have relished being on one. "Do they ever stop migrating?"

I WO ND ER as I WA ND ER. How much did Macy's pay McMann & Tate to come up with this Christmas advertising slogan? AN SW ER: Too much.

Hope this includes debit cards!

Okay, I came upon this no longer functional—dead as a doornail—bicycle still tethered to a post. A life metaphor? If not, a dead one.

The catbird seat with a bird's eye view of the Flower School.

This place didn't appear all that big inside and I, for one, never heard of them.

What next? Wonder, though, if the museum has a 2016 election exhibit?

I am digging the Guardian Angels' new outfits. Certainly beats the red berets and satin jackets.

I sincerely doubt that any of those aforementioned Hollywood big shots get their haircuts here.

This place might be more in their league.

Now, what is it with barber shops branching out these days? I've seen more than a few offering watch repair as an additional service. Is that sort of thing taught in today's barber schools?

This is one of the luckier benches in Manhattan. The longer you sit there, the better the chances that Lady Luck will shine on you.

Not as lucky, but a park bench for the loners among us.

A sobering thought for sure.

No bull, the Wall Street area and Battery Park can be very, very tacky.

Colorful, however...

As 2019 nears an end, one final salute to the 1969 World Champion New York Mets. It was a real game then.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)