Looking Through the Eyes of Me

Earlier today, I encountered a woman in a wheelchair. I watched her as she opened a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and tossed both a plastic wrapper and spent match on the sidewalk. The classy lady then sped away—imagine Chief Ironside in a hurry—with a cancer stick dangling very unappealingly from her mouth. A short while later, I came upon a curbside litter hodgepodge, which was clearly tossed from a parked car. Nowadays, too many inconsiderate people to count do that kind of thing. Is it such an inconvenience to find a nearby trashcan or, god forbid, take the stuff home and put it in the garbage? I’m just happy that Chief Iron Eyes Cody hasn’t traded his canoe in for an electric bicycle. Were he riding around New York City in 2019, he’d encounter a lot of litter in a lot of places.

Yes, I'm aware that litterbugs are nothing new. The 1970s, which I so fondly remember, is considered New York City's dirtiest decade. Sanitation services are better than ever around these parts. But it's the throwaway world that we live in now that's especially disturbing. Plastic cups, containers, and bags are everywhere. There are more litter cans around than ever before, but—courtesy of the people who don't throw their wastes on the sidewalk—they always seem to be at full capacity and beyond.

There's still plenty for the contemporary Iron Eyes Cody to spy and tear up about.

From what I've read, some New Yorkers believe that this brand of advertising is a form of litter. I must say that it doesn't exactly enhance the visual New York Harbor experience. 

That's Ellis Island, by the way, in the backdrop of a movie promotion for Pets 2.

Now this is a more fitting and pleasing image.

What would Lady Liberty have to say about this hullabaloo? If she only had a brain...

After a several-week unexplained hiatus, a more compact Nathan's hot dog stand returned to its familiar spot. It's the little things in life that bring the most joy.

I call this particular bush: Broadway Rose. The name is in memory of none other than Broadway Rose, the infamous panhandler. This is from her Wikipedia page: “By the late 1930s, she was to be found patrolling areas of the Broadway Theater District (particularly the intersection of Broadway and 50th Street). Dressed in a disheveled manner, she would solicit money from individuals, particularly those with fame. She had become so skilled in her use of language that most performers gave her something. If refused, she would resort to threats, or use foul language if rebuffed. Apparently some people would tip her just to keep her away. Others considered her a good-luck charm, and looked for the opportunity to see her almost every night.”

Not too far from the Broadway Rose bush was this resting mallard on the shores of the Van Cortlandt Park lake, which is a lot cleaner today than when I was a youth. Despite the floating debris I spied in New York Harbor this past weekend, it, too, is so much cleaner in the here and now than in the past. The conclusive evidence: Humpback whales have been luxuriating in its fair waters. So, some good news for a change.

A busy subway station on Number 1 line is closed for the entire year due to elevator replacement. A local McDonald's has been more-or-less demolished, including new underground plumbing, and is being rebuilt in a matter of months. It is expected to reopen this summer.

It's always reassuring to know that the New York City subway system employs the most advanced technology.

Technology is not at issue here: Bird's the word always at the Van Cortlandt Park terminal.

Why do I never tire of taking pictures in the underground? Because you never know how they are going to turn out. You also never know if you are going to get socked on the head while in the process.

When in an underground station or riding through the dark recesses of a tunnel, you lose a sense of time and place. You never know what the world is going to be like when you emerge from the darkness.

This is especially true with respect to weather. I've left blue skies and sunshine and come out—forty minutes or so later—in a torrential rainstorm. It's a life metaphor of sorts.

Out in the bright light of day, I observed a member of New York's Finest writing a ticket on Van Cortlandt Park South, which is not very far from Broadway Rose.

This particular bobby, though, was rather inconsiderate. He could have easily pulled his vehicle closer to the curbside, which would have enabled large vehicles to make—without too much hassle—a very difficult wide turn. While struggling to make his turn, this particular truck driver played it cool. Believe me, if John Q. Public had been parked like this policeman, he'd have gotten a horn-ful and then some.

Construction on terra firma that once housed the "World's Longest Bar" at Gaelic Park has not yet begun. It is expected to be modernized beyond recognition, which I suspect will consign the "World's Longest Bar" moniker to the ash heap of history.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)