Still Up, Still Down, and Still a Hole in the Ground

This most bizarre year grinds on and on and on. The most bizarre presidential election in memory is now only three months away. A sitting president is boasting about acing a dementia test and daring his opponent to do the same. His rival, by the way, is running a masterful campaign, appreciating that—now more than ever—less is definitely better. A footnote on the aforementioned test: I read somewhere that one question asks the patient to count back by seven from one hundred. Honestly, I don’t think very many young people could do that now. The dementia tests of the future will have to take this into account.

Speaking of bizarre, but sadly the norm in these Orwellian times, I came upon this recent ABC News tweet: “Protesters in California set fire to a courthouse, damaged a police station and assaulted officers after a peaceful demonstration intensified.” Once upon a time, President Bill Clinton answered a question with this: “It depends on what the meaning of ‘is’ is?" I say: It depends on what the meaning of “peaceful” is. Personally, I know a peaceful demonstration when I see one. And when it intensifies as noted above—by a mainstream media Goliath—it becomes something else entirely. Just sayin’. I suppose it’s in the company style manual: Any mention of violence in said demonstrations must include the word “peaceful” in it. Actually, if a peaceful demonstration intensifies, it should ipso facto be more peaceful.

Anyway, I ventured down to lower Manhattan this past weekend—into the belly of the beast in this Bizarro World in which we all reside. Curious to see what the peaceful demonstrators had wrought in the vicinity of City Hall, I planned a walk-around of the wounded landscape. The area, though, was barricaded and tightly guarded by police, who had at long last evicted—upon orders of the man-impersonating-a-mayor—Chaz East. Thwarted, I ventured into the canyons of Wall Street and down to Battery Park. Sometimes, you just have to look on the bright side of things—in this case of a pandemic. From a purely selfish perspective—I know—there are benefits to having fewer people around a piece of real estate typically overflowing with folks from all over the world. That said: I look forward to the business of New York’s return, which includes tourists en masse. But until that unknown date, I will wonder as I wander in the relative tranquility—in peacefulness, if you will.

The people still ride in a hole in the ground, but on the Number 1 line—heading into lower Manhattan—not until after Dyckman Street.

I wish I could say that New York City has gone to the dogs. But, unfortunately, it's gone to the politicians.

While it's a squeaky clean environment nowadays for many riders, it doesn't always last. Please, don't let this feeling end...

In the environs of City Hall, the big cleanup was ongoing. 

NYC Chaz ended with a whimper and not a bang, which was good for all concerned.

If you are a misanthrope and an outdoorsman, it's actually an ideal time to visit Manhattan.

Beware, though, of COVID-19 and stray gunfire.

This guard must be off-duty on weekends. He's never inside to disturb.

Sit here, not there, not there, not there, okay here.

Is all of this a bit of overkill? From my observation, individuals who practice social distancing will practice social distancing without untold prompts. And those who don't won't be inspired to do so by countless directives.

The bronze "Charging Bull," which I'm happy to report was left unscathed by peaceful demonstrators, is located in the historic Bowling Green area in the Financial District. By the way, there are a lot of statues down there.

What, pray tell, isn't nowadays?

Rest easy, lawn!

The place is here. The time is now, and the journey into the shadows that we are about to watch, could be our journey. This is Rod Serling's opening narration from "Where Is Everybody?" the first ever episode of The Twilight Zone, starring Earl Holliman. The above image is of the Castle Clinton National Monument, which in ordinary times would be teeming with visitors.

Including this big guy, who is one among countless little guys out of work in these bizarre times.

Here's that bright side that I was talking about.

Only a handful of people were on Miss New York, which was headed to the recently reopened Liberty Island. In normal times, this boat is packed to capacity with long, winding lines awaiting the next trip and the one after that and the one after that.

Alas, no climbing the Lady's innards at this time. But this too shall pass, he said.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

You Know You Are Getting Old...

From the “You Know You Are Getting Old” file: I ran across a news story this morning that warned of a potential future calamity should things remain status quo. A year of reckoning was included in the article: 2040. Without asking why, I calculated my age at that fateful moment in time. And if all goes well, I thought—I might very well be deceased when the chickens come home to roost. After all, I would have arrived then at the average life expectancy for an American male. Of course, I could drop dead tomorrow or live until 2060—neither of which appeal to me.

This particular story concerned plastic and how by 2040 there could be triple the amount of it in our oceans. The piece was accompanied by a rather startling image of a completely plastic-littered shore with a wild boar or some such animal rummaging through the mess. Earlier this year—before the world turned upside down—a single-use plastic ban went into effect in New York State. It’s still on the books, but not enforced as far as I can see, which is understandable considering the more pressing messes.

That said: I cannot help but notice the litter baskets around town, which are overflowing onto the sidewalks. And ditto the litter in the parks and in the streets. Among the teeming refuse is lots and lots of plastic, particularly take-out containers, cups, and utensils. With the COVID-19 city budget clearly scaled back, including sanitation services, the plastic conundrum endures more potent than ever. The restaurants that have opened for outdoor dining are serving everything on disposable plastic plates with disposable plastic forks, spoons, and knives. Considering the seriousness of the moment, I certainly understand why, but it’s not a Marshmallow World that we live in—it’s a plastic one.

Supporting my local eateries and delivery people, I regularly order food via GrubHub. All the plastic used for the simplest of orders never ceases to amaze me. I take some solace in that I can and do recycle the stuff, but the more I learn about what actually gets recycled—when push comes to shove—the more I worry about the 2040 scenario and beyond.

I recall fondly the days of patronizing my favorite local diner for a hamburger, French fries, and cup-of-soup takeout with no plastic used at all. What could be wrapped in paper was wrapped in paper. Liquids were poured into cardboard cups. Everything was then placed in a brown paper bag. I remember, too, purchasing a sixteen-ounce Nedick’s brand orange soda from Pat Mitchell’s little grocery store in Kingsbridge. It was in a glass bottle—not a single item, in fact, in the place’s freezers was in plastic. Yes, I know, there are environmental and manufacturing issues with glass and paper, too.

Looking on the bright side of plastic: Several years ago while riding as a passenger with an all-too aggressive driver-friend of mine, a road rage incident occurred. My chauffeur refused to let a car into a merging entrance lane of the Major Deegan Expressway, I-87. Shortly thereafter on said expressway, a vehicle pulled up alongside us, slowed down, and opened its passenger-side window. Out came a very angry head with an empty plastic soda bottle in hand, and then a second one, which he ferociously tossed onto our windshield. Fortunately, even ferociously tossed empty plastic soda bottles land with a whimper and not a bang, especially on windy highways and byways. And that, apparently, was all the ammo available to them as they sped away. Nevertheless, it caused an uncomfortable swerve and bona fide scare as well. And we were left to wonder and worry if the bottle throwers might be lying-in-wait rearmed up ahead. 

Now, there’s no telling what empty glass bottles in lieu of plastic ones might have initiated in the above retelling. From the looks on the perpetrators’ faces—who were angrily cussing out my friend—they would have tossed, if they had one on hand, a fully loaded safe at us. In any event, I lived to tell the tale of two plastic bottles, but for how much longer no one knows.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Congratulations to Neil, Buzz, and Mike

(Originally published 7/17/14)

It was forty-five years ago this week that Apollo 11 astronauts Neil Armstrong, Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin, Jr., and Michael Collins touched down and then cavorted on our planet’s sole satellite, the Moon. “That’s one small step for a man; one giant step for mankind,” Neil Armstrong intoned upon first touching the Moon’s surface. I don’t remember all that much about this obviously newsworthy goings-on—I was only six years old at the time—except that my mother composed a makeshift banner from a rather large scroll of yellow paper that my uncle had purloined from his place of employment, the “phone company.” Yes, people back then worked for the “phone company” because there was only one of them. The paper banner proudly flew above our front door—fortunately, it didn’t rain that day—and read, “Congratulations to Neil, Buzz, and Mike.”  

I recall, too, a neighbor—the local rabbi’s wife—querying a group of us playing on my front stoop as to whether we were related to the “Banner Woman.” I proudly answered in the affirmative. She appreciated the fact that my mom, without fail, recognized both holidays and historic national events with decorations and, in this instance, a somewhat crude banner celebrating the achievement of three trailblazing astronauts. After Neil, Buzz, and Mike's mission was a fait accompli, President Richard Nixon said, “As a result of what you’ve done, the world has never been closer before.” That may, in fact, have been true—for one brief shining moment at least.

In retrospect, though, what I find most fascinating about July 1969—and growing up in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge—is the evident duality. My youthful memories are of a gritty urban lifestyle organically commingling with a small town charm. The late-1960s and early-1970s were tumultuous times in the country at large and, to a great extent, in Kingsbridge as well: the Vietnam War, social unrest, drugs—the whole bit. I, though, was spared all of the above. Three men actually walking on the surface of the Moon—and my mother commemorating it—is just one of many fond recollections from my childhood. I don’t think there is anything that could occur today that would generate a banner of congratulations in the old neighborhood. A leisurely walk on Mars wouldn’t even do it; wouldn't come near capturing that singular Apollo 11 snapshot in time.

Sardines, Peaches, and Onions

Yesterday, an elderly woman approached me and asked: “Would you like some cans of sardines and peaches? I have extras.” I politely replied, “No, thank you” and went on my merry way. These are strange times indeed, I thought. But it subsequently occurred to me that she probably received the goods from a food bank for senior citizens. My next-door neighbor was the recipient of some such thing not too long ago and it included cans of no-frills sardines, boxes of no-frills crackers, and the like. You might think it impossible to produce a bad can of peas, but the no-frills gang have found a way.

And now for something completely different: I just learned some sad news and it’s not about statue toppling and the trampling on fundamental free speech. My old grammar school, St. John’s in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge, is apparently shutting its doors for good. Seems that COVID-19 has done a number on the finances of the families who made the sacrifice to send their kids there. And, too, the virus has hit the purse of the Church hierarchy hard as well. The entire school—all eight grades—was in what I knew as St. John’s Middle School, which once upon a time housed only the seventh and eighth grades. That tells you how much the school’s enrollment had shrunk through the years. In my day we had several classes in each grade with forty or more students. The baby boom was the wind beneath its wings and the tuition was pretty reasonable when the Archdiocese of New York was awash in green. But that was then and this is now.

The school and church have been around for more than a century. When I was growing up, we were associated with our parish. “Oh, you’re from St. John’s”—that sort of thing. Everybody, it seemed, knew everybody else. The priests knew us. The nuns knew us. I was fortunate to have gone through grades one through eight in more civilized times, when corporal punishment was frowned upon and the nuns very literally kicked their habits. We received a pretty good education there. The depressing reality is that it’s no longer an option for the mostly minority families who were willing to pay the not inconsiderable tuition of today. By and large, the public school alternatives in New York City don't exactly cut the mustard. And if I may borrow from Lily Tomlin: “And that’s the truth!”

One last thing: I recently came upon an article about—yes—words with supposedly racist connotations like “master.” The real estate world is now looking into the phrase “master bedroom.” In fact, some real estate outfits are now referring to the “primary bedroom” instead. Colonial-style homes are next on the hit list. My biggest fear is that I Dream of Jeannie will fall victim to the cancel culture. Yes, Master. Alas, this is not an Onion story.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

America Unmasked

This morning I witnessed—from more than six feet—a masked and gloved woman pass an unmasked and ungloved woman on the sidewalk. I was made privy to the encounter courtesy of the former shouting at the latter: “You forgot your mask?” It was more of a rhetorical question. I couldn’t hear the unmasked woman’s reply, but the masked woman wasn't done yet. “I’m sick of people like you!” she shrieked. “You’re dangerous!”

Now, in my humble opinion, this is the flip side of the hysterical crazies who refuse to wear masks in stores, even though wearing them is mandatory and store policy. But, come on, it’s a terribly hot, humid day here in New York City. The aforementioned Clash of the Titans occurred in the great outdoors on a back street that is part of a city effort to create more space and ample social distancing opportunities for pedestrians and bicyclists alike. That is, on selected streets partially cordoned off with police barriers during the daytime hours, people are encouraged to share the road with ostensibly only local traffic traveling at no more than five miles per hour. Not everyone is compliant, I daresay. So, the point is that the hopping mad masked woman had sufficient space to practice proper social distancing. For crying out loud, lady, you were outside in ninety-degree heat with a mask and gloves on—that’s some pretty mighty armor there.

Yes, you can be pro-mask and not have one over your nose and mouth every walking moment. I wear mine where required—while shopping and riding mass transit—and would do so even if it were optional. Typically, though, I pull the thing down as soon as I step out into the bright light of day. And guess what? You can, too, be virulently anti-Trump and anti-woke. You can, too, be anti-police brutality and pro-police. You can, too, throw-in wholeheartedly with a slogan, but not the larger movement behind it with its decidedly anti-democratic, censorious, very un-American agenda. Hey, let’s get someone fired and ruin his or her entire life because he or she said something we didn't like—like all lives matter heaven forbid!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)