Shout, Shout, Let It All Out…

While riding the subway into Manhattan and back to the Bronx this past Sunday, I encountered something unusual—not a solitary soul panhandling. My trips, however, were far from uneventful. Foremost, there was this fashionably dressed, heavily ringed, and unmasked fellow who entered a subway car full of masked riders. He stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. One and all promptly discovered that this man without a mask had a considerable chip on his shoulder, which is a volatile combo in the underground nowadays. He had barely taken his seat before abruptly springing to his feet and getting in the face of a sixty-something-year-old woman across the aisle from him. Roaring at the top of his lungs, with spittle settling in various nooks and crannies of the previously sanitized subway car, he queried: “What? What? What?”

I surmised that the poor woman merely gave her fellow straphanger a look, probably not even a dirty one. I had little doubt that this creep was chumming for a confrontation from somebody—anybody—in the masked majority. The now alarmed recipient of his wrath bolted from her seat and sidled up to a young guy, which is frowned upon in the pandemic. Considering their close proximity, I assumed they knew one another, but apparently—as events unfolded—she was merely seeking protection from an unpredictable, scary subway loon. A loon, by the way, who kept looking around the subway car to make eye contact and initiate further conflict. He was unsuccessful. To complete this man’s psychological profile: He rambled on about homosexuality and pedophilia at one point. Finally, to the relief of all concerned, including me, he exited the train at Columbus Circle, where there were ample options to board another train and stir the pot on the A, C, or D subway line.

Shortly after his departure, a religious fanatic entered the train, sat down, and without pause made an impassioned pitch for Jesus. While his presentation was largely benign, he was—like his more sinister predecessor—mask-free. The man concluded his spiel by offering one-and-all a “Path to Salvation” how-to pamphlet, but there were no takers. Eventually, as the train reached lower Manhattan, he and I were the only ones left in the car. Just before exiting, I was offered a pamphlet—which I accepted—and a blessing, too. What I spied in the bright light of day thereafter were a lot of empty storefronts and surviving restaurants gamely endeavoring to carry on with outdoor dining on the sidewalks and in the streets as the leaves turn and colder weather beckons.

On my return trip, all was calm until the last leg of the journey when a young guy entered the car from an adjoining one. This lateral movement is very often an ominous indicator. Lunatics and car hoppers go hand-in-glove in the subway system. Anyway, this fellow opted to sit directly across from two little nuns. Focusing exclusively on the habited duo, he without delay began ranting—really ranting—about a mother witnessing her son shot down on the street and other delicate matters. Eyes fixed on the nuns the whole time, there was no letup for several long stops. It was hard for me to determine whether he had a grievance against God—and religion—or was delivering a fire-and-brimstone sermon. The nervous nuns nonetheless nodded their heads in faux-agreement. A debate didn’t seem appropriate, or even a conversation for that matter. At long last, the raving tapered off, but not before the man took some shots at homosexuality, which, I’ve observed, is a favorite talking point in many unsolicited subway homilies. When he reached his stop, he said to the nuns, “God bless you” and “Have a good day now.” His parting salvo to all of us in the car was “Don’t be a slave to your phones!” Even the diminutive old nuns were transfixed by their smartphones throughout the subway ride—until, of course, fate moved its huge hand.

(Photographs from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Random Recollections and Observations

While speaking with an old friend from the old neighborhood this morning, our conversation foraged far afield. Our repartee typically veers from past memories of people, places, and events to contemporary people, places, and events. Today, we briefly revisited Cardinal Spellman High School (CSHS), which we both attended and graduated from forty years ago.

Once upon a time, I took a course called Finite Math in my senior year there, which was taught by an acerbic Irish nun with a frightful wig named Sister Catherine. I don’t remember much about Finite Math, except that Sister Catherine referred to some peculiar number theory as the “residue class,” phonetically pronouncing it in an affected manner for maximum comedic effect. Wow, I hadn't thought about integers in years. Another Sister Catherine classic involved the returning of test papers. She would leisurely stroll up and down the rows of desks, plopping the individual tests in front of her respective students. Throughout this faux-somber ritual, she would remark over and over and over as the circumstances warranted: “You know what you are doing," "You know what your doing," “You don’t know what you are doing.” Simpler times in the classroom, I daresay.

A few years after graduation—during my college days—I worked in a mom-and-pop shop called Pet Nosh, which sold pet food and supplies in the nascent days of the pet care trade. Located in the city of Yonkers, a stone’s throw from where I lived in the Northwest Bronx and not too far from Cardinal Spellman High School in the Northeast Bronx, I serviced scores of familiar faces. Regular customers for a spell were none other than Sister Catherine and CSHS’s perpetually scowling and always-disagreeable librarian. Outside of her literary domain, though, the latter was surprisingly genial and so was the venerable Sister Catherine, who either didn’t recognize me or chose not to acknowledge that she did. I believe it was the former. Yes, away from the fast and furious educational milieu, these two Sisters of Charity revealed that they clearly adored their canine friend back at the convent, which was on school grounds. I’d bet dollars to donuts that their dog was shown a heaping helping more love and affection than the pair showed their untold two-legged students through the years.

It always felt strange waiting on customers whom I knew in some way from the past—while they were reciprocally clueless or pretended to be—particularly ghosts from high school and grammar school, or largely forgotten locals. I recall recognizing some pretty obscure folks from my life and times, including a gym teacher from CSHS, a fellow who joined the staff half way through my high school years and taught only the younger grades. The moment I spied his face and modest Fu Manchu mustache, I visualized his picture in my yearbook. When the man paid by personal check, I absolutely knew that the Fu Manchu spoke volumes. And now for some further random recollections and observations...

McDonald's attempting to remain relevant, I suppose. While I had no idea what the "J Balvin Meal" was, I sampled their spicy nuggets last week.  I'll give them a marginal thumb's up. The uber-spiciness helps mask the reality of what you are actually eating.

When the moon hits your eye like a big artichoke pizza pie...something's amiss...

To survive, restaurants and bars alike have taken to the great outdoors, even if it means serving food and grog under a 24/7 noisy El. If you've had a few under your belt, the screeching of metal-on-metal and loud sighing of air-brake ambiance might just have some appeal, but until then...

This stretch of Broadway is the closest thing in the old neighborhood to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées in Paris.

There's still a handful of meatpacking interests in Manhattan's renowned Meatpacking District, but now it's predominantly Hipsterville.

The designer garbage bags tell you as much.

Bear in mind: To live in the Meatpacking District in 2020 will cost you an arm and a turkey leg.

Hipsterville or not, it's city sidewalks, filthy sidewalks everywhere...

Is this amore?

The High Line is a pedestrian walkway that was formerly a New York Central Railroad spur into the aforementioned Meatpacking District. If you enjoy looking at rooftops of factories and such, it's a pleasant enough amble. The Skyline, on the other hand...

Astronomical Rents plus COVID equals $5/cup Oatmeal.

The ChaShaMa is no ma...as are—sadly—many other businesses.

A sign of the times: Winterizing outdoor dining has begun in earnest. But doesn't that then make it indoor dining? King Cuomo will decide.

Early spring reopening? What, pray tell, will Spring 2021 look like?

From the "You Can't Go Home Again" file: No more KFC for me. When it was Kentucky Fried Chicken and I was in CSHS, the chain's MSG-laced food more-or-less agreed with me. Alas, no more. A footnote here: the previously referenced spicy Chicken McNuggets, while perversely tasty, lingered in my stomach and blood vessels for hours upon hours. 

Remember the movie The Mask, starring Jim Carrey when he was funny and relevant? Tell Scarlett, I do give a damn.

I've seen multiple census takers on the streets asking passersby if they've filled out the 2020 census. Not a one inquired if I had. I wonder why?

Steam pipes are picking up the pace. Halloween decorations are popping up all over. And we need a little Christmas more than ever this year.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Gabby Cabby

It’s autumn in New York. And yesterday, I was the backseat company of two different car-service drivers. The fellow chauffeuring me to my destination was quite loquacious and the other, chauffeuring me back home, absolutely mute. As a rule, I prefer the latter. Nevertheless, since I didn’t request a Marcel Marceau-type, I was at the mercy of an uber-gabby cabby who revealed to me—in our thirty minutes or so together—a considerable portion of his rather eventful life story. He was Dominican by heritage and has been an American citizen for decades. The man spoke fluent English and lived for a spell in Italy, where he mastered the art of cooking, specializing—naturally—in Italian cuisine.

Personally, I think it wise to avoid raising the specter of politics with perfect strangers. I was, nonetheless, a captive audience—an ear whether I liked it or not—trapped inside a fast-moving SUV. The gabby cabby complained that today’s immigrants aren’t of the caliber of past immigrants like himself. From his perspective, contemporary immigrants are addicted to government munificence and frivolously spend their money. Now, that’s painting with a pretty broad brush, I’d say. But I understand that people like to rant to an audience, even if it’s an audience of one. The gabby cabby wasn’t done with this point, citing the first round of stimulus checks as Exhibit A. He witnessed countless folks purchasing big-screen TVs and other luxury items with it. The gabby cabby, you see, believes in saving money for a rainy day—a rainy day that, he said, will come sooner rather than later to most. He might be on to something there.

Then gabby cabby then effortlessly transitioned to a recent news story of a machete attack in a Bronx bodega—an incident emblematic of the increasingly violent city at large. He blamed Mayor de Blasio for not supporting the NYPD. The gabby cabby spoke of storeowners buying handguns for protection. He dubbed the criminal element “parasites” worthy of the guillotine. I brought up the rising instances of drag racing on selected city streets and stretches of highways, which I see and hear 24/7 nowadays—startling loud revving engines and disconcerting backfires. The gabby cabby and I were in accord that—based on our observations—cops aren’t cracking down on these speed racers as they should. But, we agreed, that it’s understandable in light of how they have been demonized by the feckless city fathers and mothers over the last several months. The New York State Attorney General, by the way, recommended that police no longer arrest people during traffic stops, even if they have open warrants. Seems to me that the police will go them one better and avoid making any traffic stops at all—or, certainly, a lot fewer than in the past. I can thank my local politicians—where one is worse than the other—for this precipitous decline in the basic quality of life. The gabby cabby and I also concurred that our president has lost whatever marbles he may have once possessed. We are, too, waiting with bated breath for another stimulus check to save, of course, for that inevitable rainy day.

After my quiet return trip home—no politics, no anything—I contemplated whether or not to watch the evening’s vice presidential debate between Mike Pence and Kamala Harris. I gave in to the temptation—again—and tuned in to the spectacle. It was simultaneously painful and boring, with both candidates ignoring direct questions. A fly landed on the vice president’s head and chilled out in a blanket of white for a while, which was a welcome diversion. Watching Pence speak, though, of the president, as if he were a normal Republican and normal human being, was the painful part. But on strictly debating points, the vice president won going away. Harris’s performance was really, really bad, totally insincere from where I sat. Her pre-planned “I’m speaking now, okay?” responses to Pence interrupting her—which she knew he would do—were totally transparent. Of course the interruptions were dubbed sexism—yadda, yadda, yadda—by the predictable media talking heads. It seems to me—and I’ve watched countless political debates through the years—that candidates of both sexes and all races, ethnicities, and religions interrupt each other. It’s the nature of politicians and politics. It being 2020, of course, the idiotic woke chorus chimed in to further validate their idiocy. Actor Mark Ruffalo tweeted: “Just going over it all in my head. The way Mike Pence constantly interrupted and spoke over Kamala Harris was the prime example of white male supremacy and its common dismissal and disrespect for black woman.” As Captain Arthur Hastings would say, “Good lord!”

At the end of the day, the presidential race is about Trump versus Not Trump. Neither Kamala Harris’s disingenuous, pathetic performance nor Mike Pence’s defense of the indefensible will make much difference, I suspect. My vote’s already been cast for Not Trump. Alas, I cast my fate to the postal winds and am left to wonder if the gabby cabby’s path and mine will ever cross again.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Moth to a Flame

With my own health and happiness to consider, I opted not to watch even one moment of the so-called conventions—Democratic and Republican—this summer. But like a moth drawn to a flame, I couldn’t resist tuning into the first—and perhaps last—presidential debate of 2020. It was an appalling spectacle! Narcissist extraordinaire Donald Trump—devoid of Humanity 101—is incapable of taming his nasty bluster, prevaricating, and penchant for bullying. I personally know a narcissist extraordinaire with a similar personality disorder. In situations when it would benefit her to maintain a low profile and temper the volume, she can’t do it. The Orange Man couldn’t be civil—presidential—for one night.

Anyway, painful as the overall viewing experience was, I got through the entire ninety-minutes. My immediate takeaway was that Joe Biden cleared the extremely low bar he had to clear. While he certainly looked his age, the man didn’t come across as senile—pathetically evasive at times, but relatively coherent when he could get a word in edgewise. Still, as a twofer, Trump-Biden were hardly Eisenhower and Stevenson up there. While the latter duo never debated in 1952 or 1956, they were both presidential timber—not a lesser of two evils choice.

Well, that was then and this is now. I received my absentee ballot yesterday and mailed it in today. Having once contemplated voting for a third-party, I threw in with old Joe after all. It was Trump versus Not Trump and he was Not Trump. Biden will handily win New York State, so, even if my ballot gets lost in the mail or tossed out because I overly filled in an oval, it won’t be such a big deal. Every other race on my ballot was a non-contest with the winner preordained. Despite never having heard of them, I voted for a couple of Republican opponents in two local races. I’ve done that in the past when I felt like I was casting a ballot in Moscow. And because his office is nearby and he offers free Notary service, I did vote for my long-term Democratic assemblyman. All politics is local.

We are definitely living in sorry times. I recently watched a recommended video on YouTube of Gerald Ford’s “inaugural” address after his swearing in as the first unelected president, succeeding the first elected president to resign from office, Richard Nixon. I was in Bangor, Pennsylvania that day—home of my maternal grandparents—and my mother commented that the new president resembled my grandfather. There was something of a resemblance. “Our long national nightmare is over,” Ford said. “Our Constitution works.” Wow, a peaceful transition of power in tumultuous times—a solid democracy at work in a generally civilized society before Twitter, Facebook, and 24/7 cable ranting. We can sure use a Gerald Ford—and his benignant presence—today.

Sadly, though, this “Ford, not a Lincoln” couldn’t happen in these off-the-wall times. It’s funny that the New York Times—once upon a time “the paper of record”—forced an opinion editor to resign after he published a controversial essay by Senator Tom Cotton, who said that the military could, legally, be called in to quell domestic unrest. It positively frightened the intrepid woke folk—adult journalists and staffers—on the paper to hear a contrary opinion. Today, however, the very same paper published an opinion piece where its author lauded the totalitarian Chinese government's violent crackdown on protesters in Hong Kong. Apparently, that opinion triggered not a one in the newsroom. I’m old enough to remember Dan Rather, dressed as a mujahideen fighter, undercover in Afghanistan during the 1980 Soviet invasion. There were no safe spaces for “Gunga Dan” to hide in and the triggers he was up against weren’t words in a newspaper. Courage indeed from a decidedly different and, I daresay, better time!

(Photos one and two from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)