The Polar Local

One of my fondest childhood memories is Christmas shopping “downtown,” as we called it. It was an annual tradition in early December during that colorful snapshot in time: the 1970s. My brothers and I would accompany my aunt on a subway ride to 34th Street—yes, where the miracle occurred. We would exit on Seventh Avenue directly across the street from the main entrance to Macy’s, the “World’s Largest Department Store.”

We would then commence our long, but exciting day by descending to Macy’s renowned Cellar, a wonderland of pleasing sights, sounds, and smells. After plowing through many of the store’s upper levels as well, we would make a beeline to nearby Gimbel’s, not the world's largest department store, but pretty big. Later, we would visit the “big Woolworth’s” on Fifth Avenue, which was, in fact, quite sprawling with an unforgettable fragrance—a peculiar amalgam of scents from the kitchen, candies, soaps, and everything else in the store, which covered a lot of ground . There was Brentano’s bookstore with its winding wooden staircase, a book “superstore” before there was such a thing. S.H. Kress’s, a Woolworth’s clone, was the place we would chow down—hamburgers and fries at a circular counter with barstools. What more could a kid ask for? Post-repast would find us at Korvette’s department store and ever-closer to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Rockefeller Center with that—must see—big tree. Our trip was meticulously timed for us to lay eyes on the tree as the five o’clock hour approached and darkness set in.

While the first leg of our journeys from yesteryear, Macy’s, and the last leg, the Rockefeller Center tree, remain, just about everything in between has changed. There are no more stores like Woolworth’s, S.H. Kress’s, and Brentano’s. Where we once tread is now quite gentrified and the shopping choices reflect that. I wasn’t retracing my steps yesterday or last week for that matter. Instead, I ventured to lower Manhattan, which we rarely visited as kids. Christmas in New York is still something to see, but it’s worth broadening the field a little. There’s a lot more to New York than mid-town.

Then as now, I took the Polar Express—actually, the Number 1 local—into Manhattan these past couple of weeks to sample New York at Christmastime. And while there always has been homeless, assorted lunatics, and panhandlers on the trains and in the stations, the numbers of them have skyrocketed. Yesterday, a fellow entered the subway car with two Santa Claus-sized sacks of recyclable bottles and cans. He didn’t appear homeless as he talked and texted on his smartphone, but he came across as unsavory and more than a bit off. This guy didn’t concern his fellow passengers until he lit up a cigarette. When a person does that in a closed underground setting, the oxygen level dramatically plummets. Coincidentally, another chap popped in and likewise lit up—the perils in riding in the last car on an uptown trip. As there was a menacing air about him, I exited the car and waited for the next train. Who needs all that?

Across the station from me during this eight-minute interval between trains was an individual rambling on a phone to someone or babbling on to himself—it was hard to tell. He was, however, saying the darndest things. I won’t go into details, but he had a lot to say about drug use. The man had sampled them all. After hearing a Whoopi Goldberg COVID-19 public service announcement alerting us that masks were still required while riding New York City mass transit, he changed course. Suffice it to say, he didn’t approve of the comedienne’s appearance and wouldn’t you-know-what with her if she was the last woman on earth. In fact, he would seek out a gentleman before her. Granted, it wasn’t quite on par with the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, whose remaining shows have been cancelled due to a major spike in the citizenry testing positive for the virus. But it’s nonetheless unavoidably part of my Christmas in the City adventures in 2021.        

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Bohack Premium Beer Can Parable

As the years whiz by and increasing numbers of people in my life pass along, I can’t help but contemplate my stuff. Yes, my stuff—my lifetime of accumulation—and what will become of it. I would like very much that my Bohack Premium Beer can, which I purchased on eBay several years ago, go to someone, somewhere who would appreciate it. After all, it’s not merely a tin can, it’s a piece of history. My earliest memory of a supermarket is of the Bohack’s down the street. Bohack’s was a New York City chain in the compost heap of history by 1977. Oh, once upon a time, my paternal grandfather collected compost from the grocery store’s garbage for use in his “victory garden.” Simpler times for sure!

But as I’ve recently participated in the clearing out of an estate’s things, I see that the recycling blue bag and the garden-variety trashcan is where so much stuff ends up. It’s a sorry final resting place that underscores how life is so fleeting with very little staying power. I have assorted collectibles and miscellaneous ephemera that have great meaning to me, but not to very many others in my life circle. And the individuals most likely to understand the sentimental value of my myriad stuff—never mind the dollar value—are my family contemporaries. The problem, though, is that they have a lot of stuff on their plates and now is not the time to assume more of it, like a Bohack Premium Beer can.

Yes, it’s Christmas, a holiday that through the years compounded our stuff inventories. For example, I have saved the board of the Parkers Brothers game Landslide. Outside of Monopoly, Landslide was the most popular game in my household—among my brothers, friends, and me at least. The goal of Landslide was to reach or surpass 270 electoral votes and declare victory in a presidential election. It was not only an exciting game but a valuable lesson in civics, too. I loved the sport of politics as a kid and beyond, but not so much anymore in these hyper-partisan, wacky times.

The Landslide board featured a map of United States with the individual states noted along with their electoral college vote total. At the time, New York State boasted forty-one electoral votes, topped only by California’s forty-five. Florida tallied up only seventeen back in 1971, the year I received my favorite board game as a Christmas gift. Yes, I recently contemplated that old game board of mine and its destiny. I wondered what would become of it. Really, it shouldn’t end up in the trash, but—the truth be told—not everyone will see the value and the history in that half-century-old gem. I can honestly say that I won’t be getting anything like Landslide this Christmas. I give and receive presents now that are mostly edible and drinkable. No more stuff to be tossed away at a time growing increasingly closer.

Oh, I was in Manhattan yesterday, down in the financial district. The New York Stock Exchange erects a big tree every year that is not only chock full of lights but ornaments as well. There were plenty of tourists around but nothing like the teeming masses at Rockefeller Center. Christmas in New York should include a visit to lower Manhattan. Buy yourself a mini-Statue of Liberty while you are there. It’ll be something for somebody else to throw away when your times comes.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Sun Also Rises

It’s a wonderful place to watch a sunset: Battery Park at the tip of Manhattan Island. With the days growing shorter and shorter, it disappeared behind Ellis Island around 4:30 p.m. this past Saturday. I wish I had dressed warmer for the occasion. There was a distinct chill in the air and a pesky wind blowing off New York Harbor. It was, though, fitting weather for the start of yet another Christmas season. Christmastime in the city: The Rockefeller Center tree is all lit up, the Rockettes are strutting their stuff a block away, and the belching street steampipes are working overtime.

It’s hard to believe that fifty-one years have passed since I saw Scrooge at Radio City Music Hall followed by the Christmas show, including the Rockettes of the day, who would now be in their seventies and eighties. My mother was one of many chaperones on the trip, which was an annual event in St. John’s grammar school.

I consider Scrooge the all-time greatest Christmas movie and most entertaining adaptation of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.” Father Maloney would disagree with me on this, for he advised his students at Cardinal Spellman High School to avoid all animated and musical versions—which Scrooge was—of the Dickens’ classic. The late film critic Roger Ebert appreciated star Albert Finney’s interpretation of Ebenezer Scrooge but dismissed the music therein as not worthy of anybody’s time. Are you kidding, Roger, the movie is chock full of charming, moving, and memorable tunes by Leslie Bricusse. Granted, “See the Phantoms,” as croaked out by Sir Alec Guinness, is not quite in the same league as “Sing a Christmas Carol.” Julie Andrews sung the latter in a 1972 Christmas special, and "I'll Begin Again" was performed by, among others, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

Another Christmas classic is The Homecoming, Earl Hamner’s “Christmas Story,” which inspired The Waltons TV series. It absolutely captured a time—the Great Depression—and was a gritty, believable period piece. Guess what? A remake of The Homecoming has been made and aired in 2021. Richard Thomas, who played the original John-Boy, provides the narration. I haven’t seen it but have read reviews and saw stills from the movie. The original featured actors who looked the part. They weren’t Hollywood handsome in neatly pressed, spiffy clean, new-looking clothing. And why pray tell did the current version ditch one of the kids: Ben? I read about a scene where Grandpa, John-Boy, and Mary Ellen go out to cut down the family Christmas tree. In the original, Mary Ellen wanted to accompany John-Boy and Grandpa, but was sternly informed by Mama, played with earnest elan by Patricia Neal, that “Cutting down trees is men’s work. A girl’s place is in the kitchen.” You see, that would have been the mentality in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia in Depression-era America. Political correctness can’t even let period pieces stand on their own. I suppose some people would be triggered if Mary Ellen wasn’t permitted to boldly go wherever she wanted to go in 1933. This is 2021.

When The Homecoming, set in 1933, first aired on CBS in December 1971, thirty-eight years separated the two. Now, with the latest version, eighty-eight years separate the two. That’s a lot of water under the bridge. So much has changed since I watched The Homecoming debut in my grandmother’s and aunt’s living room all those years ago. They had a color television set, which my immediate family didn’t have upstairs from them. With all this passage of time, I guess I should take heart that the sun also rises.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream…

No, I didn’t sail away to China in a little rowboat to find ya. But it was a strange one, nonetheless. The dream commenced in my childhood bedroom, and I was a boy. My father and mother were there. While opening the back window for a reason that now escapes me, it fell—swoosh—to the concrete grounds below. Remarkably, the glass didn’t shatter. During the Wonder Years, in fact, we had our share of window problems. Our newer replacement windows had decidedly shorter lifespans than their venerable predecessors.

After a while, many of our apartment windows just wouldn’t stay open without an assist from a piece of wood, several books, or glass bottle. My mother would hang out wash—it's what people did back then—and hold the window open with a metal rod that once upon a time belonged to the window proper. This was a dangerous undertaking as I recall. If the rod ever dislodged, the window would come crashing down like a guillotine. In addition, the cheesy windows were at risk of descending—as in my dream—to earth.

Anyway, back to my dream chronology: I raced to the backyard to retrieve the fallen window, only I found myself indoors and walking down a flight of stairs to the basement of the Spat House. The “Spats” were our neighbors across the way—an unfriendly crew with a fitting surname. Their three-family brick home—like mine—had a uniquely painted exterior that distinguished it. I, though, encountered no Spat family members in the dimly lit and dreary basement.

My intact window was there all right alongside a bunch of unsavory looking sorts. One of them offered to carry the thing home for me. He was on the scary side—as were all the basement loiterers—but I nevertheless agreed and walked with him. What choice did I have? Along the way the scoundrel said, “It’s going to cost you $18.” Why $18? I informed him that I didn’t have cash on my person but would get it at the house. Generous as always, I told the creep I’d give him a $20 bill. “Today’s your lucky day!” he replied to my offer. “Take your pick,” the foreboding fellow—Microsoft Word recommends “person” as gender-neutral and more inclusive—said, opening a bag containing what appeared to be various sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. There was an unwrapped donut on top of them, which I said I’d grab when I returned with the money.

I plowed through measurable snow to access my front door, which was odd. The snow wasn’t there earlier. And I was wearing a prosthetic knee while doing so, which I can honestly say would be a treacherous exercise outside of a dream. I was no longer a boy, too. How did that happen? When I returned with cash in hand, the mystery man had vanished. He didn’t get his $20 and I didn’t get my donut. What does it all mean? Freud said, “Every dream is a wish.” Well, at least that’s what Dr. Sidney Freedman of M*A*S*H said he said. Strange dream. Strange wish. Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Thanksgiving Sensory Overload

Youthful exuberance is quite something. It’s too bad it doesn’t last a lifetime. But if it did, it wouldn’t be called youthful exuberance, now, would it? That’s my little segue into Thanksgiving 2021. Once upon a time, my father escorted my younger brother and I on a Thanksgiving morning walk into a private neighborhood enclave called Fieldston. It was only a half-mile or so from home, but from my eight-year-old perspective, it seemed far, far away—another world altogether.

Actually, Fieldston was—another world altogether—with its wending, hilly, tree-lined streets. There aren’t many Bronx neighborhoods where manicured mansions are the rule. The place was only a stone’s throw away from Kingsbridge—where I called home—with its pre-war, walk-up apartment buildings and modest private homes. Manhattan College is in Fieldston—on its southeast periphery—which is where I attended college. I walked to school, and it didn’t seem as far away as it did on my earlier stroll with my father. I don’t exactly know why that particular Thanksgiving morning moment has left such a lasting impression on me. I think, maybe, it was its sensory overload: the crisp autumn feel, lots of fallen leaves on the ground, and the aroma of burning logs wafting in the chilly air. If you live in a mansion, you’ve got to have a working fireplace and the logs certainly must crackle on the fire on Thanksgiving Day. Throw in the anticipation of Thanksgiving dinner, a few days off from school, and Christmas right around the corner, and what more could a kid ask for?

Fast forward fifty years and the many Thanksgivings gone by—and here I am. Yesterday, I more-or-less retraced my steps from a year ago. I ventured into Manhattan and made a beeline to Radio City Music Hall and then Rockefeller Center. On November 21, 2020, Radio City was shuttered—no Christmas show and no Rockettes for the first time since 1933. What a difference a year makes. The Christmas Spectacular has been up and running for two weeks now. And, as it was last year at Rockefeller Center, the Christmas tree was being decorated behind scaffolding. However, the big difference in 2021 was that ice skaters were back on the ice rink below it. And when the famous tree is officially lit in a couple of weeks, visitors won’t need time-monitored passes to approach it.

Experiencing New York City in the pre-vaccine COVID-19 era was, I must say, memorable if nothing else. It was surreal ambling around town then, something akin to the Twilight Zone episode “Where Is Everybody?” and I was Earl Holliman. I’m pleased the crowds are back and that there is some semblance of normalcy in the ether. But there was something appealing about the quietude. Having fewer folks to plow through on the city sidewalks, not-too-busy sidewalks was nice while it lasted.

Yes, it’s beginning to look a lot like Thanksgiving with the Rockefeller Center tree hidden behind scaffolding. Christmas decorations, though, are appearing in greater numbers nowadays in the month of November. Granted, folks have been getting a festive jump on things for years, but the pandemic has accelerated the movement. And why not? The unwritten rule when I was growing up: No outdoor holiday decorating before December 15th. That’s gone by the boards and I’m not complaining. Stringing up outdoor lights and other décor is a time-consuming process. My philosophy has long been that—for my troubles—I want the whole shebang up for a month at the very least.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

Movin' on Up or Down?

(Originally published 11/10/18)

This morning—a breezy and rather chilly one for this time of year—I was approached by a man with a business card in hand. Not a good start to the day! Foremost, this fellow wanted to know if I knew of anyone looking to buy or sell a home. I said that I didn't. Not missing a beat, he then asked, "When are you thinking of moving?" This guy was making a lot of assumptions about me with that question, I thought, which he couldn't possibly know, and crashing through my wall, too—and before the clock even struck ten! Despite it not being any of this real estate bloke's business, I paraphrased Mario Cuomo and said, "I have no plans on moving and no plans to make plans." Absolutely true in that exact snapshot in time. For the historical record, Cuomo uttered something similar—sans the moving part—when being badgered about whether or not he was going to run for president in 1988 and again in 1992. He was presidential timber du jour in those bygone days. And now for some further observations and recollections...

Oh, yes, the hawk has landed...in Van Cortlandt Park!

Pigeon, a Bronx delicacy, and an early Thanksgiving feast on the apropos barbecue grounds.

The "HUTE MASTE": Jack of all trades, master of none?

It was pouring rain this past Tuesday, Election Day, when I cast my ballot, which got a little wet in the process. Apparently, mine wasn't the only soggy vote. Courtesy of Mother Nature's deluge and our wet paper ballots, the various machines that scanned them ceased doing what they were supposed to be doing. Voters at my precinct, including me, had to slide our ballots into an "Emergency Ballot Box." There is a first time for everything.

When I ordered two scoops of chocolate ice cream at a local diner last night, I didn't anticipate eating a pint's worth. For every action there is a reaction.

Many years ago, a friend of mine attended a free actor's workshop in Manhattan. The guest speaker was none other than Alec Baldwin. According to my pal, the man was quite gracious and patiently answered all questions posed. Of course, my friend had taken mass transit to the event that night and wasn't vying with Baldwin for a parking spot.

Wonder Woman's preferred clothier?

While on the subject of superheroes, the Man of Steel has got to remember to take his garbage with him. This isn't the 1970s!

Straight-line clouds, deep-blue skies, and the building where a man nicknamed "Q-ball" lives. Two out of three ain't bad.

It's one big hill and a park to boot: Ewen in the Bronx

The Purple Testament...but to what...in Ewen Park on the day after Halloween.

This Bud's for you...or the first can and bottle collector...who ascends or descends the formidable stairs of Ewen Park.

Johnny Carson: "They are so friendly!" Johnny Carson Audience: "How friendly are they?" Me: Not as friendly as you might think.

When Frosty the Snowman rides in a New York City subway car...

This is the end-result...

To get out those stubborn Escargots de Bourgogne stains, this is obviously the place for you...

This is not a homeless man. He's a wizened New Yorker who just put his smartphone in his pocket. You know...somebody once said, "Everything happens in threes." Chinese tradition holds that the number is a lucky one. In my religious upbringing, God was an amalgam of Three Persons—the Trinity—as if one wasn't enough. Come and knock on our door...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Problem Child

Riding mass transit in New York City comes attached to a price tag well beyond the $2.75 fare. Riders have little choice but to pay this considerable surcharge, an emotional toll paid the moment they step into their respective subway cars. Passengers are, by design, captive audiences to the unexpected—eyewitnesses to history and the good, the bad, and the ugly of humanity. I’ve seen plenty on New York City subways, including psychological meltdowns, a homeless man pleasuring himself, and an armed robbery. Fortunately, most subway sideshows are decidedly less dramatic, not especially revolting, and more times than not harmless.

One subsection of “Annoying Passenger,” I classify as the problem child. Typically, it’s just a kid or kids running amok in a subway car as if they were in their living rooms at home. The most galling part of these spectacles are usually the oblivious parents, who see nothing wrong with a crowded subway car performing double duty as Romper Room. Yesterday, I encountered a bona fide problem child, who entered the train with his father, mother, and sister. Immediately, he decreed that he was not going to sit alongside them and bolted to the opposite end of the subway car. Every now and then, the boy returned to verbally unleash on his family and further establish his independence.

In time, I learned that the kid was seven years old and, too, the oldest in his family, including cousins. His sister, six years of age, though, was taller than him. He informed her that the reason she bested him in the height department was that she was fat. A low blow, I thought, and very ungentlemanly. The brat then rambled on about how he has made countless people cry—an accomplishment to boast about in the Soprano family perhaps. The parents took it all in stride. Their son’s behavior was par for the course, I guess. The last straw for me was when the meandering imp began a chin-up session on the hold-onto bars directly across from me. His antics even got the attention of another little boy seated beside his father. Monkey see, monkey do. However, his dad nipped it in the bud straightaway. For some desperately needed fresh air, I exited the scene multiple subway stops before I had intended. It’s the price one pays for riding.

Consider this a prologue to my excursion: My adventure commenced with a bizarre sighting. Well, first, an unseen cry in the wild of sorts—i.e., some deranged and incensed person bellowing an unbroken stream of F-bombs, which seemed especially piercing in the early morning hours. When this individual materialized in the flesh, I realized it was a guy I’ve known by sight for the better part of my life. He always came across as strange but docile and quiet. So, it came as quite a surprise to match the fusillade of invective I was hearing with the familiar face.

It seems the poor fellow had taken a spill, couldn’t pick himself up, and blamed his canine friend for the mishap. I watched as a Good Samaritan helped him to his feet. He then smacked his dog. It was one of those life-altering moments for me, which we all experience from time to time. That is, I will never look upon that man in a benignant light again. While everybody can have a bad day, I know, you don’t blame a dog for your troubles, particularly when someone’s just done you a good turn.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

A Back Story

Several weeks ago, my local McDonald’s message board—under the golden arches—informed passersby that the McRib sandwich was coming back. Well, as of this writing, it is indeed back. But for how long? A friend of mine is literally triggered by the mere mention of the McRib's returns and sabbaticals. Always on que, he imparts the tale of the sandwich’s celebrated demise some years back, claiming that the franchise was sued when it was discovered that the McRib ingredients included tire rubber. Now, I don’t know if this is an urban legend or not, but I seem to recall controversy surrounding the McRib and what went into it. Even without tire rubber, the sandwich has a bizarre consistency that never fails to make you wonder how it came to be a McRib. In my opinion, it still is one of the tastier McDonald’s offerings when, of course, it is available. But that’s not saying much.

In fact, I passed by McDonald’s this morning on my way to Rite Aid, an over-priced drug store chain. Therein, I noticed that so much more of its merchandise was under lock and key, including all its beer, than when I last visited. There have been countless reported instances of blatant thievery in retail stores recently—and not just in San Francisco. It’s the sign of the times, I guess—lawlessness run amok. Anyway, as luck would have it, what I desired purchasing was behind locked doors. Rather than search for an employee with a key, my gut reaction was to just leave. I then spotted a security guard and asked him if he would do me the honor. He acted surprised at the request but nonetheless went in search of a key. Honestly, spontaneity in retail shopping is key. Things locked away will prevent theft, sure, but it will also lead to loss of sales.

Hey, Rite Aid, what gives? It’s November 5th and the store is not decorated for Christmas. The place still had Halloween merchandise on the shelves. I’ve been hearing about product shortages this holiday season, like artificial Christmas trees. Time will tell on that one. And what about the genuine articles—real trees—how will their supply be impacted by everything from droughts to floods to shipping snafus? It is, nevertheless, beginning to look a little like Christmas at least. The big Rockefeller Center tree has been selected. It’s coming from Maryland this year. And the Radio Music Hall Christmas Spectacular commences today. Last year there was no shows.

Hopefully, the worst of the pandemic is in the rear-view mirror. With any luck, some of the ugliness it wrought will go with it, too. Since COVID-19 reared its head, there has been a precipitous increase in revved up, engine-popping automobiles, motorcycles, and vehicles that don’t qualify as either passing through town. It’s part of that aforementioned lawlessness and overall stupidity. Idiots playing Speed Racer—a must-see cartoon for me as a kid—on residential back streets at all hours of the day. And the police turn a blind eye.

There’s also a lot of run-of-the-mill aggressive driving. Red lights mean accelerating at their turns. Crossing at the green without looking both ways is a matter of life and death in these parts. Yesterday, I had the light when a taxi driver made the left turn leading to a shopping mall. Hoping to pass by me before I got in his way, he floored the gas pedal. Stunned, I abruptly stopped and waved for the ass to pass. He sneered at me, like I was the guilty party for crossing at the green. The fact that I employ a cane mattered not at all. With the McRib sandwich a stone’s throw away from my adventures and misadventures, this is the world I call home.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Grease Is the Word

Yesterday, I encountered a seasoned subway panhandler, a woman, though, whom I hadn’t seen in quite a while—since the start of the pandemic at least. I'm happy to report that she was in fine form, her art as sharp as ever. Everything she does is spot-on, beginning with her delivery, which is loud enough for passengers in the entire subway car to hear. The lady also carries a sizeable receptacle for contributions and always has. This measure is win-win and especially critical in the present COVID-19 times in which we live. Methodically, she works the train from end-to-end—that’s ten cars and ten spiels. 

I don’t know her true story—mental illness no doubt plays a big part in it—but I always give her a dollar or two. She says that she is HIV positive and two months pregnant and rarely goes off script. Two months pregnant is carved in stone. The fur or faux fur coat she was wearing was a new twist. Life in the land down under is always unpredictable and never dull. And there are countless men and women who roam the recesses with tales to tell—real and imagined—many of them very unhappy ones.

And now for a little life in the bright light of day. There was a big street fair on Sixth Avenue this past weekend—and last weekend for that matter—with a diverse group of vendors. One participant’s tent sign read “Interesting Items.” I thought that a unique form of fair branding, which covered considerable ground. I got the impression—a feeling—that the interesting items were somehow a euphemism for junk, but I could have been wrong. There were numerous people perusing the interesting items. In retrospect, I was remiss in not checking them out.

My outing’s last act found me in a pizzeria. One, in fact, that I had passed countless times through the years, but never patronized. It always appeared grungy from the outside. Its awning sign didn’t exactly draw you into the place. But then it’s been said time and again that we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, nor a pizza shop by its facade. To my pleasant surprise, I had the best slice I’ve had in a long time. In what has been a sea of mediocrity—some better than others—this pepperoni pizza hit the spot. Despite it being a risky undertaking—and a potential indigestion nightmare—the allure of pepperoni remains strong. My latest pizza experience was perfect: a fresh, thin slice with the pepperoni grease saturating the dough. There is good grease and bad grease in the world of pizza. This was unquestionably the former. And when the stars align in the pizza chase: Grease is the word.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Questions, Comments, Observations

I had a college history professor who would periodically query his students during lectures. “Any questions, comments, observations?” he would ask. Invariably, there would be none. Despite it being an interesting course, “Great Issues in European History,” the class consisted of mostly engineering, business, and other non-history majors enrolled in it as an elective. It didn’t matter that the prof had stellar teaching credentials and a background that complemented the subject matter, the get-togethers had a zombie-like feel to them. My outwardly indifferent peers always seemed to be somewhere else. Come to think of it, there were more than few classes like that.

I don’t, though, remember any of the glassy-eyed therein being “triggered” by something said during the history lectures. And speaking for myself only, I never felt “unsafe.” The school had a Campus Ministry, which served, I suppose, as a 1980s version of a “safe space”—safe space lite. I never dropped by in my four years of higher education.

I’m glad that I grew up in a time without the Internet, social media, and smartphones. Men and women are now losing their jobs and having their reputations ruined because of something somebody dug up in their all-encompassing virtual trail. It’s pathetic and scary at the same time. People are wielding power with these big reveals. God forbid you tweeted something five years ago, sent a private e-mail, or liked a Facebook post that offends someone who could do you harm. You could be toast in a New York minute. Guess what? Nobody’s perfect and everybody’s a hypocrite at one time or another. It’s human nature. And now for some further questions, comments, and observations…

What is it with McDonald's now-you-see-it, now-you-don't McRib sandwiches? Perhaps the chain appreciates that we always need something to look forward to in life.

Believe or not, there are even reports of employee shortages in the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA). This would have been unheard of several years ago when waiting lists were the rule.

Canada geese heading from a blue state to a red state for the winter?

I saw this on a subway car floor last week. A "punk" is what we called them in my youth. We bought them in local candy stores.

May I say right now that it is not your grandfather's subway car advertising anymore...

Definitely not!

In this age of branding, subway car advertising often features one or two products or services in the entire car. This uplifting product ads took up half a car.

In these tough times for the hospitality industry, I sincerely hope this restaurant has found someone to man its phone, a trying, stress-filled position no doubt.

I read this lengthy article  featuring former restaurant employees explaining why they left the industry. One recurring theme was how poorly they were treated by the customers. The consensus was that things got increasingly ugly as the pandemic took hold. This doesn't speak well for the public at large. Seems to me that these folks deserved a better fate.

I've eaten inside multiple pizzerias in New York City this past month. Only one time was I asked to show my vaccination card.

There are outstanding pizza places in the city, but the vast majority of them are mediocre at best. This slice fit the bill, but because it was fresh out of the oven wasn't half bad.

Par for the course near Penn Station. But for tired and hungry tourists...who knows?

It could conceivably be a slice to remember.

Every now and then I encounter something on the sidewalk with a story to tell. Seems that whoever purchased, or stole, these Memory Foam Boot Slippers couldn't wait to put them on and discard her old footwear. Right then and there!

The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) is now arguing that the First Amendment's free speech clause has been interpreted "too broadly" by courts. It's not your grandfather's ACLU anymore, an organization I used to have the utmost regard for.  

Atlas is more than shrugging at that news. He's also unmasked as Rockefeller Center readies for the holiday season.

I know that New York City's considerable rat population suffered during the worst of the pandemic. How did the local seagulls fare?

In my last visit to a favorite diner, I noticed that the coffee mugs were smaller. It's the sign of the times. Inflation, shortages, and general nuttiness. Regardless of the size of the coffee cup, I say, "God bless the servers." 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro.)