An ‘80s Thing

I just finished reading Brat: An ‘80s Story (Grand Central Publishing, 2021) by actor Andrew McCarthy. His absorbingly honest, breezily insightful memoir takes one back to a simpler snapshot in time. The book’s titillating title is a riff on the pejorative label “Brat Pack,” coined by a New York magazine writer who spent a night on the town—at the Hard Rock Café in Los Angeles—with three of Andrew McCarthy’s co-stars from the movie St. Elmo’s Fire. Despite not being among said brats—Emilio Estevez, Rob Lowe, and Judd Nelson—on the infamous night in question, McCarthy was nonetheless considered a member in good standing of the Brat Pack, which—it should be noted—was not quite as prestigious as the previous generation’s Rat Pack.

McCarthy makes a compelling case that the Brat Pack, as it were, never truly existed. For instance, he hasn’t seen Estevez or Nelson since the making of St. Elmo’s Fire, which was released in 1985, and wasn’t pals with any of the pack that included the likes of Demi Moore, Ally Sheedy, and Anthony Michael Hall, whom he’s never even met. In fact, the only mention of McCarthy in the damning New York magazine cover story was an anonymous diss by one of the brats, likely Lowe, who said: “He plays all his roles with too much of the same intensity. I don’t think he’ll make it.” Now, I ask, is that a nice thing to say about a fellow actor in a movie you are promoting? But, then again, brats will be brats.

Aside from a memorable musical score, what I remember most about St. Elmo’s Fire is how unmemorable it was. The characters were, by and large, a disagreeable lot, some more so than others. I recall one reviewer panning the movie and making reference to its “lone conscience,” Mare Winningham’s character Wendy Beamish. But that’s yesterday’s news. The Brat Pack moniker is no longer viewed as a dismissive put-down of an ensemble of indulged, arrogant young actors. Instead, these many years later, it’s a blast from the past with a decidedly nostalgic feel. I saw The Breakfast Club, St. Elmo’s Fire, and About Last Night—movies starring various Brat Packers—in the waning years of the Dale, a local movie theater in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx. Shortly thereafter, small neighborhood movie houses, like the Dale, in the outer boroughs of New York City were mere memories. Something lost, nothing gained.

Conscience-deficiency notwithstanding, St. Elmo’s Fire did hit home in one sense. I graduated from college in 1984. The characters in the movie were Georgetown University friends and graduates unceremoniously dumped into pay back student loan time, otherwise known as adulthood. I vividly recollect that moment and the accompanying sinking feeling of what next? Que up the theme from Mahogany, “Do You Know Where You’re Going To”: Do you like the things that life is showin’ you? Where are you going to? Do you know? Hold on, that’s from the 1970s and was played at a slideshow retrospective—get out the handkerchiefs—of my high school years just prior to us parting ways.

And so, with the passage of multiple decades, it’s easy to appreciate why the Brat Pack—even if it wasn’t really a pack at all—is remembered so fondly. If Andrew McCarthy now sees it that way, so can you. Brat is a worthwhile and entertaining read—and a further reminder that time doesn’t stand still.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

Hello, Dummy...Goodbye, Dummy

(Originally published 7/16/15)

The year was 1975. The place: Kingsbridge in the Bronx. It was summertime when our Frankenstein monster was born and hit the streets. Actually, it was just a dummy—an old pair of pants and a shirt stuffed with newspapers (the Daily News and New York Post, I suspect). It was all stitched together with multiple safety pins. The dummy’s cranium was a Styrofoam mannequin head. I don’t recall where that came from, but most likely from a neighbor’s or neighboring business’s garbage pail.

This Frankenstein dummy was brought to life, specifically, to appear in a five-minute Batman film that we were producing. Our movie camera employed eight-millimeter film sans any sound. The film’s stars were aged sixteen, fifteen, and twelve. I was the twelve year old who got to live his dream by playing the Joker in a feature film. Granted, it was a low-budget independent film—an indie—that brought in a mere three dollars at the box office. That is, during a screening in one of the star’s basements. The film, nevertheless, transcended time and place.

The Frankenstein dummy, really, was the true star of this flick. He—if I may—assumed multiple roles in the film. He played Batman’s stuntman and scaled a three-family brick home in search of the Joker. Ever versatile, he then took on the role of the Joker himself, getting tossed out of the window of said brick home. Perhaps more prestigious, he also played the Joker’s kidnapped victim—a man who lived up the street from the film’s stars named Dr. Y. This man wasn’t a medical doctor, but a Ph. D.—a bona fide egghead, scientist, and university professor—which made him both a celebrity in the neighborhood and someone with whom to have a little fun.

While none of the young, flesh-and-blood thespians went on to bigger and better things in the acting business, the Frankenstein dummy nonetheless endured. His creators laid him on the sidewalk in front of one of their front stoops, with one of my father’s empty thirty-two ounce Schaefer Beer bottles beside him. Passersby were startled, assuming the Frankenstein dummy was a poor, unfortunate human soul who had entirely too much to drink or, the even worse scenario, had drank himself to death. But nobody said a word until one obviously concerned fellow came along. “There’s a man down here. Is he okay?” he asked. We assured him that he was.

The Frankenstein dummy had one last role to perform before calling it quits and riding off into the sunset. He scaled the fence of a man I had previously nicknamed “Mr. Fence,” because of his strange obsession with his beloved backyard fence. The Fences—Mr. and Mrs.—shrieked wildly at the Frankenstein dummy, telling him in no uncertain terms to get down from there and be on his way, or suffer the consequences. Ah, the life and times of this newspaper-filled dummy were grueling and thus very short-lived. But he spent his enduring life in the awkwardly creative and genuinely interactive urban world that existed once upon a time in the Bronx and elsewhere. He was certainly a dummy to remember, who will live on in our hearts for as long as there are dummies in this world.

To Wear or Not to Wear, That Is the Question

Thirty-eight years ago, several members of my family and I were invited to a neighbor’s sixty-fifth birthday dinner. It was during the month of February, a day or so after a crippling blizzard. But navigating the slippery spots and mounds of shoveled snow were a piece of cake for all concerned in those days of yore—not the case anymore for those of us still among the living. As I vividly recall, the birthday boy suffered from a bad cold that night and was hacking away while he performed the honors of slicing up the roast beef main course.

Long before the cough-a-thon, I was leery about eating there. You see, the dining room hosting the celebration was in a basement, one notorious for its greasy build-up and a cat who made himself home in every nook and cranny, including the dining room table, the feline’s favorite napping spot. Looking back on that night to remember, the Man of the Hour would have done us all a favor by donning a face mask.

Fast forward to the present: Just moments ago, as a matter of fact. I gazed out my front door and spied a passerby. She was double-masked, which is, of course, her divine right. This sighting on a pleasant spring day nonetheless got me thinking. Thinking about masks and the Shakespearean dilemma of the moment: To wear or not to wear, that is the question.

Yesterday, on the busy streets of Manhattan, I observed for the first time in a long time—since COVID-19 first reared its ugly head—that many people were walking the streets without face coverings. Despite the evidence being evident, if you will, for quite a while now, the greenlighting from the powers-that-be apparently greased the skids. The vaccinated minions had a scientific imprimatur of sorts to stroll about unmasked—with their heads held high—the highways and byways of the big city. One, though, could feel the extremists on both sides of the mask issue digging their heels ever deeper.

While I have no evidence to support this opinion—only a gut feeling—I would hazard a guess that the woman who just passed by my front door believes that those who have shed their masks so freely—in the great outdoors mind you—are irresponsible, selfish, potential grandma killers. On the other hand, she could have some underlying health issues that make double mask-wearing in the bright light of day very understandable.

Riding the subway yesterday—where mask-wearing is rightly still mandatory—most passengers were compliant, but there were a few exceptions. In this corner are the mask-wearing extremists, and in that other one, the no-mask-wearing extremists, even in crowded, closed indoor venues like subway cars. For too many folks to count the mask is now a symbol—ridiculous virtue signaling. Are you one of us or one of them? This is completely asinine. The Age of Reason is a distant memory. We get lectured nowadays on a recurring basis by late-night comedians and cable TV talk show hosts, who clearly know right from wrong better than the rest of us.

A final thought on my Manhattan amble. I encountered a couple of public service announcements along the way concerning the upcoming Democratic primary for mayor. There are nine candidates in the race and we have “ranked choice voting” this year. Voters can rank—in order of preference—up to five candidates. Only four merit any kind of rank in my estimation and I haven’t yet figured out the order. The remaining five, I feel, have platforms better suited for CHAZ than New York City.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Pizza Hut Parable

Forty-four years ago, an older neighbor of mine with both a sense of high adventure and an automobile decided to call on—for the very first time—a Pizza Hut restaurant. Big stuff! It was a newly opened location in the city of New Rochelle, a hop, skip, and a jump from where we called home in the Bronx. For years, we had heard whispers about Pizza Hut and its singular dining experience, but there just wasn’t one in the vicinity—until, that is, the summer of 1977, which was also, coincidentally, the “Summer of Sam.”

So, off we went—a group of four of us—to Pizza Hut. Heartburn notwithstanding, we loved the place and the pan pizza, which was decidedly different from—our bread and butter—traditional New York-style pizza. My paternal grandmother, though, made a uniquely delicious pan pizza, with breadcrumbs sprinkled atop the mozzarella. Yes, the 1970s and 1980s, too, were kind to the Pizza Huts of the world and—I daresay—grandmothers’ home cooking as well. There were chains aplenty back then that were considered must tries, from Beefsteak Charlie’s to Brew Burger to Nedick’s. And while the aforementioned eateries may be in the ash heap of history, Pizza Hut endures.

I patronized Pizza Hut that summer’s eve in 1977 and, if memory serves, one more time, but details of the second visit escape me. The chain—including Pizza Hut Express locations—is still visible in the area. After recently viewing a retrospective Pizza Hut history on You Tube, my curiosity got the best of me. How is it faring all these years later, I wondered? In countless respects, 2021 is the polar opposite of 1977. Pizza Hut, for one, is no longer special. It’s competing with popular chains—with churn-‘em-out pedestrian pizza pie tastes—like Domino’s, Little Caesar’s, and Papa John’s. Once upon a time the charm of Pizza Hut was sit-down dining—the soup-to-nuts restaurant shebang with pizza as the main course. In the 1970s and 1980s, Pizza Hut décor was what one expected—and what one considered an unbeatable ambiance—in that distinctively colorful snapshot in time. Pitchers of soda poured into red pebbled plastic tumblers and pizza served with a smile. It didn’t get any better than that!

Honestly, it came as no surprise to me that Pizza Hut has evolved into a mere shadow of its former itself—if that makes any sense? Nowadays, it emphasizes delivery and pick-up over indoor dining. And from the comments I read on the YouTube video chronicling the chain’s storied history, the quality of the pizza has precipitously declined. So, what else is new? When in Rome do as the Romans do. When waging war against fellow fast-food pizza chains, produce a similarly inferior product. Lamenting the Pizza Hut transformation, one former fan pithily remarked, “2021 sucks!”

Several days ago, I purchased a box of Ellio’s frozen pizza, a brand that I regularly consumed when, in fact, I sampled Pizza Hut for the first time. I liked the pizza back then. It had a defining sauce—that’s Ellio’s—ample cheese, and a doughy crust. Now, it’s three strikes and you’re out—a non-defining sauce, minimal cheese, and a cardboard crust—but it’s still called Ellio’s. For a while there it was known as McCain’s Ellio’s, which marked its transition from memorable to insipid. What more can I say about the 1970s Pizza Hut experience and others just like it? You had to be there to understand.

Down the Up Staircase

Some quick takes on things ranging from the important to the unimportant and a few matters in between. For starters: According to their Grubhub online menu, McDonald’s “Crispy Chicken Sandwich Meal” is unavailable after midnight. Ditto the “Filet O Fish Meal” and several others. Why, pray tell? Yesterday, “40-piece McNuggets” were unavailable after midnight, but “10-piece McNuggets” were available. Today, the “40-piece” can be enjoyed in the wee small hours of the morning. Not that I was planning on ordering anything from McDonald’s during the witching hours—and certainly not a heaping helping of McNuggets—but, still, what gives? Perhaps, though, the larger question is: Why is McDonald’s even open after midnight? Five years ago, a manager on the late-night shift was murdered in a McDonald’s near me.

Full disclosure: I ordered a McRib sandwich when the fast-food icon temporarily brought it back several months ago. It’s gone with the wind again, I see. The chain christened it “famous.” While I thought infamous was a more apt description, the McRib sandwich—considering McDonald’s overall menu—wasn’t half bad. I chose, though, not to dwell on its ingredients, bizarre consistency, and—yes—how it came to be a McRib sandwich.

From Grubhub to DoorDash, another online food delivery service. The available restaurants—who will call on my address—continue to multiply. Clicking on the Chinese food option, for example, supplies me with a mother lode of choices, including AA Chinese Restaurant, Great Wall, Pick Up Six, No. 1 Chinese Kitchen, Ten Ten, Best China House Restaurant, Foo Hing Kitchen, Wonderful Chinese Restaurant, Good Taste, and Hong Kong Sushi. From the everything old is new again file:  New King’s Wok Kitchen, New World Chinese Restaurant, Chen’s New China, and New Golden Fountain.

From fare—fine and otherwise—to the subject of mask-wearing. I just read where two Massachusetts towns, Brookline and Plymouth, are—despite the state’s governor removing them—maintaining their outdoor mask-wearing mandates. While the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) recently gave the greenlight to vaccinated folks to take to the streets sans face-coverings, the two towns’ powers-that-be cited “an abundance of caution” for not going with the flow of scientific consensus. Is there an expiration date on “an abundance of caution?”

The science has been pretty clear for a while now that outdoor transmission of COVID-19—unless in close quarters in a crowd—is negligible. Ditto in school classrooms. Oh, by the way, New York City spends $26,588 per pupil. I can say without hesitation that we are not getting a bang for our buck here. In truth, I don’t believe we have a “party of science” from which to choose. Republicans and Democrats pick and choose what science they like and what science they don’t like. Their respective narratives trump science every time.

From science to economics and politics: New York City’s budget for fiscal year 2022 is $98.6 billion. Mayor de Blasio has dubbed it the “Recovery Budget,” which is bigger than the state of Florida’s budget. Florida’s population is some 21 million compared with the Big Apple’s 8.3 million. The Sunshine State, in fact, just gained another House seat at New York’s expense. When I played the Parker Brothers game of Landslide as a kid, New York had forty-one electoral votes, trailing only California’s forty-five. A state’s electoral votes reflect its number of House and Senate seats. Texas has since surpassed New York in population and it looks like Florida—after the 2020 census—will, too.

As you might imagine, Governor Andy Boy is not pleased with this development. And what a difference a year makes. Andrew Cuomo has gone from being a plate of sauteed broccoli rabe served in a five-star restaurant to a weight watcher’s steamed broccoli deli takeout. He is still feuding with Mayor de Blasio, however, having recently thrown cold water on the latter’s announcement of a full reopening of New York City by July 1. The mayor’s press secretary, Bill Neidhardt, responded thusly, “Serial sexual assaulter says what?” It warms my heart to know that I am so well represented.

And now for something completely different. Some staff members at publishing behemoth Simon & Schuster submitted a petition to derail the company’s future publishing of former Vice President Mike Pence’s memoirs. I’m happy to report that CEO Jonathan Karp didn’t cave. His response: “We come to work each day to publish, not cancel, which is the most extreme decision a publisher can make.” Pence’s groveling sycophancy was at times embarrassing, but he no doubt has an interesting story to tell. I recall staff at some other publishing house—many years ago—taking exception to the publishing of another former vice president’s memoir. The man who said: “What a waste it is to lose one’s mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is.” This dangerous firebrand, Dan Quayle, whose grandmother passed on such profound advice as: “You can be anything you want to be.” I believe—in some critical circles—that would be considered white supremacist counsel now. How I wish I were only joking.